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Wounds of Honor | Anthony Riches | [
"historical fiction"
] | [
"Rome",
"war",
"Empire"
] | Chapter 6 | Marcus and Rufius jumped to their feet at the sudden opening of the prefect's office door. The senior centurion stepped through the frame, stopping in front of the younger man and looking him up and down with slow care. He saw, through the shadows of exhaustion, a hard face with a determined set, its hawkish aspect enough to make a stranger approach with care.
'Are you tired, candidate?'
'Yes, First Spear.'
'"Sir"' will be enough for the time being.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Do your feet hurt?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Are you hungry?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Could you march another ten miles if your life depended upon it?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Very well, we'll march.'
The officer accepted his cloak, sword and helmet from a soldier who had run to fetch them, handing over his vine stick while he buckled the weapon to his body. He looked inside the helmet to check the position of the woollen cap that nestled inside the bronze dome, catching Marcus's sideways glance.
'My one concession to advancing years. The old pot can be painful to wear in the absence of hair, even with the issue liner, and we don't wrap rags round our heads under the helmet in this cohort.'
He secured the helmet by its chinstrap, taking his vine stick back from the waiting man.
'Dismissed, soldier. I believe your century have drawn duty cleaning the bathhouse.'
They walked up the fort's slope, past barrack buildings and staring soldiers, to the Wall itself, towering twelve feet above the fort's stone roads. First Spear Frontinius led the way up the ladder of one of the two gate towers, bringing Marcus out on the rampart. The sentries looked on in surprise while he gestured for the Roman to look out over the scene beyond the Wall. A hundred-foot drop, almost sheer, fell away from the Wall's base to the plain below, a mighty natural defence that must have made the military engineers salivate with its potential when the rampart's line was first planned.
The escarpment ran in both directions as far as the eye could follow its sinuous path, the whitewashed wall that topped its line clearly visible for miles. Below the Wall the ground was more or less flat, until it swelled into shallow hills a mile or so distant, their slopes heavily forested.
'We cleared away the trees from the land in front of the Wall.'
Marcus nodded his understanding. Such open ground would make any covert approach to the fort almost impossible. A fair-sized lake fed the Fort's bathhouse, the water flowing down from its location on the higher part of the plain. A notch had been cut in the escarpment by the stream over the ages, and here, a hundred yards past the eastern wall of the fort, and behind the Wall, he could see the high-domed roof of the bathhouse. Frontinius tapped him on the shoulder, recapturing his attention.
'This view shows our place and role here more clearly than any speech I might make. On this side of the Wall, there is order. Order, discipline, cleanliness, the right way of things. On the other side there is nothing better than barbarism, surly tribesmen with an appetite for Roman goods but little desire to enter our society. The tribes to our immediate front, the Selgovae, Votadini and Dumnonii, number at least a hundred thousand. The tribes from beyond Antoninus's Wall, farther north, Maeatae and Caledonii, barbarous tattooed animals all of them, as many again. Even the people to our rear, Carvetii and Brigantes, would cheerfully put a dagger between our shoulder blades given half a chance, for all their veneer of civilisation. We on the Wall are ten thousand men in a sea of hostile spears – even the northern legions are several days' march distant. If the natives decide to fight, which currently seems inevitable given that their leader Calgus has spent most of the last year whipping them up for it, we'll have to face down several times our own number until the legions can get forward. And they won't get here at all if the tribes in their own operational areas decide to join the fun. Life here is as dull as it gets most of the time, but it could quickly become a lot more exciting than any of us would wish.'
He led Marcus back down through the fort, out of the massive southern gate and through its small collection of houses and shops. Women and children in the street stood respectfully as the officer passed, even a couple of hard-faced prostitutes favouring him with smiles.
'They depend on us for their livelihood. If the prefect decided that the Hill would be more secure without the hangers-on, they would be destitute. Mind you, there are so many men with women and children in the town now that I suspect they form no risk to our security.'
They marched over a bridge spanning the massive ditch that separated the civilian and military zones, Marcus readjusting to the renewed pain in his feet. The road fell away steeply towards the parade ground's expanse, across which several groups of men were training with swords and shields. The older man marched briskly past them, barking directions to individuals whose performance caught his eye.
'You, yes, you, with the red hair, lift your shield higher! You're supposed to be stopping blue-nose spears, not protecting your bloody ankles! Chosen Man, show him what I mean, he clearly can't understand … Well done, that man, excellent sword work!'
They passed the final group and left the parade ground behind before he spoke to Marcus again, talking at the air in front of him rather than turning to face the younger man.
'Recruits. In two months we'll have knocked them into rough shape, and toughened them up enough to give them a good chance of surviving a battle, and in six they'll be every bit as good as any legionary. We've got men serving with ten and twenty years with the cohort, some who fought in the last uprising. What I'm being asked to do is put you in command of eighty of those men, all of whom, since they grew up playing at soldiers in the woods and fields of this area, have more idea of real soldiering than you do. The very idea of it makes me feel sick. This is my cohort, my fort and my parade ground. I was passed the leadership of them all, every man that serves here, by my predecessor, and when I retire I'll bring the best centurion in the cohort down to that parade ground. I'll make him promise me, and the shrines of Cocidius, Jupiter, Mars and Victory, to maintain the traditions we live and die by. I'm responsible for those traditions now, and for making sure that my decisions are made in the best interests of the unit. My cohort.'
He turned his head to look at Marcus's face for a moment, checking for any reaction. The road ran arrow straight up to the next fold in the land, making Marcus open his mouth to increase his air intake, but he kept his eyes fixed on the horizon.
'The prefect knows very well what his role here is, and so do I. He's here for two or three years, to represent Rome, and make decisions as to the course of action the cohort should follow in Rome's service. I've been here for my entire adult life, and I'll stay here until I retire, or die in combat. My word as to the ways in which those decisions are carried out is final, although since we respect each other's judgement he will usually issue orders upon which we've agreed jointly. I also make all decisions as to who is allowed to enter service, based on what centurions tell me and on what I see with my own eyes. And from what I see and hear, you represent a good deal of trouble to both the prefect and this unit. If it were a simple "yes" or "no" on those grounds I wouldn't even be taking this trouble to understand you better.'
He fell silent for a moment as they marched on side by side, and then spoke again.
'The prefect, however, sees something in you that he encourages me to consider before making that decision. Your threat of suicide found a chink in his armour you may not have appreciated. His uncle fell on his own sword after losing most of a cohort just like this one in the German forests twenty years ago, but not before writing to tell his nephew why he was doing it. Prefect Equitius still has the tablet. Consequently, his sense of honour is his prime motivation when he considers your case. Would you do the same?'
Marcus blinked for a second at the unexpected question.
'Yes, sir. I would have no other remaining choice.'
'Very well.'
Frontinius stopped walking under the shadow of a lone tree growing by the roadside and drew his gladius with a swift movement, holding it towards Marcus with the hilt foremost. The sun eased one corner of its disc out from behind the cloud that had obscured it for much of the day, caressing the landscape with a slender strand of light.
'Take the sword.'
Marcus did so with a sudden feeling of utter detachment, hefting the weapon with one hand, judging the weapon's fine balance and razor-sharp blade.
'It goes with the responsibilities I bear, passed from each First Spear to his successor. It's an old weapon, forged in the Year of the Four Emperors over a hundred years ago, and it belonged to a prefect who rewarded an act of bravery in battle which saved his life with the gift of his personal weapon. The courage you've shown to get this far entitles you to fall on a blade whose honour is indisputable.'
He stood in silence on the empty road, watching Marcus intently, his body taut in its readiness for action, with one hand resting lightly on his dagger's ornately decorated handle. Marcus looked at the weapon's blade for a long moment before speaking. His senses sharpened perceptibly, the tiny sounds of bird calls and the breeze's ruffling of his hair suddenly catching his attention, although the colours of grass and sky seemed to fade to dusty, washed-out shades.
'Thank you, First Spear, for at least providing me with a dignified exit. I must now look to find revenge for these wrongs in the next life.'
Clamping his mouth firmly shut, he steeled himself for the act, placing the sword's point firmly against his sternum, and taking a last deep breath before throwing himself forward. A strong arm whipped out and grabbed his rough shirt as he fell towards the ground, turning him in midair. He hit the road's surface hard on his back, losing his hold on the sword's hilt and letting it fall. Frontinius looked down at him, holding his hand out, with a new respect in his eyes.
'You meant it. That's something.'
Marcus reached up and took the hand offered by the officer, climbing back on to his feet. The officer's sword was already back in its scabbard.
'I'm sorry, that was deliberately cruel, but I had to know if you had the stomach for what you threatened.'
Frontinius was intrigued by the look he received in return for his apology, the dark eyes seeming to skewer his soul. Perhaps, if the man were trained to use that ability …
'What would you have done if I had failed to use the sword, or turned it upon you?'
A laugh cracked Frontinius's face, despite the gravity of the situation.
'I'd have cut your throat with this.'
He pulled the dagger, cocked his wrist and threw the short blade, putting it cleanly into the centre of a truncated branch that projected a foot out from the tree's trunk at head height, lopped off by a work gang when it had grown to obstruct the road. He reached to retrieve the knife, speaking over his shoulder.
'They're not made for throwing, but when you practise enough anything's possible. As you may discover. Now march!'
They walked on along the road's arrow-straight path, passing an eight-man detachment patrolling back towards the Hill.
'Keep marching.'
The older man turned back for a hundred yards, marching alongside the detachment and studying each man's uniform in turn before turning once more, calling over his shoulder to the tent party's leader.
'A very good turn out, young man, we'll make a chosen man of you yet!'
'Thank you, First Spear!'
He jogged back along the road to catch Marcus, barely breathing hard with the effort. Slowing to a brisk walk, he resumed the conversation.
'My cohort, less than a thousand men, is expected to keep the peace along this sector of the line, out to a range of fifty or so miles either side of the Wall. We are the only law this country has, both in front of and behind the rampart. We control two tribal gathering points, the only place those peoples are permitted to come together, and then only under the supervision of an officer of this unit. They hate us with a passion, more so since we are their own people turned to the empire's purpose, and within our area of control there are fifty of them for every soldier within our walls. Our strength, the thing that counterbalances that disadvantage in numbers, is our discipline, the strength of our resolve. We dominate the ground, we know its secrets, and we own every fold and seam. They know that, know that we'll die to keep it ours, but that many more of them will have to die to take it from us. Yes, there are legions within a few days' march, but we'll have to meet any attempt to dislodge us alone, most likely us and the other ten thousand or so men like us along the frontier.
'Men join this unit at an average age of fourteen summers, serve most of their adult lives in the ranks, most of that time doing boring or dirty jobs unless they get the chance to become an immune, with a few hours of death and terror thrown in every few years. Some of them, the better soldiers, rise to command tent parties, or if they're really effective, to the position of watch officer, and even fewer to chosen man, deputy to their centurion, responsible for keeping the century aligned and pointing the right way in battle. The best of them, the boldest and the bravest, ten men in eight hundred, reach the position of centurion, with their own rooms, high rates of pay, but most of all with the privilege of leading their century into battle in the proud traditions of the Tungrians. What makes you think you can live up to their ideal?'
Marcus took a moment before replying, weighing his words carefully to avoid his earnestness being mistaken for desperation.
'I can't promise you that I will. But I can promise you that I will do everything in my power to make it so …'
The older man stopped, trying hard to suppress a smile as he cocked a sardonic eyebrow.
'So we'll do for you for now, will we, until the issue of your legal status is forgotten? What then, I wonder?'
Marcus's nostrils flared with his anger and he turned swiftly, making the other man tense involuntarily and extend a stealthy hand towards his sword's hilt as a dirty, broken-nailed finger tapped his armoured chest.
'Enough! I've been hunted across this country, questioned by you and your prefect as if I were a criminal, instead of an innocent man whose entire family has been slaughtered, and had my honour and my ability doubted one time too many. I've put up with it all because I've been in no position to argue with the men judging me, and perhaps that's still the case, but for now I've tolerated just as much as I can. So, make your mind up, First Spear, either give me the chance I crave or cut my bloody throat, but you will stop playing with me, one way or another!'
Folding his arms, he glared back at the officer, clearly at the end of his patience. Frontinius nodded slowly, walking around him in a slow deliberate circle until he once again faced the younger man.
'So there is anger in there, it just needed a spark to light the tinder. Just as well too, you'd be no good to me if you didn't have fire in your guts, although you'll be sorry if you ever speak to me that way in front of any other man. Very well, I'm decided. I'll go against tradition, break the rules and offer you a bargain. I'll give you a position as centurion, probationary, mind you, and with the decision as to your suitability entirely mine, on the condition that I get something I need. Something my cohort needs more than anything else, right now.'
'You've accepted him?'
Equitius's eyes widened with genuine surprise.
'Yes. He's being issued with his equipment now.'
The prefect smiled quietly.
'Thank you. You've allowed me to discharge a debt to Sollemnis.'
The senior centurion grimaced.
'We'll see. All I've agreed to is to give him a chance. One I fully expect him to fail to grasp. In return I get two centurions for the price of one. Or, more likely, one very good centurion and a corpse for quiet burial …'
Equitius stared at him questioningly. His First Spear smiled grimly in return.
'Well, you didn't think I was going to let a fully trained legion centurion slip through my fingers, did you? I had a quiet chat with Tiberius Rufius earlier today and he made me an interesting proposition, given our current dearth of trained centurions. It's a deal I resolved to accept only if there was a hint of talent in young Corvus – which, to be fair, there is. Your friend the legatus gets a hiding place for his son, and in return I get the use of his man Rufius until the first snowfall of next winter. Sounds like fair barter to me.' |
Wounds of Honor | Anthony Riches | [
"historical fiction"
] | [
"Rome",
"war",
"Empire"
] | Chapter 7 | Marcus didn't realise how his place with the Tungrians had been secured until the soldier ordered to take him to the fort's stores for equipping pointed him through the door into their twilight world. Quintus Tiberius Rufius stood waiting for him beside the long wooden counter, a pile of equipment and clothing stacked next to him. Marcus paused in the doorway for a moment, adjusting to both the gloom and his own surprise.
'Quintus, what are you …'
The older man grinned sheepishly, clearly torn between his pleasure at being back in uniform and what his presence said for the provenance of his friend's recruitment.
'I've taken the salt again, lad, accepted the offer of a centurion's berth for a year, or more if it works out well.'
Marcus made the connection, and his face creased with sudden anger.
'So I get a chance to make a new start at the cost of your service? Well, it isn't going to …'
He stopped speaking, brought to a halt by Rufius's raised hand.
'Just a moment, lad. You! Come here!'
The store's clerk detached himself from the rack of spears behind which he'd been lurking, and unwillingly presented himself at the counter's far side. Rufius shot out an arm, grasping him firmly by one ear and dragging his head across the broad expanse of age-polished wood.
'Interesting, was it, our conversation?'
The head shook vigorously, or as much as possible with one ear pinned to the counter. Rufius drew his dagger, and slid the point under the pinned ear's flesh, allowing the steel to caress its curve.
'Good. Let's be clear, if I hear anything about the last minute of my private conversation with my friend here repeated I'll have this ear off your head within the hour. You might be an immune, but it won't protect you from my blade. Got it?'
The head nodded frantically.
'Good. Now go and hide in the back of this shed, and don't come back out until I tell you to.'
The clerk vanished into the gloom without a backward glance. Rufius turned back to his friend with a wry smile.
'One thing you learn early on, everything you say in a cohort's stores is public property, just as sure as the stores officer is the richest man in the fort if he has an ounce of wit about him. Now, you were in the middle of telling me how you weren't going to tolerate such treatment, my being blackmailed to serve with the cohort in return for your safety?'
'I …'
Rufius raised his hands again, silencing the other man.
'One moment. Before you say any more, I think I should make my position clear. When Sollemnis asked me to bring you here, he warned me that Prefect Equitius is desperately short of experienced officers. He cautioned me that Equitius, or more likely his First Spear, might try to induce me to serve here. And do you know, when he told me that my heart fairly leapt in my chest. You think I'm being blackmailed, and yes, Frontinius thinks that he's extorted a bargain from me that serves him well, but the real winner here is me.'
Marcus frowned his lack of understanding.
'But why? Surely you've earned an easier time after twenty-five years of service?'
Rufius reached into the pile of his new kit, pulling from it his vine stick, the twisted wood shiny from years of use.
'See this? A simple piece of wood with no more value than kindling for a fire, until I pick it up. In my hands, however, it becomes the symbol of my authority. For fifteen years I carried another, very much like this, all over this country, until it was like part of my body. It was the first thing I reached for in the morning, and the last thing I put down at night, and let me tell you, I loved that life. And do you want to know the worst day of my twenty-five years under the eagle?'
Marcus nodded, his anger fading to a sad resignation. Rufius gave a faraway look, his eyes seeing something other than the storehouse walls.
'My worst day … it wasn't the first one, at the recruiting camp in Gaul where I joined up, where they cut off all my hair and my new centurion chased us round the parade ground until we puked our guts up. It wasn't the day when my century was ambushed in the Tava valley, and seventy-seven men became fifty-three and a collection of dying men and corpses in less than ten minutes. Brigantia forgive me, it wasn't even the day that my wife died before her time, taken from me by the cold and the damp, although it's a close-run race …'
He took a deep breath.
'No, my very worst day in all that time was the very last one, when I had to hand my vine stick back to my legatus. It was a misty day, and the entire legion was on parade, centuries stretching away into the grey until they were invisible. All I had to do was march up the line of my cohort, take their salute, march to the legatus, hand him my vine stick, salute, about-face and watch the legion parade off. It seemed to take for ever, and yet it was over in the blink of an eye. I stood there beside him as the legion stamped off the parade ground, watching my cohort under the command of another man, a friend that I'd been grooming for the job for years, chosen from among my centurions. It was like watching your wife on another man's arm …'
He turned from the memory, fixing Marcus with a serious stare.
'So, Centurion, when Sextus Frontinius smiles at you, and you know full well that he's thinking that he's got an experienced officer at the expense of your troubling him for just as long as it takes to find a reason to declare you a failure, here's what you say to yourself – Quintus Tiberius Rufius is as happy as a pig in the deepest shit he can find. And you, my lad, are not going to fail. Not with me here to keep you straight. Got that?'
Marcus nodded, blowing out a pent-up breath.
'Got it.'
'Good. Now, have they told you who your chosen man's going to be? I only ask because Frontinius made a special point of telling me on the way down here. He seemed to think it was quite funny.'
Marcus nodded again, his lips pursed with foreboding.
'So would I, if I didn't think it was going to be so damned difficult …'
To the Roman's huge surprise Dubnus took the news of Marcus's appointment as centurion to the cohort's 9th Century, with himself as the new chosen man, with perfect equanimity. He waited until they were alone in his centurion's quarters before tackling the subject head on. Dubnus looked at him without any obvious emotion, shrugging his shoulders.
'You're worried that I'm angry about this, but you don't need to be. I'm not angry, and I don't want to talk about it. Now get into uniform and let's go and look at what we've got here.'
Marcus persisted, not willing to believe it could be that simple from the big Briton's perspective.
'We need to talk, Dubnus, and it won't wait. I …'
'You're a centurion. I'm a chosen man. I'll do as you command. This is not a problem.'
'But you're a warrior, a true soldier. I walk into your fort, already owing you a life, and get promoted to centurion just like that? You should want to put your fist through my face! How can you take this so easily?'
'Perhaps you'll be a real centurion. I content myself with being the best chosen man in the cohort instead, better than half of the officers, and they know it. But I'll never be a centurion, I've already been told as much.'
Marcus realised in a flash what was holding the man back, stunned both by the insight and the way the other man had been held from his potential.
'You've been told that you won't be an officer so many times, you've stopped even trying. What my father used to call a "self-fulfilling prophecy". Look, the First Spear told me all about your father, and how he was deposed from his throne when you were still a boy, how he sent you here when he was dying. He told me that he doesn't believe you'll fight your own people when the time comes, that he believes you're the best soldier in the cohort to satisfy your wounded pride, not because you want to serve. He doubts your commitment, Dubnus, not your abilities …'
The other man just shrugged. Marcus smiled, giddy with relief at making the mental leap to see through the bluff soldier's reserve.
'And he's told you you'll never make it to centurion so many times that you've started to believe it. I can change that. You can be a centurion – if you want to …'
Dubnus stared into his eyes for a long moment, testing the sincerity of the words.
'You'll help me to become a centurion? Why?'
Marcus took a deep breath.
'Dubnus, you've said it a dozen times in the last week. I was a praetorian officer, but I never saw action, so it was just a ceremonial job … looking good in uniform, knowing what to say to whom … I'm going to need you to help me be a real officer, a warrior leader. What else can I give you in return?'
'I make you a warrior, you'll make me a centurion?'
'Not a warrior. I may yet surprise you in that respect. A warrior leader. It's what I'll have to achieve if I'm to survive here. Or die trying.'
'Perhaps.'
Marcus noted that the Briton wasn't smiling.
The century's barrack block was primitive in comparison with the facilities his men had enjoyed in Rome, but Marcus ignored the condition of his quarters as he got into his new uniform. The red tunic was savagely rough in comparison to the fine white cloth he'd worn as a Guard officer. Thick woollen leggings tickled his legs and made him sweat in the building's shelter, although he guessed that their warmth would seem little enough on a cold winter morning. He bent to examine his armour and weapons, laid out across his bed, noting with dismay the patina of rust that dusted the mail coat's rings. His helmet was slightly dented on one side. Pulling his sword from its scabbard, he peered closely at the blade.
'Blunt.'
Dubnus nodded unhappily.
'Annius keeps his best equipment for those willing to pay. You get second best.'
It was true. The clothing he'd been issued was, on closer inspection, well worn.
'I see. First things first. Inspection.'
They marched into the first of the eight-man rooms, troops scattering with surprise from their game of dice.
'Attention!'
The soldiers froze into ramrod-straight poses at Dubnus's bellowed command, shuffling to make room for Marcus to walk into the cramped room. He looked slowly around, taking in the dirty straw scattered haphazardly across the barrack floor and the poorly stacked weapons and shields in the outer room. Noticing the squad's food ration for the day, waiting next to the small oven in and on which all cooking was done for the eight men, he turned to shout through the open door.
'Chosen!'
'Sir!'
Dubnus stepped into the room, looking at the food to which Marcus was pointing with his vine stick. A couple of the men cast him sidelong glances of amazement. Nobody had warned them that they had new officers, never mind that one of them was the man they called 'the Prince' when they were sure he wasn't listening.
'Is that quality of food normal for this cohort?'
The salted fish looked green in parts, the fresh vegetables riddled with holes from the attentions of parasites. Only the bread, fresh from the fort's oven, invited closer attention.
'No, sir.'
'I see. Chosen, what's the normal size of tent party in this cohort?'
'Eight.'
'So why are there nine men in this barrack?'
Dubnus growled a question at the nearest soldier in his own language.
'He says that one soldier has taken a whole room for himself. They're all scared to fight him … including the acting centurion.'
Marcus stiffened with anger, as much at the acquiescence of so-called fighting men with this act of bullying as with the offence itself.
'So a man has to sleep on the floor? Take me to that barrack.'
They marched down the line of doors, the frightened soldier pointing to the offending door. Dubnus put his long chosen man's pole down on the floor, flexing his powerful hands and clenching them into fists. He spoke to Marcus without taking his eyes off the barrack's door.
'I'll do this.'
It was a statement rather than a request, a baldly stated invitation for Marcus to step back from the physical side of his role, and it tempted him more than he had expected. It would be so easy to let the Briton pull this miscreant from his room and discipline him …
Shaking his head in refusal, Marcus pushed him gently but firmly aside, rapping on the door with his vine stick.
'Inspection! Open this door!'
A clatter sounded from inside, the door bursting open to reveal a half-clad man wielding a wooden stave. Long hair hung lank across his shoulders, pale blue eyes staring insolently from a hatchet face.
'You tosser, Trajan, I'll … what?'
Surprised by the appearance of an unfamiliar officer at his door, he hesitated the crucial second that Marcus needed. Taking a quick step forward, he jabbed the stick's blunt end forcefully into the Briton's sternum, dropping him to the ground in writhing agony. Dubnus stepped forward, collecting the stave with a sideways glance of surprise at his new centurion before effortlessly lifting the soldier to his unsteady feet. Marcus tucked his stick under one arm, forcing himself to give off waves of confidence. With an audience of a dozen or so of his new command's rank and file, he couldn't afford to get this wrong.
'Name?'
The soldier, his initial shock starting to wear off, glared at him from beneath heavy black eyebrows. Dubnus, still holding him up by one arm, flexed his fingers and squeezed the bicep hard, communicating without words.
'Antenoch … ah! Centurion.'
'Chosen, do you know this man?'
'A good warrior, a poor soldier. He lacks discipline.'
The soldier sneered at his face, disregarding the pain in his gut.
'What I lack, Dubnus, is any vestige of respect for your authority. And even more so his …'
He nodded in Marcus's direction. The Roman raised a hand to Dubnus, preventing the explosion of rage he saw building on the big man's face, keeping his voice dead level.
'Like it or not, I'm your new centurion, soldier, so you'll follow my instructions to the letter. Which begin with my telling you to return that barrack to the men you evicted to take possession, and return to your given tent party. If you don't like taking orders from me, you can try to take it out on me on the practice field tomorrow morning, but until then, move your gear. Now.'
The other man locked eyes with him momentarily, found steel in their gaze, and shook his arm free, slouching off into the empty barrack.
'Chosen, which of this disorganised rabble was responsible for discipline until our arrival?'
The Briton turned, pointing to one of the men gathered in silent amazement at the turn of events, his face blank with the shock.
'Chosen Man Trajan. In temporary command of the century while there's no officer available.'
Marcus swivelled to regard the man with a glare of contempt.
'Trajan, step forward.'
'Centurion.'
The man stepped white faced from the throng, coming to attention and pushing out his chest.
'This century is a disgrace to the cohort. You are hereby reduced to the rank of soldier. Chosen, find this soldier a tent party. You might also want to discuss the matter of the quality of the century's rations at some length, along with the possibility of a donation to the funeral club. Perhaps you could take him over the Wall for a short patrol in the forest … later. Now I want a full parade of the century, here.'
'Centurion.'
Dubnus strode away, beating at each door in turn and shouting 'Parade' at the top of his voice. Men flew from each barrack, pulling at hastily donned items of clothing as they fell in to the rapidly swelling unit. Within a moment the parade was complete, the demoted Trajan pushed carelessly into the line to more astonished glances while Marcus stood in front of the wide-eyed soldiers, biding his time. Several window shutters on the quarters facing the 9th's barrack quietly opened just enough for their occupants to peer through the gaps but remain out of view, hidden from Dubnus's searching eyes.
Once Dubnus had commanded the gathering to 'shut your fucking mouths' Marcus gave a cursory inspection, noting the poor repair of almost every man's tunics and boots, and the generally unkempt and undernourished look that predominated. Returning to his place in front of the parade, he called to Dubnus.
'Translate for me, Chosen, let's make sure everyone understands.'
'Centurion.'
'Soldiers of the Ninth Century, I am your new centurion, Marcus Tribulus Corvus. From this moment I formally assume command of this century, and become responsible for every aspect of your well-being, discipline, training and readiness for war.'
He paused, looking to Dubnus, who drew a large breath and spat a stream of his native language at the troops.
'One fucking smile, cough or fart from any one of you cock jockeys, and I'll put my pole so far up that man's shithole that it won't even scrape on the floor. This is your new centurion and you will treat him with the appropriate degree of respect if you don't want to lead short and very fucking interesting lives.'
He turned to Marcus and nodded, indicating that the Roman should continue.
'I can see from the state of your uniforms that you've been neglected, a state of affairs that I intend to address very shortly. I have yet to see your readiness for battle, but I can assure you that you will be combat ready in the shortest possible time. I do not intend to command a century that I would imagine is regarded as the laughing stock of its unit for any longer than I have to …'
Dubnus cast a pitying sneer over the faces in front of him before speaking again, watching their faces lengthen with the understanding of his methods, passed by whispered word of mouth from his previous century.
'You're not soldiers, you're a fucking waste of rations, a disgrace to the Tungrians! You look like shit, you smell like shit and you're probably about as hard as shit! That will change! I will kick your lazy fucking arses up and down every hill in the country if I have to, but you will be real soldiers. I will make you ready to kill and die for the honour of this century, with spear or sword or your fucking teeth and nails if need be!'
Marcus cast a questioning look at him, half guessing that the chosen man was deviating from his script, but chose not to challenge his subordinate.
'You'll have better food, uniforms and equipment, and soon. Your retraining starts tomorrow morning, so prepare yourselves! Life in this century changes now!'
Dubnus smiled broadly, showing his teeth with pleasure.
'Your hairy white arses are mine from this second. Get ready to grab your ankles.'
Marcus turned to Dubnus.
'Once you've had a conversation with Soldier Trajan, you are to ensure that all barracks are cleaned out, fresh flooring is distributed, and that all men have practice equipment ready for morning exercises. I'll see you on parade in the morning. Dismissed.'
'Sir.'
Dubnus turned on his troops, spitting a stream of orders in all directions. Marcus walked away towards his quarter, only a tremor at the corner of one eye evidencing the exhaustion washing through his body. Sweeping the equipment off his bed, he collapsed gratefully on to the lumpy mattress, closed his eyes, and slept.
Later that night, as Equitius settled into bed alongside his wife, he replayed the day's events in his mind. A rueful shake of his head caught her attention.
'Well then, you've been in a world of your own all evening. What is it?'
'Eh? Oh … nothing. I received a replacement officer this morning … well, two, although one of them is a nineteen-year-old aristocrat fresh from the Grove. A gift from our good friend Gaius Calidius Sollemnis.'
'Really? Did they bring news of the legatus and his family?'
Paccia was a close friend of the legatus's wife and missed her visits to Yew Grove, recently made impractical by the growing enmity of the local Brigantians. Equitius was already wondering whether he shouldn't pack her off down the North Road to the fortress and its relative safety from the border area's uncertainties.
'Again, of a sort … look, these new arrivals aren't good news, not for Sollemnis and not for us. He sent them to us as a means of hiding a fugitive from the emperor.'
His wife propped herself up on one elbow, her forehead furrowed.
'But why!? That's treason, Septimus!'
'Exactly. The lad's his son, and that's a pretty good reason for Sollemnis not to want him delivered for justice, plus he's the adopted son of a Roman senator who was unjustly accused and executed by Commodus's cronies as a means of appropriating his land and wealth.'
'And therefore the son of a declared traitor. And you've agreed to harbour him inside this fort?'
'I've made him a centurion, actually …'
Paccia sat up in bed, her eyes wide with fear and anger. He raised a hand to forestall her outburst.
'Listen to me, Paccia, and listen well. I've served the empire in a succession of commands in places that neither of us really wanted. Do you remember Syria? That heat? The sand that got absolutely everywhere? The rain in Germania, and the cold? No man can accuse me of ever stinting in my loyalty to the throne, even when I could just have walked away to relax as a civilian. The boy is an innocent victim of imperial greed, and the gods know that should be enough for us. He is also the son of a man to whom I have a sworn debt of honour. He's also a trained officer, praetorian in fact, and he brought an experienced legionary centurion here with him as well. That could be invaluable in the next few months.'
'Septimus, I …'
'No, Paccia, and I've never done this to you before, but no. The decision is made. When men in authority turn a blind eye to the iniquities of a misguided ruler all hope will be lost for the empire. He stays.'
He turned away on his side, setting his face obdurately against any further protest. And prayed to his gods that this was not a decision for which he would pay with both their lives.
In the non-commissioned officers' mess, Dubnus was sitting in a dark corner, nursing a leather cup less than a quarter full of the thick, sweet local beer. Morban, the 9th Century's standard-bearer and in both age and rank his superior, came through the door, his squat frame filling the frame for a moment while he searched out his friend. Finding his man, he raised an arm in salute, grasping the passing mess steward by his arm, propelling him towards the serving counter with a command for 'two beers, and make them full to the brim this time', before waddling across the room to plump himself into the chair facing Dubnus.
Together they represented the 9th's heart and soul. Morban, as the century's standard-bearer, was also the treasurer of the funeral club that ensured each man a decent burial, whether serving or retired. Squat and muscular, ugly, balding and approaching the ripe age of forty, with twenty-two years in the cohort, Morban was at the same time the 9th's greatest cynic and the fiercest protector of its currently flimsy reputation among the other centuries. More than one soldier had found his head locked under Morban's thick arm while the big man went to work at a brief but effective facial rearrangement.
'Dubnus, you great oaf, good to see you back. Not so good, however, after a long day locked away in an audit of the funeral club records, to find that spotty little oik of a trumpeter waiting as I came off duty. What's so urgent that I didn't even have the time to nip over and see my lad on guard duty? Not that I mind the chance to put a beaker or two away …'
The steward ambled up with full beakers, managing to spill a good splash down Morban's tunic in the process of handing them over. The standard-bearer gripped him by the front of his own tunic, pulling him down to face level, almost bent double.
'Very fucking funny. These just became free beers, or you can clean my tunic with your tongue.'
The retired soldier scuttled away, cursing under his breath. Morban scowled after him to reinforce the point, tipping his beaker back for long enough to put half its contents down his throat.
'Right, lad, what's your problem?'
Dubnus drank from his own measure, setting the beaker down and staring at his friend for a moment before he spoke in his own language.
'You've not heard, then?'
'Heard what? I told you, I've been knee deep in records scrolls all day.'
Dubnus took a drink, drawing the moment out.
'You've got new officers, Morban, a chosen man and a centurion.'
'Chosen man and centurion? Who's the chosen?'
'I am.'
The burly standard-bearer's face lit up with pleasure as he leaned over the table and slapped Dubnus's shoulder in congratulation.
'Excellent, best news I've had all day. Be good to have a real soldier stood behind the Ninth for a change …'
His face became sly, sudden realisation dawning.
'And I presume this means that halfwit Trajan got his marching orders?'
Dubnus smiled evilly, dropping a bag of coins on to the table.
'Soldier Trajan has declared his eagerness to make a donation to the funeral club, as atonement for all the money he fleeced from the Ninth's rations budget in league with that greasy storeman Annius. Our new centurion actually ordered me to take him over the Wall on patrol and give him the choice, cough up the cash or take the consequences, at which point he coughed up quickly enough. A pity really, I would've enjoyed cracking his nuts …'
Morban drained his beaker, waving imperiously to the sulking steward for a refill.
'Well, Dubnus, lad, you as our chosen, Trajan back in a tent party … which one, by the way?'
'Second.'
'The Second! Perfect! I imagine he's biting on the leather strap even as we speak! Now, make my day complete, Chosen, and tell me who our new centurion might be, eh?'
Dubnus drank deeply again, eyeing the other man speculatively over the rim of his beaker, then put the drink down and took a deep breath.
'That, Morban, is the bit I need your help with …'
Marcus woke at Dubnus's rousing before dawn the next morning, blinking into the light of a small lamp placed next to his bed.
'You report to the First Spear at dawn with all the other centurions. I've got your report here for you.'
The Briton watched while he washed in a bowl of cold water in the lamp's tiny bubble of light, dragging a sharp knife across his stubble to reduce the growth to a tolerable shadow.
'You don't have to fight Antenoch. I'll talk to him, tell him it wouldn't be … wise. He'll see reason soon enough …'
Marcus paused in his shave, cocking an eyebrow at his friend.
'And when none of them respect me, seeing me hide behind your strength? What then? I have to do this, and I have to win if I'm to command here. All of the other centurions rose from the ranks, took their beatings and gave them back with interest, Frontinius made that perfectly clear to me yesterday. I have to prove that I can control my men by my own efforts, not simply through yours. But thank you …'
Dubnus shrugged, slapping a writing tablet into Marcus's hand.
'Your choice. Now, get dressed, tunic, armour and weapons, and go to the principia. Make your report. I'll wake the century.'
Outside the cold dawn air was freckled with drizzle, a swirling curtain of wind-blown moisture soothing the heat in his recently shaved face. The headquarters building was quiet, a pair of soldiers standing guard at the entrance beneath the usual reliefs of Mars and Victory. Inside, at the far end of the basilica, stood another pair keeping the eternal vigil over the cohort's inner sanctum, the Chapel of the Standards. Behind their swords lay not only the cohort's battle standards, its very soul, but the unit's pay and savings chests, heavy with the accumulated coin of the soldiers' spending money and burial funds. Following the sound of voices, Marcus found the space outside the prefect's office crowded with uniformed officers, bearded faces turning briefly to regard him with combinations of indifference and hostility, probably noting the threadbare nature of his tunic and the poor condition of his mail coat, before turning pointedly to ignore his presence.
Rufius emerged from the group, clearly already at ease among men whom he would naturally consider his equals, and walked across to Marcus's side.
'Morning, lad. Ready with your report?'
Marcus showed him the tablet.
'Good. Speak up nice and loud, don't let this lot put you off. You can't expect them to accept you overnight … Now, I hear that you're intending to demonstrate some of those "few things" again this morning?'
Marcus nodded, glum faced, making the veteran officer smile despite himself.
'Don't look so worried. All you've got to do is imagine that he's a blue-nose looking at you down three feet of iron and I'm sure that the rest will come to you easily enough. Just remember, keep it simple. No fancy stuff, mind you, just put your toy sword into his ribs nice and hard and teach the stupid Brit some respect.'
He smiled encouragement before sidling back towards the group of centurions, nodding at some comment Marcus was unable to make out. One man, his hair and beard equally bristly in appearance, favoured him with a tight smile, and seemed about to open his mouth to speak when Sextus Frontinius stepped out of his office and called the gathering to attention.
'Unit reports, gentlemen! First Century?'
One of the throng considered his writing tablet, solemnly intoning his report.
'First Spear! First Century reports seventy-seven spears, three men on annual leave, nine men detached for duties beyond the Wall, two men sick and sixty-three men ready for duty.'
'Second Century?'
'First Spear! Second Century reports seventy-nine spears, five men on annual leave, one man sick and seventy-three men ready for duty.'
With the exception of the 6th Century, which had a detachment of fifty men escorting a delivery of weapons in from the main depot at Noisy Valley on the North Road, fifteen miles to the east, the reports were much the same. Marcus managed to stammer out his report when the time came, attracting more hostile glares from the other officers, then waited with burning cheeks for the session to end and allow him to escape. When it did the centurions milled about in idle conversation in the few minutes before the morning parade, leaving him to stand awkwardly to one side like the proverbial spare guest at a wedding for a moment before walking quietly away from the gathering. Whatever he'd expected, a friendly welcome did not seem to be on the agenda, and Rufius had clearly decided that he must find his way into the group without any obvious help.
'Centurion Corvus!'
He stopped and turned back, coming to attention as he recognised the First Spear's booming voice.
'First Spear.'
The other man walked up to him, ignoring the curious stares of the other officers, standing almost toe to toe in order to speak in quiet but fierce tones.
'I hear that you've invited an enlisted man to try his luck this morning?'
Marcus swallowed, more afraid of the other man than of the morning's coming events.
'Yes, sir, a troublemaker called Antenoch. He'll get his chance to see what his new officer's made of.'
Frontinius stared at him without expression, gauging his new centurion's composure.
'As will we all … It was bound to happen, of course, since they've no way to measure you against their own standards. I wasn't expecting it quite so soon, though …'
He turned away, leaving Marcus uncertain as to whether he should wait or walk away. Frontinius turned back, nodding his head slightly.
'At least you had the sense to call his bluff. One piece of advice, though, Centurion …'
'Yes, sir?'
'Win.'
Half an hour later the cohort's centuries marched out into the dawn's growing light, down through the tight little township that clung to the fort's skirts. Dressed in their training rig of tunics, leggings and boots, they carried shields and wooden swords in readiness for the morning's training exercises. A few windows opened to allow curious children to peer out at the marching men, searching for the men their mothers had pointed out to them on other occasions. The drizzle was still falling, whipped into misty curtains of tiny silver droplets by the eddying wind, making the air both cold and damp. Rufius strolled alongside his century, conversing with his standard-bearer with a carefully calculated indifference.
'I hear that there's a score being settled on parade this morning?'
The muscular standard-bearer nodded quickly, keeping his eyes fixed firmly to his front.
'So we all hear, Centurion. Apparently the other new officer has decided to let one of his men try to take him down with sword and shield.'
Rufius stole a sideways glance at the other man.
'Really? And who is this soldier that's so keen to test my colleague?'
A snorted laugh gave him a clue as to the man's likely loyalties.
'Test? Antenoch will break his ribs and send the boy packing back to Mummy in under a minute. The man's a lunatic, except he doesn't need the full moon to release his madness half the time. Your young friend had better know what he's getting into!'
Rufius lifted an eyebrow.
'My young friend? All I did was arrive here at the same time he did. Besides, if he can't look after himself …'
The standard-bearer nodded approvingly at the sentiment, and Rufius pressed on with his gambit.
'I also hear that a man can place a wager with you and expect the bet to be honoured?'
The other man looked at him warily, taking his eyes of the road for the first time.
'No, man, I'm not about to interfere with your business, far from it. I just wondered what odds you're offering this morning?'
The standard-bearer frowned at him, almost tripping over a loose cobble in the road.
'Odds? You want to place a bet on another officer getting a beating?'
Rufius grinned at him in reply.
'I think you'll find, Standard-bearer, that I'm a little more financially aware than the average officer. Now, odds! Unless you want to find your opportunities to fleece your fellow soldiers somewhat more restricted than they are now …'
The standard-bearer's eyes narrowed.
'I'm offering five to four on the lunatic, five to one the centurion.'
'And how's the betting so far?'
'Heavy on Antenoch, which is no surprise, and not a single coin on the boy.'
Rufius nodded.
'No surprise at all. I think I ought to have a small sum on my colleague, show my solidarity … shall we say a nice discreet twenty-five denarii on the officer …?'
The standard-bearer's eyes widened, and Rufius stared back at him levelly.
'And, before you blurt out anything we might both regret, the deal is this. You don't tell anyone I wagered with you, to avoid spoiling my reputation, while I keep my bet strictly between us, to avoid spoiling your odds. You still make a nice profit, you keep your business intact, and I might just make some money. It might be an idea to ease the centurion's odds in a little, though, just in case he should actually be quicker with a sword than you've given him credit for … And smile, man. If I'm right I'll be the only person you pay out to today.'
Marcus's 9th Century was at the rear of the column, under the watchful eye of the First Spear, who marched this morning alongside Dubnus, in the chosen man's place at the century's rear. Marcus winced inwardly as the Briton cursed his way down the hill, sufficiently enraged by the poor standard of marching discipline to dive into the ranks and pull one offender out to walk alongside him, slapping the miscreant with every misplaced step.
Reaching the parade ground, spread across the floor of the valley below the steep approach to the fort, the cohort broke into century-sized groups, as the centurions and their senior soldiers marshalled the troops into their parade positions. Marcus stepped out in front of his century, suddenly calm in the moment of decision. Turning, he found Dubnus's face looming over the century in his accustomed place to the rear of the ranks of soldiers, his long brass-knotted chosen man's pole shining dimly in the early morning's pale light, and took strength from its stolid set.
A shouted command floated down the ranks of men, ordering the unit to commence the set routine of warm-up exercises that would prepare them for their morning training session. Grateful for the distraction, Marcus watched the centurions to either side carefully, copying each new bend and stretch, taking pleasure in the physical exercise. His new command, he noticed, were less enthusiastic. After fifteen minutes the order to commence training was passed down the line. Marcus braced himself and stepped forward, closing to within a few paces of his front rank, meeting the suspicious and hostile gazes of those of his men that he could see with a careful mask of indifference.
'Good morning, gentlemen. Normally we'll start the morning by rotating the tent parties between sword, spear and shield training. Today, however, since I'm new to most of you, we'll start with a demonstration of the kind of swordsmanship I'm going to expect from you. Do I have a volunteer to help me demonstrate?'
Antenoch shouldered his way to the front rank, his long plaited hair matted by the falling drizzle. He stepped out in front of Marcus, his mouth set in an implacable white-lipped slash.
'I volunteer for that privilege.'
Marcus ignored the sneering note in the other man's voice, taking his wooden practice sword from its place at his waist, then called for another, hefting the practice weapons as if testing their relative weights. His lips were suddenly cold in the chill air, and his fingers slightly numb, as they'd been that afternoon on the road to Yew Grove. And then, in the instant of settling the swords into their accustomed positions at his sides, ready to lift into the long-practised fighting stance, having the handle of a weapon in each hand was suddenly, mercifully, the most natural thing in the world. He felt an almost blissful return to the simple disciplines drummed into him during the thousands of sunny afternoons of his childhood, and a moment of simplicity in the heart of his personal confusion. I can do this, he suddenly thought to himself, and the spark of belief lit a cold fire that ignited in his belly, something deeper than anger, calmer than rage. Cold, rational, calculating purpose filled the place where doubt and confusion had circled each other, events slowing to a more relaxed pace as his brain adjusted to its unexpected confidence. I can do this, he told himself with surprise. I grew up doing this.
Antenoch took his weapon and shield, wristing the sword in blurring arcs clearly calculated to impress the watching troops, dropping into a brief leg stretch before jumping back to his feet. Looking to his right, Marcus could see that half of the neighbouring century was watching with poorly disguised excitement. Antenoch threw him a mock gladiatorial salute, pulling his shield and sword into position.
'Ready? You'd better find a shield, Centurion, or this will be even quicker than we're all expecting.'
Marcus stepped into sword reach, unconsciously adjusting the swords' positions until the points of the practice weapons were aligned, rock steady, less than a foot from the Briton's shield. The soldiers watching stirred at the sight, their first intimation that all was not quite as they had expected, and a ripple of whispered comments like wind through tall grass spread through their ranks. Marcus's eyes, stone-like in their concentration, locked on to Antenoch's the way he'd been taught, watching the eyes, not the weapon, for the first signs of an attack.
'I'll stick with the swords if it's all the same to you. We don't use body protection for sparring, I see?'
Antenoch smiled sourly from behind his shield, half turning his head to share his ridicule with the ranks of silent soldiers.
'No, sir, this isn't Rome. This is a real fighting unit.'
Marcus shrugged without visible emotion.
'Oh, I'm not concerned for myself, I just don't want to injure you too badly. Guard your chest …'
'What?!'
The enraged Briton sprang in to the attack, swinging his sword in a brutal overhand chopping blow down on to Marcus's quickly raised left-hand sword, the defending weapon's edge splintering slightly at the blow. Marcus allowed the sword to give downwards with the blow, absorbing its force, and stepped back to further soften the impact, encouraging Antenoch to strike again rather than punching with the shield. Again the sword chopped down at Marcus's raised defence, and again he retreated, lowering the sword slightly more this time, and once again Antenoch lifted his weapon to strike, sensing the Roman's apparently feeble defence beginning to fail under his sword blows. As the sword reached the zenith of its attacking arc Marcus dropped his rear leg a little farther back, turning the foot to gain maximum purchase on the parade ground's hard-packed surface, while the other sword stirred stealthily in his right hand, easing back into position for attack.
Antenoch chopped down again, exerting his full strength in a blow intended to smash the left arm down and open Marcus's defences. The Roman met the descending sword with a suddenly rigid defence, braced off his extended back leg to stop the blow dead. Simultaneously, he threw the other sword in backhanded, smashing aside Antenoch's almost disregarded shield and opening the soldier's body to attack. The momentary gap in his adversary's defence was enough for Marcus to strike again with his right-hand weapon, chopping mercilessly at the other man's right wrist and sending his weapon tumbling from suddenly nerveless fingers on to the wet ground before hammering the left hand sword into the Briton's ribs. The counter-attack left Antenoch clutching at bruised ribs while Marcus stepped back, keeping the twin swords raised. He watched Antenoch trying to both cradle his wrist and rub his stomach for a moment, calling softly to the Briton.
'I told you to guard your chest. Enough?'
The other man glared back at him, hefting his weapons back into their positions.
'Fight!'
Taking the initiative, Marcus stepped back into his opponent's sword reach and went to work with clinical skill and speed, his swords a sudden whirl of blurring arcs as he attacked with pace and technique for which the Briton had no answer. Half a dozen swift strikes put the other man off balance, allowing Marcus to smash at his shield with each sword in turn until the third blow, delivered with his left-hand sword, wrenched the shield from Antenoch's hand and left him unable to defend himself as the other wooden blade smacked across his back, dropping him to his knees with sudden agony in his kidneys. Marcus stepped away from the writhing figure and turned to address his troops, noting that more than a few were watching the squirming Briton with the slack-jawed look of men who were finding it hard to believe what they saw. Dubnus stared over their heads, one eyebrow raised in silent comment. Farther down the line he could see Rufius out in front of his 6th Century, his fist held clenched below a smile of congratulation.
'Disappointing, gentlemen, if that's the best we have. You evidently need a great deal of training. Speed and technique will disarm the strongest and bravest of opponents. You will have noted that the use of the shield in attack is as important as the sword. You will learn to fight this way, as well as in the standard formations and drills. You will be the best century in this cohort with your personal weapons, or I and my chosen man will want to know why.' He dropped the practice weapons to the ground, reaching to collect his vine stick.
'Bastarrrrrd!'
Marcus swung quickly to face the shout, taking in a split-second image of Antenoch, his face distorted by rage, charging at him with a flat dagger held out towards him, held ready to strike. Holding his ground, he waited until the last possible second before sidestepping the blade, pivoting on his left foot to swing his body away from the thrust. At the same time, he lifted his left arm, bent double, to point the elbow at Antenoch, gripping his left fist in his right hand as he leant back to avoid the knife's point. As the blow went past his neck he stepped smartly back in, jabbing his elbow into his onrushing assailant's face and stopping his charge dead, following up with a viciously powerful side-fisted hammer blow that spun the reeling Briton on to his back, his eyes glazed. Out of the corner of one eye he saw the First Spear moving from his position at the far end of the line of centuries at a dead run, his clerk trailing in his wake. He crouched close to the other man's head, bending over to whisper urgently into his dazed face.
'Stupid, with the First Spear watching. Now, decide, do you want to live?'
'Eh …?'
The Briton's eyes struggled to focus, and for a second Marcus was afraid he'd done too good a job of stopping the attack, and left Antenoch without the ability to save his own life.
'Everyone dies. You have the opportunity to cross the river this morning, or stay a while longer. Decide which you want, now.'
He prised the dagger from Antenoch's unresisting hand and stood up to meet the First Spear as he arrived on the scene, allowing the weapon to dangle casually at his side. Frontinius looked livid, his eyes wide with shock and anger.
'I was watching from the review stand, Centurion, and I clearly saw this man attempt to strike you while you were disarmed.'
He pointed down at the prostrate Antenoch, whose wits were returning as the threat he was under became clear.
'Sir …'
'Shut your mouth! I'll have your head on a pole above the main gate for this, you scum! Attempting to strike a superior officer carries the death penalty, which I …'
'First Spear, with respect?'
Frontinius turned on Marcus, his eyes narrowed with premonition.
'Centurion?'
'Sir, I asked Soldier Antenoch to attempt a surprise attack upon myself, to show the rest of my men the standard of ability and speed I'll be expecting from them.'
'And why did he call you a bastard at the top of his voice while doing so?'
'Enthusiasm, I'd expect, sir.'
'Enthusiasm. Very likely, Centurion, he felt enthusiastic about the idea of putting a knife between your ribs. An illegal weapon too, I'd say, not our standard issue, although no doubt you lent it to him. You're defending this man from a charge of assault upon you?'
The watching soldiers tensed visibly, waiting for the answer.
'Yes, sir. I believe that Soldier Antenoch is a valuable member of the century. He's agreed only this morning to act as my orderly and clerk, and to provide advice as to the best way of getting things done in this cohort. Isn't that right, Antenoch …?'
The Briton started up open mouthed at his officer, realising with sudden resignation that he'd been backed into a corner that had only two exits, acceptance or death.
'Yes … Centurion …'
Frontinius smiled then, without mirth, his eyes locking with Antenoch's.
'Good. Very good. I shall look forward to hearing reports on your progress, Soldier Antenoch. Let us hope that you demonstrate your abilities sufficiently well that I forget all about this interesting episode. In the meantime, I'll keep a pole sharpened above the gate …'
He turned to return to his place, brushing close to Marcus in the process and hissing a whispered comment at him.
'Don't push your luck, Centurion …'
Marcus turned back to his men, squaring his shoulders and glaring across the lines of suddenly fixed faces.
'Very well, Antenoch, back into rank. We can discuss your new duties after morning exercise. Now, let's examine what happened there. There are a couple of basic techniques for close combat that I want us to practise this morning …'
Morban smirked up at the lanky soldier standing next to him, enjoying the sick look on his face.
'I believe that's fifty you owe me, sonny. Did I forget to mention that our new centurion was a member of the imperial bodyguard before he asked the emperor if he could come and see the blue-noses at first hand? Never mind, since you'd only have spent it on whores at least it'll end up in the same purse. Even if they'll have a harder time earning it!'
Off parade, Dubnus drew Antenoch into Marcus's quarters with irresistible force, pushing the defeated soldier into the room in front of him. Marcus, waiting in his chair with his sword unsheathed across his knee, nodded to the chosen man, who pushed the soldier into the middle of the room. With the shutters closed against the rain and cold, and the room only dimly lit by a pair of oil lamps, the young centurion's face looked brooding, lit with menace. Antenoch turned and glared at him, putting his hands on his hips in carefully calculated insult. The big chosen man bared his teeth in a half-snarl, half-sneer, pulling the dagger from his belt.
'I'll go and sharpen the stake over the main gate. It'll be waiting for you.'
He looked over at Marcus as he turned to leave, shaking his head.
'Do not trust him. Keep your sword ready.'
When the door was closed, Marcus reached into his tunic, holding out the other man's knife. Antenoch took it from his outstretched hand, looking closely at the blade for a long moment, staring past it at Marcus.
'Wondering if it'd be worth another try at planting that thing between my ribs?'
The Briton said nothing for another moment, pursing his lips as he slipped the weapon back into its familiar resting place.
'No.'
'Because I spared you even after you tried to kill me?'
'No.'
'Then why?'
'Because I don't think I'd get close enough … They've got a nickname for you, those cattle out there, they always do with officers. It was going to be Wetnose, until this morning. Now it's Two Knives!'
He spat the words out. Marcus smiled levelly.
'Two Knives? Like the gladiator? It could be worse, for a man in my situation.'
Antenoch's eyes narrowed.
'The rumours are that you're the son of a rich man, just stupid enough to want to slum it with us for a while.'
'Rumours you'll encourage if you want to be my clerk …'
The Briton bristled at the suggestion.
'Want to be your clerk? Fuck you!'
Marcus sat back, laughing gently at the incensed soldier, tapping the hilt of his sword.
'Sit down, Antenoch, and think for a moment.'
He waited until the other man had slumped gloomily on to his bed before continuing.
'You're obviously an educated man, well spoken in a language which is not your native tongue. You should be an administrator to some local official, or a trader, not a common soldier on the Wall, miles from anywhere with decent food and women you don't have to pay for. What happened?'
'Mind your own fucking business!'
'Come on, man, what can it hurt to tell me? I won't be sharing the story with anyone else.'
'You'll tell Dubnus, and he'll tell Morban, and he'll …'
'You have my word. I've little else of value, so it should be of some note.'
The quiet response silenced Antenoch far more effectively than a bellowed command might have. Strangely, his face softened as if with repressed memories.
'I was adopted by a merchant in the wool trade when I was young, after my mother died, and raised as his son, alongside his own boy. I never knew my father, although I often wondered if I was actually the merchant's bastard child. Taught to read and write, and to speak well. I imagined that I would find some place in his business, until my "brother" took it into his head that I was supplanting him in his father's affections. He poisoned the old man against me, slowly but surely, and I ended up on the street with a handful of coins and their "best wishes". So … I decided to earn the one thing they never could buy, for all their money, and become a Roman citizen. I planned to go back to them after my twenty-five, as an officer, of course, and snap my fingers at them as second-class citizens in their own country. Cocidius help me, I was so stupid!'
'And now you're stuck here.'
Antenoch looked up, his eyes red.
'And you're so clever? The only difference between us seems to be one of rank, Centurion, since you apparently have nowhere better to go than the arse-end of your own empire!'
Again Marcus's response was instinctively gentle, defusing the Briton's anger.
'And that should make us more likely allies than enemies. Will you work with me or against me? You'd make a first-class centurion's clerk, and with a little polish you could be one of the best swordsmen in the cohort. Besides, I could do with someone to watch my back …'
He tailed off, his persuasive skills exhausted, and wisely waited in the unnerving silence rather than spout nonsense to fill the silence. Antenoch levelled his stare, his face set hard.
'And if I won't, you'll set that bastard Frontinius on me. What choice do I have?'
Marcus shook his head emphatically.
'No, the choice has to be yours. Besides, nobody does my dirty work for me any more. Look, I need a man I can trust behind me in a knife fight, not one waiting for the chance to carve my shoulder blades apart. What do you need?'
The response was slow and measured, the Briton thinking through his position aloud.
'I need a chance to be something other than the wild man those fools have labelled me … I'd like to learn some of those fancy tricks you pulled on me this morning. I want that bastard Dubnus to speak to me with a little respect, rather than looking at me as if I were something he scraped off the bottom of his boot.'
He looked up at Marcus, calculation written across his face.
'What's the pay?'
'Standard pay, but I'll make you an immune. You'll never have to shovel shit away from the latrines again, just as long as you're my man.'
Antenoch pulled a face and nodded.
'Very well, we have a deal … but you should beware one small fact, Centurion Two Knives.'
Marcus grimaced in his turn.
'And that is …?'
'I promise always to be honest with you. Always to speak my mind, whatever my opinion. Whatever the likely effect. You may find my views hard to accept, but I won't spare you them.'
'And your view as of this moment?'
'You look too young for credibility with men who don't happen to be looking down the length of your sword. Put into Frontinius for permission to grow a beard. You can grow a beard?' |
Wounds of Honor | Anthony Riches | [
"historical fiction"
] | [
"Rome",
"war",
"Empire"
] | Chapter 8 | Rufius came through the storehouse door first, impaling the clerk with a fierce glare and gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder. The soldier, remembering his close encounter with the veteran officer's dagger the previous day, made for the door, finding himself restrained by a muscular arm, as the centurion bent to whisper in his ear.
'We're all going to have a little chat with Annius about the quality of his rations. You're going to stay outside and keep nosy people from trying to interrupt us. If anyone does disturb our discussion, we'll set him on you.'
Antenoch stood in the doorway, locking his cold bruised eyes on the clerk's for a moment before turning away to lift an axe handle from the wall, hefting it experimentally to test the wood's weight. Behind him came Dubnus, in turn momentarily filling the doorway, his eyes flicking across the clerk without any recognition of his existence before he strode into the store. Released, the clerk bolted for the door willingly enough. Annius never cut him in on any of his swindles, so there was no reason to argue with anyone in his defence, much less that lunatic. He almost ran into the other new centurion in the entrance, shrinking back again to let the hollow-eyed officer walk through, the man not even seeming to notice him. Which suited the clerk well enough. What a combination – the freshly recruited veteran centurion he had already learned to fear and an officer the fort's collective opinion had suddenly decided probably was man enough for the job, after all. He closed the door to the stores building and leant on it in what he hoped would appear a nonchalant attitude.
Rufius walked to the counter, dropped a bundle of equipment and clothing on to the wooden surface and smacked his hand down with a flat percussive crack.
'Storeman!'
Annius bustled out of his office, looking about him for his clerk, then, pausing uncertainly at the sight of the new centurions, pasted an uncertain smile across his features and advanced to the counter. His jowly face and high forehead glistened minutely with pinprick beads of sweat.
'Centurion Rufius! What a pleasure! Always good to have experienced officers join the cohort. And Centurion Corvus! All of the camp has heard of your prowess with the sword this morning, quite remarkable! How can I be of service to you and your, er … colleagues …?'
Finding his bonhomie unrewarded by Rufius's stern expression, he looked uncertainly to Marcus, found no comfort there, and returned his regard to the older officer, his instincts muttering loudly in his inner ear to play things very carefully with this unknown quantity. How much could the man have discovered in less than a day? He cursed his own stupidity for letting that fool Trajan convince him to push the usual rake-off to such a high percentage.
To his surprise it was the younger man who stepped forward, raising a patrician eyebrow and curling his upper lip to complete the air of dissatisfaction.
'This equipment, Quartermaster, issued to myself and my colleague Tiberius Rufius yesterday, is quite clearly defective in numerous regards. The mail is surface rusted, the sword is blunter than my grandmother's butter knife, and even the tunics seem to have seen better days. I trust that you'll want to remove them from service after what has clearly been a long and illustrious history, to judge from their condition. Oh, and I'm used to a longer sword than the infantry gladius, so see what you've got that'll suit my style better, eh?'
Annius swallowed nervously, feeling a trickle of sweat running down his left temple. He scuttled back into the store, returning within a minute with two sets of officer's equipment, his best. He would usually charge a new centurion two hundred and fifty for their full rig, unless they wanted somebody else's leavings, but this was an occasion, he judged, to forget to mention payment.
'I hope that these meet with your approval, centurions, and solve the problem. You'll understand that errors sometimes occur, but that's soon amended. I'll have to discipline that blasted clerk, issuing such shoddy gear to an officer.'
He reached a hand out to take the bundle of rejected kit, only to find Marcus's hand there first, closing over his podgy fingers in a firm grip. Rufius leant on the counter, resting his chin on a bunched fist, a half-smile playing on his lips, his eyes boring into Annius's. Behind them, Antenoch lounged against the wall, pointedly studying his fingernails for dirt, while Dubnus prowled around the room, casting dark glances at the stores officer. The younger man spoke again, his voice quiet and yet shot through with steel.
'If only it were that simple. You see, when I discovered the poor quality of my own equipment issue, I was prompted to check on the welfare of my men. You'll be as surprised as I was to learn that I found many of them apparently undernourished. Their food is both insufficient and of a disgusting quality, and has been so, I'm told, since Soldier Trajan was appointed temporary centurion several months ago. Interestingly, when my chosen man offered to take Trajan out over the Wall for a short patrol into the forest last evening, he insisted that this purse of gold be a contribution to the century's funeral club.'
He released the other man's hand, pulling a leather bag from his tunic and spilling its contents carelessly across the counter, watching the fear grow in the other man's eyes. The coins rattled on to the wood, each spinning gold disc reflecting tiny flickers of yellow light as it sank into stillness across the flat surface. A long silence stretched out, as both men stared at the small fortune lying across the counter.
'Apparently, he wanted to make amends for his previous greed. It seems he was foolish enough to have participated in a scheme to make money by supplying his men with substandard rations, and sharing the profits with somebody in your department …'
Annius shifted uncomfortably, opening his mouth to deny any knowledge.
'I …'
'No, don't tell me, you don't want to incriminate any of your staff. We understand completely, any good officer would wish to protect his men from bad fortune, even that of being caught committing a capital offence. Of course, if I were to discover the identity of that person, I'd have them in front of the First Spear the same hour, and see them pay the maximum penalty possible. Don't you agree, Chosen Man?'
Dubnus spoke over his shoulder while he leaned over the counter to examine a mail shirt hanging from a rack close to the wide desk, fingering the leather jerkin to which the rings were fastened.
'No, it'd be too quick just to have his head lopped off. I'd take him into the great forest, give him a one-hundred-count start and then hunt him down through the shadows. I'd pin him to a tree with my throwing axe and leave him there to die.'
Annius looked from Marcus to his men, realising with horror the game they were playing with him, not doubting for a second any of the commitment behind their words.
'That's still too good,' came a voice from behind them. 'I'd just break the bastard's arms and legs and leave him out there for the animals. The wild pigs would make a mess of him before he finally died.'
Antenoch flipped the heavy axe handle as he spoke, juggling the three-foot length of wood with impressive nonchalance as he shot a hard stare at the stores officer. Annius had heard about the way the young officer had turned the man's rage to his own advantage on the parade ground, and suspected that he had a good deal of frustration to unleash upon the first convenient target. He looked away, attempting to feign an indifference that he was far from feeling.
The young officer smiled down at him without mirth, his jaw set hard.
'So you see feelings are running high. Soldier Trajan is already feeling the wrath of his former subordinates by all accounts, although I suspect that a protracted revenge holds more savour for the troops than anything hasty. Of course, he was only the dupe of your man, from the relatively small amount of money he handed over to us …'
An opening?
'I could … pay you … to keep my clerk out of trouble?'
The four men stared at him in silence, waiting. He plunged on.
'I could take the man's profits, give them to you, for use in making amends with your unit, of course. Gods, the fool might have made as much as five hundred from his ill-advised swindle …'
Rufius leant across the counter, putting his face close to Annius's.
'Three thousand. Now. You can reclaim the money from your man at your leisure.'
Annius stared at the officer aghast. That was almost twice as much as they'd actually raked off …
'Perhaps we could …'
'Suit yourself. Pay now or I'll put the matter in the hands of less forgiving judges. You know the story: new officer finds evidence of fraud and feels compelled to take the proof to his superior officer. Frontinius might turn a blind eye to your profit-making activities; I never yet met a senior centurion who didn't, as long as there was a healthy contribution to the burial club every month. My last camp prefect used to call it "balancing the books", said some men were born to make money, some to lose it, and this way at least he could guarantee every man a decent funeral. What he couldn't ignore, though, would be the brand-new, "wet behind the ears" centurion who had discovered how his men were being fleeced, and who would of course be filled with righteous anger. So the price is three thousand – pay up or suffer the consequences. You can think while my young friend buckles on that nice new sword. I've seen him take a man's head off at six feet with one just like it.'
Annius hesitated, weighing up the alternatives he saw in Rufius's pitiless stare. A simple death sentence was his only choice apart from cooperating without question; none of his men would hesitate to lay out everything they knew of his various business activities if required to do so by Frontinius, no matter how well they had been paid to take part.
'Of course, to spare a good, if misguided, member of my department, I could probably find the money …'
Rufius flipped the hinged section of the counter and walked round behind him.
'Get the money. I'll come with you.'
Unable to argue without running the risk that he'd end up face down in the deep forest with a spear between his shoulder blades, Annius huffed into his office, prising up the floorboard beneath which he kept his money. Three of the five leather bags went into the centurion's waiting hands, the other man sneering his disgust into Annius's face. Out in the storeroom, he was alarmed to find that Marcus and Antenoch were on the wrong side of the counter, and were examining his inventory with considerable interest. The centurion lifted a mail shirt from its hanger, holding the rings up to a window's meagre light and rubbing the soft leather undershirt between his thumb and forefinger.
'You're right, Chosen Man, this is very nice mail. Much better than the standard-issue rubbish. Annius, you must have enough here to equip a whole century.'
'I … I have to keep enough stock to supply each new intake of troops, and spares.'
Dubnus loomed over his shoulder.
'He keeps the stock all right, but only sells good mail shirts to men who don't want to repair their own, or want softer leather.'
'I see. How much?'
The businessman in the stores officer took over, not seeing the trap into which he was running.
'One hundred each.'
'Hmm … A fair price would be … sixty, Antenoch?'
'Fifty.'
'Very well, Annius, let's call them forty sesterces apiece, as my discount for bulk purchase. I'll take your whole stock. And tunics, let's say two apiece for my century at five apiece. Now, what else do you have for sale, before we discuss how you're going to make sure that my men eat like prize gladiators from now on?'
He turned away from the dazed quartermaster, threading his way deeper into the darker recesses of the store. Regaining his equilibrium, Annius weaved after him, panting his petulant outrage.
'Oh no, Centurion, you're not going to steal my stock as well as my money! That's just not fair …'
And quailed back against a rack of spears as the Roman spun, his sword flashing from his waist and arcing up to rest against his neck. Marcus's face scared him more than the weapon's fierce bite against his flabby throat. Even Rufius's eyes widened momentarily, before a wolfish grin crept across his face.
'Not fair, storeman? Not much is in these days. My men probably weren't too impressed at the way you and Trajan fed them shit every day for the last three months. Your choice, one you're lucky to have, is to bite on the leather and take your punishment. Of course, you could go to the prefect, and see if he'll accept your word against mine. Shall we go to him now? It might be entertaining to see which of us appears the more credible.'
Annius shrank farther into the forest of wooden poles, his face red with fear, but said nothing. The sword swung away from its harsh grip on his life, dropping back into its place on Marcus's belt. Rufius pushed him out of the way, the smile on his face broadening as he headed for the rear of the store.
'I spy amphorae back here! How much for the wine, storekeeper …?'
Annius smiled through the pain, knowing he lacked any choice in the matter. If the young bastard chose to shit on the store floor and then ordered him to clean it up with his tunic, he would have to do as he was told. Later, however, he promised himself, when the new centurions had taken their leave of him, probably in possession of half his stock, bought at knock-down prices with his own money, he would sit silently in his office, brooding over his revenge. That, and the ways in which he might learn more of the enigmatic new arrival's past.
Rufius opened the door of the centurions' mess an hour later, meeting the stares of the officers present with a careful smile.
'Gentlemen …'
He waited in the doorway. Marcus stood in view behind him, both of them acutely aware that they had to be invited in for their first visit. The shortest of the cohort's centurions, a bristly-haired man whom Marcus recognised as the least unfriendly of the gathering for morning report, had apparently just reached the punchline of the joke he was telling. He turned back to the others.
'So the centurion says, "Well, Prefect, normally we just ride the horse to the whorehouse!"'
He turned back to Rufius.
'Come on then, Grandfather, in you come.'
Rufius winced, giving Marcus a dirty look as the younger man hid a smile behind his hand. The speaker beckoned again, looking over Rufius's shoulder.
'And you, young Two Knives, and let's have a proper look at you.'
One of the speaker's companions snorted derisively, turning away to study the wine jug behind the serving counter, one hand teasing at a knot in his heavy beard. The man next to him appraised Rufius and Marcus through eyes that seemed permanently half closed, peering down a nose that had clearly seen better times. Their host smiled openly, showing a selection of crooked teeth in the bristly thicket of his beard.
'Don't worry about our colleagues here. Otho's wondering whether he could take either of you in a fair fight, as opposed to the knife-in-the-dark methods that got him to where he is today …'
The battered face split into a happy grin.
'While my good friend Julius already knows from your performance this morning that he'd have no more chance against you than I would.'
His good friend Julius snorted his disgust again, peering disdainfully down his nose.
'Pretty swordsmen don't necessarily make good officers. Especially when they have no idea about soldiering. He'll give up soon enough, once the Ninth sees through him.'
He sized Rufius up with a swift up-and-down glance, nodding with some measure of respect.
'I hear you've done your time with the legions – come and see me in my quarter if you'd like to talk soldier to soldier.'
He strode from the mess, slamming the door behind him. Marcus swallowed his anger, forcing himself to smile again.
'This morning … ? I was lucky that Antenoch was stupid enough give me a warning. I'm still rusty from too long on the road.'
The bristly-haired officer raised an eyebrow at him.
'Still rusty, eh? In that case old Otho had best jump you while you're still polishing up! I'm Caelius, by the way, centurion of the Fourth Century, although my men call me "Hedgehog" when they think I'm not listening …' He paused and stroked his prickly scalp for effect. '… can't imagine why! Otho here, also known as "Knuckles", although you might have guessed that from the state of his face, has the Eighth. Julius, not unreasonably known as "Latrine" since he is, as you can see, built like the cohort shithouse, has the Fifth. Your chosen man was his chosen man until you arrived, hence his sulking demeanour. He's having to work for a living now, instead of lounging around here and letting the Prince get on with doing the hard work for him.'
He waved an arm around the other centurions.
'As for the rest of your colleagues, there's Milo, or "Hungry", since he's forever eating and still skinny as a spear, he's got the Second, and Clodius the "Badger", both for his hair and his temper. He keeps the Third in a permanent state of terror.'
The centurion Marcus and Dubnus had encountered earlier on the road inclined his head in an impassive nod.
'Brutus has the Seventh, and has seen more action than the rest of us put together with never a scratch on his baby-soft skin, which is why he answers to "Lucky". Lastly there's Titus, or "Bear", he's got the Tenth, which is our century of axemen. When we're in the field they specialise in tree-felling and field defences, and they fight with their axes like barbarians, so they all have to be great big brutes like him. "Uncle Sextus" has the First Century, but you already know that. Anyway, introductions made, will you join us in a drink?'
Wine was procured by the steward, which Rufius tasted and instantly judged to have come off second best to the long journey from its birthplace.
'Actually, it was wine I came to discuss with you, apart from making our introductions. You see, we made a deal with your deeply unpleasant storeman just now, included in which were a dozen large jars of a rather nice red from Hispania. Perhaps the mess could use them? As a gift from the new boys, you understand.'
Caelius smiled at them with renewed warmth, knocking back a large swig from his own beaker and wiping his moustache with the palm of his hand.
'Well, after six months of drinking this issue filth, your gift would be as welcome as bread to a starving man. That slimy bastard Annius never even told us he had anything of the sort. Now, one good turn deserves another, so here's a word of friendly advice for you, young Two Knives …'
He paused significantly.
'If you want to keep the cold out up here, and look like an officer …'
He paused again portentously, making it clear that he was about to do his new colleague a great favour. Rufius raised a cautionary eyebrow over the man's shoulder.
'What you need to do is grow yourself a nice thick curly beard. You can grow a beard …?' |
Wounds of Honor | Anthony Riches | [
"historical fiction"
] | [
"Rome",
"war",
"Empire"
] | Chapter 9 | The cohort's long stay in winter quarters began to draw to a close a fortnight after their arrival. The onset of warmer weather heralded the opening of spring's campaign to revitalise the land. The change was much to the relief of officers at their wits' end with containing the fallout of boredom and indiscipline that the winter's long inactivity had bred in their troops. Marcus had already had one case to deal with from within the 9th, a tall, darkly surly, one-eyed soldier who went under the official name of Augustus and the unofficial title of 'Cyclops'. It seemed that the name had as much to do with his poor temper as any more obvious reason.
Called out in the early hours by the duty officer, he found the man slumped, bruised and still bleeding from his nostrils, in a headquarters holding cell. The duty centurion, with some good fortune Caelius, who, Rufius excepted, was still his only real friend among the officers, shook his head more in sorrow than anger.
'He's known for it, I'm afraid. All it takes is for someone to find the right lever to tug at, the right jibe to set him off, and he goes off like a siege catapult. He's been warned, fined, beaten, put on punishment details for weeks … nothing works. If this goes to Uncle Sextus he'll get another beating, a really bad one this time, perhaps dishonourable dismissal too …'
Marcus looked in through the thick bars, weighing up the man slumped before him. While he'd learned a few names, and the characters behind them, the man was no more than an imperfectly remembered face in the cohort's second rank on parade.
'And what was the lever this time?'
'We don't know. He won't say, and the men that beat the snot out of him are sticking to a story that he jumped them in the street outside the tavern they'd been drinking in, without warning or reason. Which is probably at least half true. You might not be surprised to learn that they're both Latrine's men.'
'Hmmm. Open the door and leave me with him.'
Caelius shot him a surprised look.
'Are you sure? He broke a man's arm the last time he was in this state.'
'And you think I couldn't handle him?'
A sheepish grin spread over the other man's face. He took a lead-weighted rod from his belt, tapping the heavy head significantly against his palm.
'No, well, when you put it that way … Just shout if he gets naughty, and I'll come and reintroduce him to the night officer's best friend.'
He opened the door, drawing no reaction from the prisoner. Marcus leant against the door frame, waiting until Caelius was out of earshot in his tiny cubicle. In the guardroom next to the office a dozen men were dozing, sitting up on their bench, packed in tight like peas in a pod. The building was quiet, eerily so when it was usually so vibrant with activity during the day.
'Soldier Augustus?'
The words met with no reaction.
'Cyclops!'
The soldier started at the name, looking up at his officer. He stared for a moment and snorted before putting his head down again.
'How many times is this, soldier? Three? Four?'
'Six.'
'Six, Centurion. What punishments have you suffered as a consequence?'
The recitation was mechanical, the question often answered.
'Ten strokes, twenty strokes, twenty-five strokes and two weeks' pay, thirty strokes and two weeks' free time, fifty strokes, fifty strokes and three weeks' free time, fifty strokes, a month's pay and a month's free time … Centurion.'
His head came up while he recited the litany of punishment, his one eye, previously dulled by pain, seeming to regain some of its spark.
'None of which has stopped you from fighting … So, then, Cyclops, why do you fight?'
The other man shrugged without expression, almost seeming not to comprehend the question.
'I take no shit from no one.'
'From what I've heard, you take "shit" from almost anyone. You let them get under your skin and goad you to the point of starting a fight, at which point you usually get both a beating and a place at the punishment table for starting the fight.'
Marcus shook his head in exasperation.
'So what was it this time?'
Augustus's eye clouded with pain again, and for a moment Marcus thought he was going to cry.
'Phyllida.'
'A woman?'
'My woman. She left me, went to a soldier from the Fifth. Him and his mates took the piss out of me …'
'Mainly because it gives them an excuse to batter you, I'd say. Did you give some back?'
'I hit them a few times.'
'Want to hurt them some more?'
Cyclops looked up at him again, suspicion in his good eye.
'How?'
'Simple. Just tell me who else witnessed these men baiting you.'
'I won't speak against them.'
'I guessed that already. I'll deal with this my way, unofficially, but I need a name to start with.'
Cyclops paused for thought, as much to consider the request as to recall any detail. At length he spoke.
'Manius, of the Fourth, he was in the tavern. He's from my village.'
Marcus went to wake up Dubnus, waiting until the man had splashed cold water on his face before detailing the problem. The Briton's response was simple.
'Leave him to rot. Let Uncle Sextus deal with him. The man's a liability, bad for discipline.'
Marcus leant back against the small room's wall, rubbing his stubble wearily.
'No. Leaving him to the First Spear's discipline says we have no ideas of our own. That we don't look after our own. How well do you know this man "Cyclops"?'
'Well enough. His heart is poisoned, full of anger.'
'Is he a warrior?'
'He's fierce enough in a fight, but he lacks … self-control.'
'So if we could make him behave, he'd make a good soldier?'
'Ye-es.'
Marcus ignored the grudging tone of agreement.
'Good. In that case I need your help. Let's give him a real chance to change his ways this time.'
The Briton looked at him with a calculating expression.
'You want to wake up Grandfather for this?'
Marcus shook his head.
'No, although I'd dearly love to have his advice. He has to be neutral in this, and if he knew about it he'd find it hard not to get involved in some way. This is a Ninth Century problem, and the Ninth will handle it. Our way.'
'Which is?'
'First we have to talk to a man in the Fourth. It's a good thing Caelius is captain of the guard tonight, saves us waking him up too.'
Julius was woken from sleep by a hammering at his door, climbing bleary eyed from his bed to answer the insistent banging. His bad-tempered scowl became a snarl of distaste when he saw Marcus in the doorway, just recognisable in the night's bright moonlight.
'What do you want, puppy?'
Marcus gestured to an unseen person to his right and then stepped aside. Dubnus stepped into view, a semi-conscious soldier grasped firmly under each arm, his biceps bulging with the effort. One of his eyes was slightly closed, but otherwise he appeared undamaged. He dropped the men on the ground between them, making the centurion step back as they crumpled at his feet, and spoke for the first time.
'I must be getting slow. A year ago neither of them would have laid a finger on me.'
Julius spluttered with fury, stepping out into the cold air without noticing its icy grip on his skin and squaring up to Dubnus.
'What the fuck have you done?'
Marcus stepped in alongside his chosen man, his eyes narrowed with anger.
'What he did, brother officer, was exact a very precise retribution on the men that beat up one of my troops earlier this evening. I have a witness who has sworn to me that Augustus was provoked, just as they knew he could be from happy experience. All we've done is even the account. If you attempt to take any further action on this matter he's promised to come forward and tell his story.'
'You're bluffing! No man in this cohort would inform on another.'
'Your choice. The only way to know is to try me. It can stop here, Julius, this quiet war on my century and your attempts to make them turn against me. From now, everything you start comes back to you twofold, no matter what it is. However many of my men suffer, twice as many of yours will receive the same punishment …'
The younger man stepped in closer, putting his face into Julius's, the set of his jaw and flare of his nostrils rooting the older man to the spot.
'… and if you want to make it a little more personal, I'll see you on the practice ground for a little exercise, with or without weapons. If you have a problem with me, you can take it up with me!'
He turned and stalked away. Dubnus raised an eyebrow in silent comment and turned to follow, leaving the 5th's centurion for once lost for words.
The next morning, after early parade, Prefect Equitius and the First Spear sat to judge Cyclops's case, running through the facts with the offender standing to attention in front of them. With the bare facts of the case established, Frontinius asked Cyclops whether he wanted to make any comment before sentence was passed. The soldier's response was mumbled at the floor, but no less of a surprise to officers used to the man's customary stony silence at the punishment table.
'Sir, I ask my centurion to speak for me.'
Prefect and First Spear exchanged glances.
'Very well, Soldier Augustus. Centurion?'
Marcus stepped forward, helmet held under his arm, and snapped to attention.
'Prefect. First Spear. My submission on this man's behalf is simple. He claims provocation to fight, but that is beside the point. He has a worse record of indiscipline than any other man in the Ninth, and I've already told him that I won't tolerate it. I believe that he can make an effective soldier, but only if he can learn to control himself. My recommendation therefore is this: no beating, no loss of training time, in fact nothing that will keep him out of training. Instead, take away as much of his pay as you see fit and as much of his free time as appropriate. If he offends again, dismiss him from the cohort – he'll be no use to me or any other officer if he can't control his temper.'
Frontinius mused for a moment before turning to the tribune.
'I agree. I've seen enough of this man at this table for one lifetime. Soldier Augustus, you are hereby fined one month's pay, deprived of one month's free time with bathhouse duties as further punishment, and restricted to the fortress for three months unless on duty with your century. One more appearance here, for any reason, and I will accept your centurion's recommendation without hesitation. Do you understand?'
Cyclops nodded curtly.
'Very well. Dismissed.'
Outside the headquarters Dubnus collared Cyclops, poking a long finger into his chest for emphasis, lapsing into their shared native tongue to be sure he was understood.
'That was the officers' version. Here's mine. The centurion put his balls on the table for you in there, made his prestige with the First Spear a matter of your behaving yourself in future. You make one more mistake, you won't just embarrass my centurion, you might be the reason he gets kicked out of the cohort. So, if you do fail to change your ways it won't just be you out of the service. If that happens I'll boot your punchbag so fucking hard your balls will never come down again. Do. You. Understand. Me?'
The one-eyed soldier stared back at him with an expression Dubnus found hard to decipher.
'I'll be a good boy from now, but not for you, Dubnus, I'm not scared of you. I'll do it for the young gentleman.'
He turned and walked away towards the baths to start the first day of his punishment work routine, leaving Dubnus standing, hands on hips, watching him with a thoughtful expression.
With the beginning of the gradual change from winter into spring the cohort accelerated its training programme. Sextus Frontinius, listening to the reports of a slow flame of resentment burning steadily brighter in the northern tribes, was keen to get his men into the field and training towards peak fitness, ready for the campaign he made no secret of believing they would fight that year. Twenty-mile marches became a thrice-weekly event, rather than the freezing misery inflicted on the cohort once a fortnight.
Marcus's and Rufius's centuries, the former properly re-equipped and both suddenly the envy of the cohort, eating the best of rations and appropriately vigorous, responded to their commanders' different styles of leadership well. Whether it was Marcus's blend of humanity and purpose, or Rufius's legion training methods, quietly imparted to Marcus in conversations long into the night when their duties allowed, both centuries grew quickly in fighting ability and self-confidence. The 9th were driven relentlessly by Dubnus and his two new watch officers, hand-picked older men who understood what would be required of the century if it did come to war. With the open backing of the influential Morban the 9th quickly coalesced from a collection of indifferent individuals into a tightly knit body of men, and set about rediscovering the pleasure of testing themselves alongside men they were coming to regard as brothers. Rufius had put the idea to his friend in the officer's mess one evening after their day's duties.
Otho and Brutus were playing a noisy game of Robbers in another corner of the room, on a black-and-white chequered board painted on to their table. 'Lucky' was failing to live up to his title, as the boxer chased his few remaining counters around the board. He was picking them off one by one and laughing hugely with each capture. Rufius tipped his head towards the two men, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
'And let that be a warning to you. Our brother officer might be called Knuckles, but don't ever think he might be punch drunk. That's the fourth game in a row he's taken off Brutus, and there's no sign of the streak being broken. A good game for the military mind is Robbers, teaches you to think ahead all the time. The only mistake dear old Lucky's making is to worry about where his counters will go next, not where he wants them in three moves' time. He plays aggressively, pushes for the straddle, while Knuckles, he knows the art of steady play, how to gently ease the opponent's counters into position for the attack. There are lessons for life in the simplest game, but some lessons are harder won …'
He took a mouthful of wine, savouring the taste for a moment with a sideways glance at his friend.
'Which leads me to a subject I've been pondering the last few weeks, watching you and Dubnus turn your lads from a rabble to something more like infantrymen. I don't doubt for a second that you'll teach your boys enough about sword and board work to make each one of them an effective fighter, but I can tell you from grim experience that isn't the key to fielding a century that will grind up anything thrown at them and come back for more.
'Let me tell you what happens when we fight the blue-noses. Before the battle, when our men are trying to keep from soiling themselves with fear, the barbarians stop just outside spear-throw and start shouting the odds like vicus drunks, how they're going to carve off our dicks and wave them at our women before they fuck them to death, how we'll soon be staring at our own guts as they lie steaming on the turf, all that rubbish. However, take note of a man that's been there – it works. There's a natural reaction I've seen in many a century and cohort when the barbarians are baying for blood, and that's for each man to sidle to his right just a little, looking to get just a little more protection from his mate's shield. Before you know it the line's half a mile farther to the right than the legatus wants it, and the fight's half over before it begins, just from sheer fear …'
He drank again, signalling to the steward for a refill.
'The secret to winning battles, my friend, isn't fancy sword work, or how well your boys can sling a spear, important though those skills are. It's actually much simpler than that, but harder to achieve. All you have to do is to make the lads love each other.'
He sat back, cocking a wry eyebrow at the Roman.
'And no, before you laugh at me, I don't mean all that arse-poking in Greek pornography, I mean the love a man has for his brother.'
He paused again, judging the moment.
'There's only one way to explain this to you, and I apologise for the necessity. You had a brother in Rome, right?'
Marcus nodded soberly, finding the memory painful, but less so than before.
'Well, what you would have done had you been in a position to fight his killers?'
The younger man's nostrils flared with remembered anger.
'I would probably have died with a bloody sword in my hand, and a carpet of dead and dying men around me.'
'Exactly. And that, friend Marcus, is the love we need to get into the hearts of our lads. When one of your tent parties is in trouble, whether it's a punch-up in a vicus beer shop or a desperate fight against hordes of blue-nosed bastards, their mates to either side have a choice, to look to their front and ignore their mates' peril, or to dive in to the rescue. Orders don't make that happen, and you can't teach it on the parade ground, but if you get them to love each other, they do the rest for you, without even thinking about it. When you get it right a man will use his shield to protect the man next to him when he falls, and ignore the risk he runs in doing so, knowing with complete certainty that his mate would do the same for him without a second's thought.'
He smiled conspiratorially at his friend.
'And, to be honest, when me and my lads are knee deep in guts and shit, with the spears all thrown and our shields splintering under blue-nose axes, I want your boys to be straining at their collars, to be looking to you for the command to take their iron to our enemy, just for the love of my lads. If we can achieve that, we'll both have a better chance of seeing next winter …'
The 9th's tent parties exercised and practised against each other, each time striving to win for some inconsequential reward or other, their bonds growing stronger with each victory or defeat, vowing to do better in the next contest, the weaker helped and cajoled by the stronger. The trick was repeated with multiples of tent parties, the groupings changed each time and soldiers judiciously exchanged to equalise their relative strengths, until each octuple was used to fighting alongside every other, and knew their abilities. In the evening, watching their men down in the vicus, Dubnus and Morban reported back a new spirit, the other centuries quickly coming to recognise that taking on a single man from the 9th was offering a fist to every one of them, no matter what the odds. The respect in which they were held rapidly increased, to the point where it was rare for fights involving the 9th's men to be anything other than between themselves, combat quickly over and insult swiftly forgotten as they closed ranks.
Marcus and Rufius, who had played exactly the same game he had preached with his own men, repeated the trick with their centuries, again exchanging soldiers, ostensibly to add strength or skills where they were needed, but in truth to build the same spirit of comradeship between the two units. At length, one night in early May, a tent party from Rufius's 6th waded into an unfair fight on behalf of a pair of beleaguered 9th Century soldiers. It was the first sign for the two friends that they had achieved the breakthrough they were looking for.
Prefect Equitius returned to the Hill from a senior officer's conference in Cauldron Pool that same evening. He called for the First Spear to join him in his office shortly thereafter.
'It's war, Sextus, there's no longer any doubt. Sollemnis's spies tell us that the call has gone out for the tribes to mass north of the Wall, probably within a short march of Three Mountains Fort. From there it's only about two days' march to the Wall, and the blue-noses can knock over two more single cohort forts on the way just to get their spirits up. He's not interested in defending the outlying forts against a force of between twenty and thirty thousand men, since that's clearly what Calgus will be hoping for. Our defence will focus on holding the Wall while the legions from Fortress Deva and the far south slog their way up the country to join us.'
Frontinius nodded reflectively.
'So the outlier cohorts march back behind the Wall in good order rather than being slaughtered to no purpose. At least our leader seems to be taking a practical approach to the situation. Does that mean we get the Dacians from Fort Cocidius joining us?'
'Not this time, despite the fact it seemed to work well enough in last summer's exercises. No, the Dacians will make a temporary camp down at Fair Meadow and form a two-cohort force with the Second Tungrians, ready to reinforce any of the western Wall forts that get into trouble.'
'Perhaps some of their professionalism will rub off on the Second. And how long does the legate reckon it will take for the Second and Twentieth Legions to reach us?'
'That depends who's asking. To anyone else in this cohort, up to and including the officers, the answer's fifteen to twenty days. For your information only, I happen to know that Sollemnis called them north nearly two weeks ago, and asked his brother officers not to spare the boot leather, so they ought to show up within a week. With any luck that will give Calgus a nasty shock and put Fortuna on our side rather sooner than he might have expected. Sixth Legion is already deployed, of course, although he was pretty tight lipped as to exactly where they are. Whether it's accurate or not, the rumour in Cauldron Pool is that he's got them camped fifty miles back at Waterfall Fort to give him the flexibility to move to the north or west as the situation develops.'
The First Spear shook his head in exasperation.
'West? Calgus isn't going to make a push for Fortress Deva. The legion should already be in position to defend our supplies at Noisy Valley. Mind you, rather them than us, if there really are thirty thousand men massing under Calgus.'
Equitius nodded silently, reaching for his cup.
'We'll be moving inside the week, I'd guess. There's no point leaving the Wall units all divided up into cohorts when we can form a legion-sized battle group with two or three days' marching. So, First Spear, are we ready?'
Frontinius nodded.
'Ready enough. There's still the question of completing the assessments, but I think we'll have time enough for that if I pull the schedule forward.'
'And our new centurions?'
Frontinius stretched out his legs, pursing his lips in consideration.
'A timely question. Rufius is everything I expected, tough, professional, more than up to his task. A gift from Cocidius. As for the Corvus boy …'
The prefect took another sip of wine, raising an eyebrow.
'Yes?'
'To be honest, he's surprised me in the last few weeks. He seems to have an excellent grip on his century, Prince Dubnus is backing him to the hilt, he's converted more than one complete waste of good rations into an effective soldier, and his reputation in the cohort seems to be stronger than I could ever have imagined. He's a cunning young bastard too.'
'Cunning? Not quite what I'd expected.'
'Nor I, but I can't find any other way to describe a man who hides his men's abilities from his brother officers. His men run faster than any other century in the cohort, certainly faster than I can keep up with. He hides this, however, with overlong rest breaks to hold down their average speed, or else he takes them on detours to make their performance look slower than it is. I find that very interesting.'
'And so do I. I wonder what else he has hidden away from view?'
The First Spear reached for his helmet.
'Exactly. I think it's time to give him a chance to show us.'
Ordering the guard centurion to assemble the officers, Frontinius installed himself in the principia to wait their arrival, mulling over his thoughts on the subject of his youngest officer while the two men standing guard over the cohort's treasury stared uneasily at the wall above his head. He was still brooding when the officers started to enter the praetorium in ones and twos, the first arrivals dragging him back to the moment at hand. Rufius arrived in the company of Caelius and Clodius while Marcus and Julius made predictably solitary entrances. When all nine men were gathered in front of him, Frontinius roused himself to their briefing, sending the duty guards out to stand watch at the door.
'If we wanted to pilfer the pay chests we'd have done it a long time ago. Nobody, with the exception of the prefect, enters without my permission. This briefing is for officers' ears only.'
He waited theatrically until the doors were closed.
'Brother officers, the prefect came back in from Cauldron Pool an hour ago, as I'm sure you've all heard by now. The message from the boys in the purple-edged tunics is simple enough – prepare for war. There's a Brit called Calgus mustering thirty thousand painted maniacs somewhere not much more than two days' march from here, and very soon now they'll come south with fire and iron, looking for a fight …'
He paused, catching more than one eye riveted to his gaze.
'A fight they'll get – eventually.'
'Eventually, First Spear?' Rufius's eyes narrowed with professional interest.
'Eventually, Centurion. Calgus will muster more spears than the Wall cohorts and Sixth Legion could cope with, even banded together to our full strength, unless he was stupid enough to throw them at us piecemeal. And on the subject of our enemy's wits I have intelligence of my own for you. Calgus isn't that stupid, in fact he isn't stupid at all. I met him five years ago at a gathering of the tribal leaders north of the Wall. I was the supervising officer, with half the cohort behind me to keep the peace between them and make sure it didn't get out of hand, and it was still, I can assure you, a bloody uncomfortable experience. Not only were the tribesmen a fairly ugly bunch, but Calgus could dispute with Minerva and not come away ashamed.
'He was recently crowned at the time, and still finding his feet as king of the Selgovae, but where his father was a sly old sod, a master of the knife in the back, the son was clearly a man of a different nature. He's a clever brute, a barrel-chested, red-haired bear of a man, born to swing a battleaxe but blessed with his father's silver tongue for all that. He would insist on seeking me out for arguments about the justification for Roman rule of the land south of the Wall. Of course, in the end I had little option but to end the discussion on the grounds that since we're the ones with our boots on the ground there was little point to it. I expected that to be the end of the argument, and to a degree it was. However …'
He lowered his voice slightly, reliving the moment.
'… Calgus just stood there and looked at me for a moment, then reached out a hand and tapped me on the chest with one finger. My escort had their iron aired and ready to go in a flash, growling like shithouse dogs, and I reckoned we were a hair's breadth away from a bloodbath, but Calgus never faltered. He just tapped me gently on the chest again and said, "Just as long as you can fill those boots, Centurion." Not enough to give me a pretext to have him for inciting rebellion, of course, and half the North Country's tribal elders were hanging on his words, as dry as tinder if I were stupid enough to provide the spark. Enough to make his point, though, and while I didn't like him I had to admire the size of his swingers. I've been waiting for his name to reach this far south ever since, and now that it has I can assure you all that we have a very worthy opponent. So the word, Centurion Rufius, is most definitely "eventually". I'll show you what I think will happen.'
He turned to their sand table and sketched in a few swift lines with his vine stick.
'Here, east to west, coast to coast, is the Wall. Calgus can't go round it. He has to go through it if he's going to make any impact other than burning a few outlying forts that we can rebuild before next winter. Here, north to south, is the road from Yew Grove to the northern forts, crossing the Wall at the Rock. There are the outlying forts north of the Wall up the north road, Fort Habitus, Roaring River, Red River, Yew Tree Fort and the tip of the spear, Three Mountains. They'll be evacuated by the time Calgus can get his warband limbered up, and their cohorts will retreat back to the Wall in good order, leaving the forts to the blue-noses. They'll steal everything that's left behind and torch the buildings, but they won't have the time to destroy the walls and so, to be frank, who cares? Those three cohorts will muster at the Rock, most likely, making a force of about three thousand men when combined with the local half horse cohort.'
Knuckles raised a hand.
'What about our Dacian mates at Fort Cocidius?'
Frontinius dotted the sand twice with the tip of his vine stick.
'Good question, Otho, you clearly haven't had all of your wits beaten out of you. Here's us at the Hill, on the Wall, and here's Fort Cocidius five miles to our north-east. The Dacians will also pull back behind the Wall, bringing with them, before you ask, all of their altars to Mars Cocidius. They're going to squat with the Second Cohort down at Fair Meadow, and we can only hope that they don't pick up too many bad habits while they're there. That's another two thousand men ready to move wherever they're needed, another reserve force like the one at the Rock. Add to that the ten thousand or so lining the Wall's length and we've half the number of spears we expect Calgus to muster. The difference is that we have to stay spread out for the time being while he can concentrate his power in one place, which means that the trick will be for us to avoid actually fighting the warband until the legions come into play …'
He paused for effect.
'All I can tell you about the heavy boys is that the Sixth are already somewhere close to hand, and the Second and Twentieth are footslogging up from their fortresses in the south, which means we won't see them for the best part of a month. The general isn't going to want to engage in pitched battle without at least two full legions in the line. That way he can face off the tribes and still have a nice big reserve to manoeuvre into their flank or rear if he plays it smartly enough.'
Rufius nodded agreement.
'So we can expect a month or so of marching round the country avoiding a fight?'
'Yes, that's about the size of it. Although it might be closer to the truth to say "avoiding a fight if we're lucky". Calgus will be desperate to bring us to battle early, to set his dogs on us before the legions get themselves cranked up ready to fight. If he can destroy the Wall garrison, or better still take Sixth Legion out of the campaign early enough, the southern legions would be severely handicapped, fighting at a numerical disadvantage against fired-up tribesmen on ground they don't know. Calgus knows that, and he'll do whatever he can to force an early battle. If we can stay on our toes and avoid a fight for the next month we'll have done very well, in my opinion. Very well indeed. You'd best be generous making your offerings to Mars Cocidius tonight, we're going to need all the luck he sees fit to grant us. Now, the cohort assessments …'
He paused to allow the initial muttering to die down.
'… will still be held, but just to a different timetable. We still need to know who's going to guard the cohort standard this summer. Given that time is of the essence we'll dispense with the usual parade-ground tests, I've been scoring your men on their sword and spear work over the last few weeks, just in case, but we can't ignore the main test. So, all units on parade tomorrow morning at first light, last five centuries for the speed march, first five for the ambush force. Dismissed!'
The next morning dawned just as fine, with a warm and dry day in prospect. The First Spear paraded his cohort an hour after dawn, taking pleasure in the cool morning air, and announced the pairings of marching and attacking centuries with a slight smile, delighting Julius by tasking his 5th Century with ambushing Marcus's 9th Century during their speed march. The veteran centurion strolled across the parade ground to watch the 9th's departure, standing to one side with his arms folded and his face set impassively, drumming impatiently with his fingers against the iron rings of his mailed shoulder. While some of Marcus's men cast anxious sidelong glances at the officer, Morban stared back impassively beneath the century's standard, muttering to the nearest soldiers without taking his eyes off the scowling officer.
'Rumour says our old friend Julius and the glorious Fifth Century are going to give us a right kicking today, put young Two Knives in his place and take the standard for another year. In fact rumour had us paired with the Fifth long before Uncle Sextus announced it. I had a drink with their silly bastard of a standard-bearer in the vicus last night, and I had twenty denarii with him that we'd come out on top today, so you turd burglars had better wake your ideas up.'
Both Marcus and Dubnus ignored Julius for the most part, by prior agreement as to their tactics for the day. Dubnus, unable to resist the temptation, caught his eye, looked down to his thigh and extended his middle finger down the muscle. If Frontinius spotted the gesture as he strode up to Marcus he gave no sign.
'Are your men ready, Centurion?'
Marcus saluted, snapping to attention.
'Ninth Century ready, First Spear.'
The senior officer nodded, beckoning the younger man by eye as he walked slowly away from the century, out of earshot.
'Well, Centurion Corvus, your time of judgement is nearly upon us. This cohort goes to war tomorrow, and it must have officers that I can trust to lead their men to the gates of Hades if that's where fate takes us. Every day since your arrival I have asked myself whether you're that sort of officer, despite your age, despite your alleged treason, and in all those days I've never yet found an answer I can trust. You're quicker with a sword than any man I know, your century seem to love you well enough, and yet …'
Marcus met his eye levelly.
'And yet, First Spear …?'
'And yet I am still not convinced that you will be capable of giving this cohort what it needs in time of battle. So this is your day, Centurion, the last day in which that question can be answered. When you take your men out of those gates take one thought with you, and keep it in your mind all the way back here, no matter what happens.'
'Sir?'
'The good of the cohort, Centurion, simply that. Dismissed. Go and show your brother officers what you've been hiding from them these last two months.'
Marcus frowned at the last comment but had no time to reflect on it. With the trumpeter blowing the command to commence the exercise, and the first hourglass turned, the 9th were out of the fort at the double march. Away to the west they marched, along the military road behind the wall, their iron-studded boots stirring the dust into tiny clouds. The road ran along the northern lip of the vallum, the massive ditch that divided military and civilian ground, and its elevation allowed a cooling breeze to dry the sweat from the marching men's bodies as they pounded away from the fort in the early morning sunshine. A mile from their starting point a track branched south over a bridging point across the vallum, in the protective shadow of a mile fort, before starting a shallow climb into the hills to the south. It was the route by which they were to cover most of their march. Once he was certain that the century was out of sight of any watcher, Marcus trotted out in front of his men, turning to walk backwards for a moment to be sure that they were no longer observed, before signalling to Dubnus in his usual position at the century's rear. The big man's voice boomed across the marching ranks, making heads rise and backs straighten in anticipation of the coming order.
'Ninth Century, prepare to change pace! At the run … Run!'
The soldiers lengthened their stride together, long accustomed to hauling their bodies and equipment across the undulating countryside at a fast jog. They went south at a fast pace for another two miles before dropping back to rest at a fast march for a mile, then stepped up the pace again. The troops were sweating heavily now with the effort of running in armour with full campaign kit, each man humping his armour, sword, shield, two spears and his pack, with only the pointed wooden stakes made to be lashed together into obstacle defences missing from their loads. They were working to a timetable known only to Marcus and his triumvirate of advisers, Dubnus, Morban and Antenoch, who had planned the day over a jug of wine the previous evening. While Dubnus still lacked any trust in Antenoch, he remained polite enough to the other man's face, and had tolerated Marcus's insistence on his being involved in their preparation.
The wind dropped, allowing the day's heat to get to work on bodies that were tiring and starting to dry out, but still they ground on, Dubnus relentlessly driving them on with shouts of encouragement and threats of a faster pace if any man flagged. Five miles out from the Hill, Marcus pointed to the roadside.
'Ten-minute rest and briefing. Get your water bottles and drink, but do it quietly if you want to know what we're about to do!'
Breathing hard, his men forwent the usual playful push and shove of the rest stop, drinking eagerly from their bottles while their centurion explained what they were about to attempt. His command of the British language had progressed a long way in the time available, but he spoke in Latin now, pausing for Dubnus's translation, to ensure complete understanding.
'The usual way of things in this event is for the marching century to concentrate on getting around the course as quickly as possible, to win points for ground covered before the ambush. When they are ambushed, as they always are, a practice battle results. A few minutes' fighting, one of the two centuries is declared the winner, and then they finish the march together, all good friends again …'
A few heads nodded knowingly. This was the speed march they had come to expect.
'Not this time. Not this century.'
They stared back at him, eyes widening at the heresy.
'How many of you would knowingly walk into an ambush, or even the risk of one? We've trained to march fast because we'll use that speed in the field to avoid ambushes, or to put ourselves into the best positions before an enemy can reach them.'
He paused, allowing Dubnus to translate, although he could see from their faces that the majority had understood his words.
'This one's real as far as I'm concerned. What about you, Chosen?'
Dubnus nodded grimly, staring dispassionately at his men, daring anyone to disagree. Marcus continued.
'Julius wants to teach me a lesson, take me down a peg, and he wants to do this at the expense of your pride. That, and your reputation as soldiers. You might not have noticed it …' He knew they knew all too well, were basking in the glory of their meteoric rise. '… but we're second in the standings. The century everyone wrote off as useless. You want to keep that reputation? Be second best?'
A few heads shook slowly. Morban roared at them, his challenge lifting the hair on the back of Marcus's neck as he shook the standard indignantly at them.
'I'm not taking second place to any bastard without a fight! You're either in this or you can turn round and fuck off back to the Hill and apply for a new century. One that takes losers.'
Marcus watched their reaction carefully, gauging their sudden enthusiasm as men turned to their neighbours to see the excitement reflected in their eyes. The standard-bearer grinned proudly at Marcus, tipping his head in salute to hand the century back to his centurion.
'So shut the fuck up and let the centurion tell you how we're going to pull Latrine's beard for him.' |
Wounds of Honor | Anthony Riches | [
"historical fiction"
] | [
"Rome",
"war",
"Empire"
] | Chapter 10 | Julius lengthened his stride, eager to reach his chosen ambush site. Alongside him, moving with an easy grace that belied his age, Sextus Frontinius matched him step for step. The centurion would have avoided taking the First Spear out on the ambush march if he could have found a way, but his superior was all too well aware of the potential for the event he had staged-managed to get out of control. He had made a point of politely requesting his permission to accompany the 5th Century, a courtesy Julius had no choice but to return through gritted teeth.
'So you've decided to attack them at the Saddle, eh, Julius?'
Julius, tempted to ignore the question but with enough sense to avoid the pitfall of failing to acknowledge the innocent enquiry, nevertheless waited a full five seconds, taking his response to the margins of insolence, before answering.
'Yes, First Spear.'
Sextus Frontinius smiled inwardly, keeping his face a mask of indifference.
'A little early in the march, isn't it? His men will still be relatively fresh. I'm surprised you're not going to wait for them farther into the route. What's wrong with the usual places?'
Stung by the implied criticism, Julius wiped sweat from his eyebrows, shaking his head in irritation at the unusual warmth.
'I'm not allowing any rest stops until we get there, so we'll get there first. The Ninth will never suspect a thing until we're down the slope and on top of them.'
'If I didn't know you better I'd have to say you're taking all this a bit too personally.'
The centurion spat into the roadside dust to clear his throat.
'And, First Spear, if I didn't know you better I'd have to say that you've rolled over for this Roman with the rest of them.'
Frontinius glared at the soldier marching alongside him, who redoubled his efforts to be seen not listening.
'March out front with me, Centurion, let's show these nosy bastards of yours how to cover ground.'
He waited until they were ten yards clear of the marching century before speaking again.
'I think it's time we discussed this properly. Our rules, not First Spear and centurion. Just Sextus and Julius.'
The other man glanced over at him.
'And if I don't want to discuss it?'
'But you do, Julius, you've been quacking away about it ever since he got here. Come on, man, let it out!'
'Our rules?'
'Absolutely. The same as the day we joined.'
'Don't say you haven't asked for it. He's a traitor. An enemy of the man who rules the world, and of the empire you swore to serve. And yet you've gone out of your way to make him welcome.'
The First Spear shrugged unconcernedly.
'I'm not convinced by all this "traitor" talk. You've heard the same stories I have, Julius, you know how this new emperor's behaving and who pulls his strings. As far as I'm concerned our man's guilt isn't proven.'
'Not your call, Sextus. If the empire says he's a traitor, then he's a traitor.'
'And if it was you, old mate. What if you were unjustly accused?'
'Then I'd run a thousand miles to avoid hurting my friends, and …'
'And end up somewhere like here, dependent on strangers for justice. Not negotiable, Julius, I won't hand over an innocent man to that kind of evil.'
'And if they come for him? If they nail you and the prefect up and decimate the rest of us for hiding him?'
'It won't come to that. Besides, we'll be at war in a few days. We could all be dead in a week, so some unlikely discovery by the empire doesn't worry me overly right now. Next?'
'He's a snotnose. He's never commanded so much as a tent party in action, and he'll fall to bits the first time he sees a blue-nose warband.'
Frontinius snorted.
'Rubbish. He killed on the road to Yew Grove, he fought again on the road here, he faced down that headcase Antenoch with his bare hands, and he seems to have faced you down well enough since then.'
Julius turned furiously, still walking.
'That was Dubnus!'
Frontinius pursed his lips and shook his head.
'Sorry, but that's not how I heard it. The version that reached me was that he got right in your face and practically offered you the dance floor.'
'I was half awake and unprepared …'
'Rubbish, man. I've never known you not ready to fight, day or night. Admit it, there's something in the young man's eye that would make any of us step back and take guard. And I don't mean the sword skills either. He's lost something in the last few months, some carefully instilled self-control, an edge of civilisation that his father probably worked on all his life. What I see in him is a dangerous animal that's been given every reason to want the taste of blood, and now those early disciplines have been stripped away there's only cold calculation keeping that rage in check. The pair of us could take him on two on one with swords and boards and I'd have money on his opening us both up from chin to balls in under a minute.'
Julius lifted exasperated hands to the sky.
'So he's dangerous. Enraged. He's a goat-fuck waiting to happen. Put him in combat and he'll go berserk and take his century with him.'
Again the First Spear shook his head.
'No he won't. He's the model of self-control. Think back to Antenoch, that first morning? Came at him with a knife and ended up with it tickling his own ear? Did you see a single drop of blood on the fool? Because I was there in seconds and I didn't. No, Centurion Corvus will have iron control right up to the second where he chooses to let it go. Just don't be on the wrong end of his sword when that happens.'
He took a deep breath as they marched on side by side.
'You know as well as I do that you're not competing for the honour of carrying the standard along the Wall to the games this year. What you're looking for is the opportunity to fight off every blue-faced bastard between here and the River Tava who thinks it would look nice on the wall of his mud hut. Every century in this cohort is going to need strong leadership, and the Ninth isn't any different from any of the other centuries in that respect.'
'So give them to the Prince. He'll give them strong leadership all right.'
'You know my thoughts on that individual. He's no more proven than young Corvus as far as I'm concerned.'
He took a deep breath.
'I'll tell you what, I'm just simply bored with pondering the whole thing, so I'm going to delegate the decision.'
'Delegate it to …?'
'You. But …'
He raised a hand to silence the astonished centurion.
'Yes, I know, you already know the answer, except I'm really not sure either of us have actually seen what's in Centurion Corvus's heart yet. So, you can make the decision, but only when this day's events are fully played out.'
Julius grunted his satisfaction.
'My opinion won't change, you can be sure of that.'
Sextus stared fixedly ahead as they marched on.
'Perhaps it won't. You feel betrayed and undermined by your old friend, the man you joined up with all those years ago. I've allowed an inexperienced outsider into our close circle of brothers, an action that might spell disaster for us all. On the other hand, oldest friend, Corvus might just have a pair of stones larger than either of us appreciates. So let's wait and see, eh?'
The 5th made good time, taking their water on the march rather than stopping, and reached a position with a clear view of the Saddle by the middle of the day. Julius called a halt, sending a scout past the feature to make sure that the 9th were not about to hove into view just as he deployed his men into their positions for the ambush. The man ran back a few minutes later to confirm that the road was clear to the grassy horizon, provoking the first smile the 5th had seen grace their commander's creased face all day.
'Excellent! Even-numbered tent parties to the right-hand hill with the chosen man and into cover, odd numbers with me to the left. And remember, any man that shows himself before I give the signal loses a month's pay!'
The century split quickly into two disciplined groups, hurrying down the slope from their vantage point and starting the climb up to the twin hills. Their equipment rattled and clattered noisily, while the soldiers talked among themselves about the afternoon's entertainment, planning individual acts of revenge for real or imagined slights upon their century's good name by members of the 9th. Thus it was, with nobody looking too carefully at the greenery that crowned their objectives, that it took a bellow of challenge from Dubnus to draw their attention to the previously well-hidden troops who had risen like forest spirits out of the undergrowth of the right-hand hill's heavily wooded crown.
The 5th's soldiers hesitated for a moment, caught between their orders and the shock of finding the Saddle already occupied, the short pause enough to cause a chorus of abuse to shower down upon them from the hills. The 9th had taken their objective first, and showed every sign of being in the mood to defend their ground. Julius stepped out in front of his men, drawing his sword and sweeping it over his head, ready to slash it down to point at the twin hills and issue the command to attack, ready to start a full-scale battle if it was the only way to restore his face. As the sword started to move in the downward arc, Sextus Frontinius stepped out of the century with his arms in the air.
'Hold!'
Ignoring Julius's red-faced fury, he turned to the Saddle's hills, his voice bellowing out across the landscape.
'Ninth Century, form ranks for parade here.'
The 9th's troopers came out of the trees and streamed obediently down the hill, while Frontinius paced back a dozen steps, pushing soldiers aside without ceremony, and pointed to the ground again.
'Fifth Century, form ranks for parade here.'
The 5th's grumbling men pulled back, still reeling from the shock of their centurion being so comprehensively out-thought. Julius, restraining himself by an act of supreme willpower, stamped back down the hill to the designated place, bellowing at his subordinates to get the fucking century on parade. The two units lined up opposite each other, scowls and sneers along both opposing lines of men, while the First Spear paced equably between them and watched the clouds scudding along in a clean blue sky, enjoying the breeze's cooling caress. When both centuries were lined up, and the harsh shouts of the chosen men and watch officers had died away to silence, he turned slowly to look at both centuries, taking in Julius's set scowl and Marcus's white face, ready to fight, his lips thin with determination over a tight-set jaw.
'In all my days I swear I never saw two sets of men who wanted so badly to kick the balls off each other. If I were to let you dogs loose now I'd end up with a dozen or more broken limbs, and as many men with the wits knocked out of them. Well, you mindless apes, let me remind you that there's a great hairy-arsed tribal chief by the name of Calgus mustering a warband the size of five legions to the north. Whether it's sunk into your thick skulls yet or not, we will most likely be at war within a few days. You need to learn to work together, side by side in the line, either century ready to perform whatever manoeuvre is needed to support the other. Even if it'll cost lives. And the time that you need to learn to do this is now …'
He turned away from them and stared for a moment across the rolling countryside, taking a moment to enjoy the sunshine's gentle touch on his bare scalp.
'We do need a winner from this competition, if we're to have a century to guard the cohort standard, but without spilt blood. The answer is single combat, with, before anyone jumps forward, combatants chosen by the person here best qualified to make that judgement. Which would be me.'
The silence became profound as he paused again, every man straining to hear his decision.
'And I choose Centurions Julius and Corvus. Prepare for combat, exercise swords and shields.'
Marcus passed his vine stick to Dubnus, leaving the sword at his waist in its scabbard and taking the heavy wooden practice sword from his other hip. The Briton fussed at his helmet fastenings for a moment, leaning in close to look at the offending buckle, murmuring into Marcus's ear.
'He's weaker on his left side, shield dependent. Don't go in too close until he tires, though, or he'll try to smother you with his strength. Stand off and use your skill, you can cut him to pieces easily enough …'
Frontinius walked over to face him, dismissing Dubnus with a pointed nod to the 5th's ranks. The senior centurion stared away into the distance, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone.
'I'm awarding your century three points for ambushing the Fifth, which puts you level with Julius before the result of this event. If you win, you'll take first place, and carry the standard through the campaigning season. If you draw, and finish level on points, I'll award the prize to the Fifth as the previous champions …'
He paused significantly, shooting Marcus a sudden glance.
'I'll give you no guidance, young man. This is an opportunity for you to exercise some judgement. I'll simply remind of what I said to you this morning.'
Marcus nodded, moving his shield into a comfortable position on his arm before stepping out into the space between the two units. Julius stepped out to meet him, glowering from between the cheek-pieces of his helmet, its red crest riffling slightly in the breeze. Frontinius held them apart for a moment, speaking softly into the silence that had descended upon the hillside, as the opposing centuries waited for the spectacle to commence.
'I want you both in fighting condition when this is finished. I'll deal with the man that injures the other personally …'
They stepped apart, saluted formally with their practice swords before moving together again, each eyeing the other over the edges of their shields. Julius crabbed around to his left, searching for a weakness in the younger man's defence, striking without warning in a powerful lunge, his sword hammering on Marcus's shield as his opponent stepped away from the strike, his studded groin apron whipping about with the movement. The Roman moved in low, swinging his weapon in an arc that whipped past Julius's forward leg with a fingernail's width to spare, and then drew back as quickly, looking for another opportunity to strike. The fight lasted the length of a five-minute sandglass, each man alternately attacking and defending, seeking to land one disabling strike on the other. The soldiers watching made Marcus the better of the two but unable to land the killing blow, several times just a split second too late to press his advantage on an overextended and tiring Julius. At length Frontinius raised his hand, stopping the bout and declaring a tie. The two men stepped apart, both breathing hard from their exertions. Frontinius ushered them back to the ranks of their centuries, waiting for them to take their places before speaking again.
Antenoch, in his customary place next to the centurion, spoke from the corner of his mouth.
'Well, Centurion, I had no idea you were a politician.'
Marcus ignored him as the senior centurion started to speak again.
'We started the day with the Fifth Century leading the Ninth by three points. I have decided to award the Ninth three points for a successful ambush on the Fifth, which places both units level. These scores will be officially confirmed, and awards made, on formal parade, but since I'm the final judge of the competition, you can take this pronouncement as final. Since both units finish level, last year's champion century, the Fifth …'
Julius's century erupted into cheers and roars of delight, men punching the air with the joy of their victory. Only their centurion seemed subdued, standing in front of his unit to a rigid attention.
'Silence!'
The harsh command, combined with Frontinius's furious body language, was enough to promptly silence the Fifth's celebration.
'… will retain their position as cohort standard-holders, unless of course there's any repeat of that undisciplined outburst.'
He paused to allow time for the threat to sink in before continuing.
'In recognition of their achievement in tying the contest, and their improvement on what was until recently a very poor standard of performance, I also award the Ninth Century the task of lead century for the season. The standard will be carried in its wartime position in the column's centre this season, rather than at the front, which means that I need a good century to lead the cohort. Let us hope that none of you have cause to regret winning these positions of merit, which will leave you all holding the bloody end of the spear if we go to war with the tribes this summer …'
They marched back to the fort at a steady pace, Frontinius keeping their minds busy by ordering both centuries to belt out their lewdest marching songs in unison until they tramped over the final hill and drew up on the parade ground. The senior centurion walked down their ranks, taking the measure of his tired but erect men before calling them to attention.
'Soldiers, you represent the cream of this cohort's fighting skills. I've nothing better in my armoury than the one-hundred-and-sixty-odd warriors mustered on this parade ground. You are trained and disciplined fighting men, every one of you ready to stand in line and shed blood for the cohort. Now I suspect that there are a few scores waiting to be settled in these ranks, things that have been said and done that can hardly wait to be avenged. It'll start with fists and boots, some fool will pull a knife, and I'll have my two best assets at war with each other …'
He paused significantly.
'And that is not going to happen. I will not allow it to happen. So here are the rules for these two centuries. Any man brought in front of me for fighting a member of the other century will suffer the maximum penalty I can apply under the circumstances. Up to and including dishonourable dismissal without citizenship. No excuses, no leniency, and no exceptions. So you choose.'
He strolled away across the parade ground for a few paces before turning back with a sly look on his face.
'Of course, the situation might be different to that I imagined. You might march back into the fort as the two best damned centuries in the cohort, both so good I can't separate you. You might take pride in your shared excellence. You might even take the attitude that it's the others that take second place to you, not either of you to the other. Whatever you decide, collectively you are my best weapon. And I make a point of keeping my weapons razor sharp. Don't test me. Centurions, take your units back to barracks. Dismissed.'
Marcus marched his men back into the fort, left Dubnus to chivvy them down to the bathhouse, and went to wash the dust from his feet, musing on the day. Antenoch had vanished, and for once the centurion was happy to be spared his presence, knowing that his clerk had already guessed the truth behind the result of his contest with Julius. The sound of his quarter's door opening made him turn swiftly, as Julius came in without waiting for an invitation. He looked to the bed, where his belt gear and sword lay discarded, wondering whether he could reach the weapon if the older officer intended him harm. In the enclosed space of the quarter he doubted that he could resist a determined attack by the larger man without being forced to try to disable or even kill him. Julius held up his hands, seeing the swift glance.
'No, I'm not here for a rematch. But we do need to talk …'
Marcus nodded, reaching for a flask of wine and two cups. Julius stayed silent while the wine was poured, tipping half the offered cup down his throat with a sigh of satisfaction.
'Thanks. I should thank you for this afternoon's performance as well. You could have put me down half a dozen times this morning. I knew it, I could tell that you were holding back from connecting with your attacks. You're faster, and better trained than I am, and that's all there is to it. You're the better swordsman, although time will tell if you're the better warrior when the shit really starts flying. You should have taken first place, and we both know it …'
He stared at Marcus until the younger man nodded slowly, letting out a sigh of release from his internal pressure.
'Why? You earned that victory, built up your men to taking it from under my nose. Why didn't you take it?'
Marcus frowned, starting to speak and closing his mouth again. After a moment he tried again.
'You'll laugh at me … I did it for the cohort. Uncle Sextus told me to think about what would be the best result for the cohort, and when I did, it was obvious that you had to win. If I'd beaten you, you'd be sitting in your quarter now, plotting revenge on me. As it is, you're just puzzled. The cohort gets undivided leadership, Frontinius doesn't have to deal with a series of running battles between our centuries … everyone wins.'
Julius looked at him for a moment without speaking.
'Except you.'
'Perhaps.'
The older man shook his head, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword.
'Except you. Frontinius gave me something this morning, something I've wanted since the day you arrived. He gave me the responsibility to decide your fate. Said he was tired of pondering whether you have what it takes or not. And if I say you're gone, boy, just a fading stain on this cohort's proud history, what then? If I tell you that where you go is of no concern to me, and that all that matters to me is that you leave, and don't come back? What do you say to that, eh?'
Marcus gazed back at him for a long moment, then nodded his head, half turning away to speak woodenly at the room's wall.
'I'm not surprised. I've known deep down that you and your brothers wouldn't be able to accept me. This cohort can't operate with a rejected officer at its heart, and I've developed too much affection for this place to risk that rejection turning into casualties. As to where I go, don't worry yourself. I'll be in another place before dawn, and that's all you'll be wanting from me. I'd be grateful if you could find a way to overlook the last few months, and recommend Dubnus to command the Ninth?'
He gestured to the door.
'And perhaps now you could leave me in peace. Let me get on with what I have to do.'
The burly officer stared at him a moment longer, then shook his head wryly.
'I'll have to apologise to Sextus. I told him I was going to come here and say those words to you, and he told me you'd bite on the leather the way you did.'
Marcus turned back to face him, his face hardening, his eyes flicking again to the sword lying on the bed alongside him.
'If you think that I'm going to let you stand here and calmly discuss my personality traits now that you've had your way you'd better look to your blade, Centurion, because in about ten seconds you're going to be getting a very close look at mine.'
Julius opened his hands again, backing away slightly and talking quickly.
'Hold! It was your last test, to see if you cared enough for the cohort to accept the hardest decision. You'll do for Sextus, and, while it's hard to admit, you'll do for me too. Quite how we're going to keep a swarthy bugger like you any kind of secret when we march to war is beyond me, but Sextus gave me the decision and I've made it. You stay.'
Marcus's eyes narrowed, and Julius realised with a shiver that his temper was fully alight.
'And if I don't accept your gracious offer after this last little test? If I take that sword and fillet you like an old bull, then spill my own blood?'
The other man smiled, holding his ground and keeping his sword hand rock steady six inches from the hilt of his weapon.
'I don't doubt that you could spill my guts, although we'd have some fun finding out within these four walls, without much space for fancy sword work. I probably deserve it too, the way I've been hounding you and your men. But you won't. The other thing Sextus has you nailed for is iron self-control. And, given that you're now the centurion of the cohort's lead century, likely to be first into the shit and last out of it, you're going to need it. Get some sleep, young Two Knives, you've a hard month in front of you. But before you do, fill me up with a little more of that dog-rough piss you're drinking, I can't drink a cup to your success if my cup's empty.'
He passed his cup back for refilling. A hammering at the door made them both jump, Antenoch thrusting his head through the opening, breathlessly ignoring the frown on Marcus's face. Clearly Julius's presence was no surprise to him, and Marcus suspected he had been lurking close by, ready to come to his assistance if necessary.
'Centurion Julius, you've an order to join the First Spear at the north gate. Something to do with a bonfire.'
Julius downed the wine in a swift gulp and turned to the door.
'I'll see you later … Centurion.'
In a woodland clearing well to the north of the Wall, beyond the reach of the units nervously manning the forts along the North Road, the leaders of Britannia's remaining free tribes were gathered in their first war council. Seated around a crackling fire in the cool light of dusk, the half-dozen tribal chieftains eyed each other soberly as they waited for the arrival of their leader. Each of them was very well aware that they were about to step hard on the tail of a very dangerous animal. When Calgus, tribal leader of the Selgovae, made his entrance, it was without fanfare. He shrugged off a cloak of wolfskin and walked to the fire to warm his hands. He spoke without turning away from the heat, his voice a deep rumble.
'Leaders of the northern tribes, our men are poised to attack down what our oppressors call the North Road, straining for release into battle like a hunting arrow bent and ready to fly. The Romans' scouts have been put to flight by our horsemen, and there is nothing more substantial between here and their Wall than a few pitiful forts. One word from each of us, and our men will fall on Three Mountains and put it to the flame …'
He turned away from the fire, opening his arms to encompass the gathering.
'It simply remains for us to make the decision to attack. But before we do so I want you all to be very clear about exactly what we're committing ourselves to. You all know very well that I was educated in "Isurium Brigantium", as the Romans have named that great tribe's historic home, now trapped behind their Wall and made slave to their empire. You know that I speak Latin, and that I spent my childhood absorbing their history and culture, and I know for a fact that many of you still mistrust me as a result of that education. In truth you should thank Cocidius for my father's insistence on that education, since it woke me to the danger to our tribes that has brought us all to this point of decision.
'I was sent south by my father when I was in my eighth year, and I stayed in the south until my fifteenth summer, learning their language and their ways. I hated every waking moment, brothers, with a passion that grew stronger with every year, with every fresh lesson that taught me how they have spread their rule across the world in a restless search for new peoples to enslave. And with each year my eyes opened wider to the state of the Brigantian nation, once proud rulers from the mountains to the sea for a hundred miles to the north and south of "Isurium", now castrated lapdogs to their rulers. So helpless that even their ancient capital has a Roman name. At fifteen I returned home for the summer and told my father that I wouldn't go back and live among slaves for a single day more. I expected harsh words or a beating, but he simply smiled at me and told me that in that case my education had served its purpose. He'd sent me south in order to open my eyes to the Romans, and their lust for expansion. He'd sent me south to harden my heart against their insidious persuasion. He'd dedicated my childhood to opening my eyes to Roman deception, making me a fit successor to his rule.
'So, brothers, let me outline our alternatives. We face a stark and simple choice: either we try to live in peace alongside their rule, and suffer eventual defeat and enslavement, or we fight now and push them off our lands. We can still gain a lasting peace on our own terms, but the Romans will only ever respect strength. Offer them weakness and we will all be in chains inside five summers.'
He fell silent, watching the faces in front of him. After a moment the chief of the Votadini, an elderly man whose eldest son stood behind him to steady his arm, spoke out softly.
'You give us convincing words, Calgus. We all know of the Romans' desire to take our lands, we all lost sons and brothers the last time they tried to pen us up like cattle. We all wish to avoid this, and we would be willing to fight in response to your summons even were we not bound to follow you into battle. But still I fear their legions. Three generations before us have failed to defeat them in open battle, even with the advantage of superior numbers. Our victory in forcing them from the northern wall was the result of many attacks on small detachments of their soldiers, a war of striking and hiding and having the strength to ignore their reprisals. It was a victory, but it was not won on any field of battle. How will our warriors deal with their way of fighting if we take the field against them now?'
Calgus inclined his head with respect for the wisdom of the question.
'By dealing with their strength one unit at a time, Brennus. First we'll smash their forts along the North Road, and bring the Wall cohorts to battle by attacking the wall itself.'
The old man tilted his head.
'And if they decline to fight us? If they choose to keep us at arm's length, and wait for their reinforcements?'
Calgus laughed sharply.
'Exactly what we must expect them to do. Only a fool would throw a single legion and their auxiliary rabble into battle against our great forest of spears. Which is why I have formed a plan to ensure that they have no choice but to engage us, and most likely in groups of less than their full strength. A plan, my brothers, of the utmost simplicity. Yes, a swift strike down the North Road by our eastern warband, burning out their forts all the way down to Noisy Valley. By destroying Noisy Valley we deprive them of supplies, we keep them on the back foot, and we strengthen our arms with whatever we can take. While they dither as to our next move, we'll split the warband to left and right, burn out the forts to east and west, then pull back into the north, taking what plunder we can carry. We can trust in our unexpected retreat to drag them along behind us, hot for vengeance. At the same time our second warband, and our main strength in horsemen, will strike at their undefended forts in the west. They will burn out Fort Cocidius and cross the Wall to destroy the Hill and Fair Meadow. This threat in their rear will fix the auxiliaries and prevent them joining with the legion. Brothers, we must put them off balance and keep them that way, continually rushing their forces to the newest point of danger. And when the opportunities present themselves, as they will, we will strike hard and destroy their cohorts piecemeal.'
Another of the tribal kings spoke out, stepping into the firelight.
'We agree, Calgus, although I still say that this is a strange kind of war to fight …'
'I understand. In past days we would have gone straight for their throats, dashed ourselves against their shield wall as we have a dozen times before, and lost warriors by the thousand in futile battles that could only end one way. We know their legions are meat grinders, made to fight in one way and only one way, in a battle line where they slaughter our warbands from behind their shields. They will never choose to fight man to man, because man to man they know they can only lose.
'This way we avoid confronting their legions face to face until the moment is right, when we've bled them a dozen times, razed their forts to the ground and made them charge round the land in search of us. We strike where they are weak and we avoid their strength until we're ready to deal with them, when they march into a trap of our patient making. Then, my friends, we will take so many heads that we'll make mountains of their skulls. After that there will be no choice for them but to negotiate a settlement. Their southern legions will be needed in their own areas soon enough, or the entire country will go up in flames. Victory, and peace on our terms – I trust that would meet with your approval?'
The Dumnonii chief nodded reluctantly.
'Where you lead I will follow, Calgus. Just don't wait too long to bring my tribe some glory, or all the promises of future slaughter I can make to them won't keep them in hand.'
Calgus laughed, putting a hand on the other man's shoulder.
'Caradog, you need wait no longer. I've put you and your tribe at the tip of the spear tonight. You'll be beheading Romans before the sun rises again, even if it's only the pitiful few that haven't already run off down the road to the Wall.'
Brennus snorted.
'And their Sixth Legion will sit idly by and let all this happen?'
Calgus's smile broadened.
'Ah yes, the infamous Sixth Legion. I have something special planned for Legatus Sollemnis and his men.'
One of his retinue approached respectfully, whispered into the tribal leader's ear and withdrew. Calgus pulled an amused face, raising his hands in apology.
'I must ask you to excuse me. I have a visitor.'
He left the circle, his bodyguard of picked Votadini warriors clustering around him as he made the short walk back to his tent. At the door he was met by one of his advisers, an elder of proven wisdom who had stood alongside his father in his day.
'It's a Roman. He rode up to the scouts and asked to be taken to you, said that you would be expecting him. I have him under guard inside, two spears at his throat. If he twitches in the wrong way our men will kill him immediately … I asked him what he wanted, but he refuses to talk to anyone but you. Shall I have his throat slit?'
Calgus shook his head quickly.
'Not this one, Aed. This one's the key to our victory. I knew that he would come to me at this time – in fact I've been depending on it all these weeks. So pass the word, the man that so much as looks at him the wrong way will be joining his ancestors after a long session under my knife. This one gets safe passage, and no questions.'
Nodding his thanks, he entered the tent. The newcomer was standing at the far end, the two warriors tasked with his control watching him down the shafts of unwavering spears. Crossing his arms, Calgus looked the newcomer up and down, taking in his air of complete relaxation.
'I've been expecting a visit from a Roman these last few days, but if you're that man you'll know I have no way to be sure you're the same person.'
The Roman tossed a small object to him. Catching it, Calgus recognised the gold shield brooch that had been taken from him after their first meeting in the forest months before.
'Proof enough. I have to salute your courage. Not only putting yourself in my hands when I might well still be smarting for vengeance for the murder of my companions, but riding into this camp, at this time … ? Brigantia herself must be smiling on you for you to have got this far without losing your head.'
The other man smiled confidently.
'Fortuna smiles on the man who knows when to take the right risk. I've taken that risk to offer you a bargain we can both profit from. Your gain, you will recall, will be two things you'll value over any other prize. A legion's eagle standard, and the head of a Roman general. If you kill me now you'll never see either, or hear the information I've brought to convince you of my sincerity. If you're still interested.'
The Briton stared back impassively.
'Interested? If there's a way that I can be guaranteed you're not just the high-risk end of a plot to mislead me at this critical time, yes, I'm still interested. But to gain my trust, Roman, you'll need to give me two things. Firstly, I want some proof that you can deliver me the prizes you offer so blithely. Secondly, and much more importantly, I want to know why. Start talking.'
The Roman shrugged.
'Proof that I can deliver you what I've promised? Where shall we start? Why not with who I am. My name is Titus Tigidius Perennis, and I am a tribune with the Sixth Imperial Legion's staff. You want proof? I can tell you that the supply depot at Noisy Valley is being emptied out even as we speak. By the time you get there the place will be a collection of bare cupboards, with nothing of value to sustain your army in the field. I can tell you that the other two legions, The Second and Twentieth, have been on the road north for over two weeks, and will be here long before you're expecting. You see? I can tell you that your options are becoming more and more limited with every day, and you haven't even made your first move yet. I'm your best hope for victory, probably your only hope.'
Calgus nodded slowly, raising a sceptical eyebrow.
'I see. And as to my second question?'
'Yes, why would I be doing this? That's simple. There is a cancer at the heart of the Sixth Legion, a seed of disloyalty to the emperor and his closest advisers, and I intend removing it in any way I can. The ends will more than justify the means.'
Later that evening, well after dark, with the 9th either settled for the night or, in the case of a few lucky men with dependants in the vicus, on a one-night pass out of the fort, Marcus went for a walk up to the Wall. He'd looked for Rufius, hoping to benefit from some measure of the older man's imperturbability by discussing the situation with him. The veteran officer was nowhere to be found, however, and his chosen man had simply shrugged apologetically at the question. Standing above the north gate, with the wind tugging at his tunic, he drank in the hour's quiet peace. Away to his right he could just make out the lake by the faint ripples kicked up by the wind's touch, while the forest wall made a darker line against the landscape. The distant flickers of torches inside the treeline betrayed the presence of some part of the garrison, clearly camping down for the night in barbarian territory. Most likely one of the night familiarisation exercises that Frontinius ran from time to time, he decided without interest, leaning against the parapet to enjoy the moment. The guards below were talking, their words drifting up to him, sometimes audible, other times too low to be discernible.
He listened for a few minutes, hearing hopes and fears expressed more in the voices themselves than by the words used, taking strength from an uncertainty that seemed to match his own. On the verge of turning to walk back down into the fort, he heard his voice being called from below.
Leaning over the inner parapet, he saw Caelius standing below.
'There you are! Message from the First Spear, you're to join him at the treeline as soon as possible.'
Marcus frowned down at his colleague.
'Why? I was about to go and get some sleep.'
'How the bloody hell would I know? Look, I'm not tired yet, I'll walk out with you. Come on, you don't want to keep Uncle Sextus waiting any longer than you have to.'
They strode down the steep north face of the escarpment, leaving the gate guards nodding knowingly at each other once they had passed, and made their way across the flat plain below the fort's walls. Away from the fort's reassuring bulk the darkness seemed deeper, pregnant with uncertain futures. Caelius's presence at his side was more reassuring than he'd expected.
'War's coming, Two Knives. Are you ready?'
Marcus paused for a second.
'We're ready. They're fit, good with their swords …'
'No. Are you ready?'
The pause was longer than before.
'I think so. I know I can fight, I can take my century where I want it to go, fight the way I want it to fight. Yes, I'm ready.'
'Ready to kill? To drop a man's guts out of his belly and see the life fade from his eyes?'
Marcus stopped in the darkness, looking up at the brilliant blaze of stars.
'I fought on the road to Yew Grove, you know, and killed more than one man. All I haven't done is face a full warband in a battle line. Everyone gives that so much weight. I've caught the other officers looking at me, weighing up how I'll perform when it comes to a real fight. Even Dubnus seems reserved now, part of another world. And all they've ever done that I haven't is fought in a full-scale battle. What's so difficult about that?'
Caelius walked back to face him, starlight dimly illuminating the harsh lines of his helmet, its shadows reducing his face to a death mask between the cheek-pieces.
'That depends on the man. I've known some who've called the odds in barracks but shat themselves at the sight of a half-dozen angry farmers. Others, the sleepy-eyed men that you wouldn't trust to chase cattle out of a cornfield, go wild in battle and paint themselves black with enemy blood … You need to be ready for it, you, not just your men. You don't get a second chance in a real fight – you hesitate for a second and some big blue-nosed bastard with a tenth of your skill will have your guts steaming in the dirt. When we meet the enemy, you remember what I told you, eh? And offer a prayer to Cocidius for me when you come out alive?'
He swept his hand past Marcus's face, as if catching a delicate butterfly from out of the air, holding the closed fist up in front of him.
'That's life, grabbed from nowhere, easily lost. Don't throw yours away.'
Marcus put up his own fist, tapping Caelius's gently in the gesture of respect common between the cohort's soldiers. They walked on in silence, drawing closer to the torches moving in the trees, until Marcus saw that they were held by soldiers standing facing into the forest, as if on guard duty. A figure materialised out of the darkness, with a walk that was familiar even in the near-darkness, pure arrogant power in the strides.
'Julius?'
'Two Knives.'
'What …?'
'There's no time. Come. And whatever Sextus asks of you, you just say "Yes, First Spear".'
Both men took an arm, propelling the mystified Marcus towards a darker shape that loomed large in the gloom, until its unseen bulk blocked all view of the lights in the trees. Julius abruptly put a hand on Marcus's chest to stop him, giving a soft whistle to signal his presence. Another voice spoke out of the darkness.
'It is time. Light the fire.'
For a moment nothing seemed to be happening, although Marcus sensed the presence of men around him, one or two darker spots against the darkness. Then, the flames creeping round the sides of the massive pile of brushwood and branches, fire applied on its far side took hold, gradually illuminating the scene. Almost a dozen men stood around him, all of the cohort's centurions, all with faces set in solemnity, although Rufius did manage a crafty wink of greeting. Frontinius stepped forward, speaking clearly so that all could hear him above the fire's growing crackle.
'Welcome, Centurion. Until today you were probationary, under the assessment of these men, your brothers-to-be. For all our initial doubts, it is our belief that you will make an excellent addition to our number, and provide leadership for your century that will be sorely needed in the coming days. This is your moment to renounce your past and join your brother officers in our chosen duty …'
He paused significantly, giving Marcus an interrogatory stare.
'Do you wish to become a part of the cohort's brotherhood, in spite of the heavy weight of responsibility that the position brings, renouncing all that has gone before in your life?'
Julius nudged his arm.
'… Yes, First Spear.'
'Do you swear to uphold the traditions of the cohort, even at cost of your life?'
'Yes, First Spear.'
'Will you give faithful service to the cohort until death or the end of your service?'
'Yes, First Spear.'
'Will you fight and die as commanded by your superiors?'
'Yes, First Spear.'
'Will you demand the same of your men if required?'
'Yes, First Spear.'
'And will you pay appropriate respect to the cohort's chosen god, mighty Cocidius the warrior?'
'Yes, First Spear.'
'Very well, Marcus Tribulus Corvus, I formally and irrevocably appoint you a centurion of the First Tungrian Cohort. Your previous life ends in this place, purged in the fire. Your new life begins here, forged in the fire. Remember your vows well, youngest brother, for the time for you to fulfil them will come when you least expect it. Be true to your words.'
He walked forward, offering Marcus his hand, and the other officers crowded round with congratulations and slaps on his back.
'Now, brothers, there is one last matter with our new brother officer before we give thanks to Cocidius for his meeting our high standards. Within a week we'll be camping alongside the other Wall units, some of them cohorts of doubtful honour and with many sharp ears besides. If it becomes obvious that we have a Roman officer serving with the cohort, that information might reach the wrong people. The men who destroyed our brother's family and made him outlaw for no good reason would come for him, and that would most likely bring death and dishonour on all of us, and our families, and upon the prefect for that matter. Understand me clearly, we have taken a calculated risk in accepting this man into our family. From this moment he is to be referred to only as "Centurion" or by the unofficial title that his century has seen fit to give him. Make sure that your deputies are all aware of the rule, and their soldiers. From now, this man is to be known only by the name of Two Knives.' |
Wounds of Honor | Anthony Riches | [
"historical fiction"
] | [
"Rome",
"war",
"Empire"
] | Chapter 11 | Legatus Sollemnis arrived on the Wall at the Rock with the Sixth Legion's cavalry detachment shortly after darkness fell two nights later. The rest of the legion was more than thirty miles back down the road to Yew Grove, encamped after a day slogging their way north at the forced march, and still a day away. He had raced forward to take control of the Wall forces on receiving word from his Asturian scouts, ranging across the frontier zone under Perennis's command, reports that the barbarian warband was already in the field. Their latest dispatches had Calgus poised to strike down the North Road towards his main eastern strength, and a much greater prize besides. Once past the Rock, the Wall's eastern gateway, it was less than a five-mile march south to Noisy Valley, his main supply base for the Wall units. This, he suspected, was the prize for which Calgus would commit his strength.
Jumping down from his horse, he hurried into the fort's headquarters, acknowledging the sentries' salutes with a distracted wave of his hand. As he'd hoped, not only the cohort's grim-faced prefect but also his own senior tribune Appius were waiting for him in the lamplight, a map of the area spread across the table in front of them.
'Gentlemen, I suspect we haven't much time so I'll forgo the usual formalities. What's the situation?'
Appius swiftly painted a picture for him, pointing to the key points on the map.
'Calgus has thrown at least two-thirds of his force straight down the main road, with no attempt at concealment whatsoever. They're about ten miles out right now and coming straight on. They've already burnt out the fort at Three Mountains, Yew Tree and Red River, and we expect them to do the same to Roaring River very shortly.'
'What about the garrisons?'
'The cavalry detachment attached to the Three Mountains garrison seems to have attempted a defence of the fort. A few survivors have straggled in, but from their reports we shouldn't expect to recover the unit. The Brits seem to have a substantial cavalry force in the field, perhaps five hundred horses.'
'Fools! Of all the times that we can least afford to lose horsemen … and the detachments at the other forts?'
'Falling back in good order, sir. It would seem that the sight of burning forts on the horizon got their attention.'
'At least we can count them into our covering force. What about the Twentieth?'
'A messenger arrived three hours ago, with bad news, I'm afraid sir. Twentieth Legion won't arrive for another five days; they've had problems of their own with the local tribes. The Second has caught up with them as planned, but they've still only got as far as Veterans' Hill.'
Sollemnis frowned at the news.
'Still several days out, then, yet how I long for their arrival. Until they join us Calgus has the initiative, and from the way he's acting I'd say he knows it. I should have put the Sixth in play three days ago, instead of which they'll arrive footsore and in need of rest late tomorrow.'
He rubbed at tired eyes, shaking his head wryly.
'I gambled that the delay was compensated by my flexibility to move either side of the mountains if Calgus's move down the North Road were a feint to distract me from the west. It was a poor guess, despite the strategic sense it made, and so here we are scrambling to catch up with the game.'
He rubbed at his weary eyes again before slapping the table with decision.
'We shall have to manage with what we have. Prefect Galen, have your men ready to pull out within the hour, and burn everything that will burn. Calgus won't stop at Roaring River; he needs to keep his men on the move if he's going to try what I think he intends, so I expect the warband to be knocking at your gates before daybreak. You're to pull back to the east and link up with the auxiliary battlegroup forming at Cauldron Pool. Appius …'
'Legatus.'
'Send riders to the Sixth, I want them moving up the road at first light and no later, forced march. Send riders to the prefects at White Strength and Cauldron Pool; warn them that the Rock and Noisy Valley are being abandoned, and that they're on their own for the time being. They're authorised to pull cohorts from the Wall units farther down the line in both directions if they see fit to form larger formations, but I don't want fighting men thrown away defending ground needlessly. As far as I'm concerned Calgus can mess about on the Wall as much as he wants – the forts are just wooden walls for the most part. We built them once, we can build them again. Men are more important than ground at this point, make that very clear.'
The officer nodded his understanding, scribbling notes on a wax tablet.
'Good. I'm riding south to Noisy Valley with my bodyguard, we'll have to prepare what's left of their supplies for the torch if we're going to deny Calgus that stepping stone, but I want to get as many more wagons away as possible beforehand. You're to stay here and help make sure the local boys get away in good order, and that the fort is burned out in good time. I don't want to be fighting outside these walls when we come north again.'
'Yes, sir. What do you think Calgus intends after he gets south of the Wall?'
'If I was Calgus, I'd have my eye fixed on two prizes. Firstly I'd want to take Noisy Valley intact, with its supplies and weapons. That way he can keep his men moving without having to forage for food, either south for Yew Grove or west to roll up the Wall forts. Then I'd be looking to destroy our legions one at a time, overwhelm them with sheer numbers before we get a chance to build up a proper sized army that can grind his warbands into mince. Either way I reckon he'll come looking for the Sixth, hoping to roll us over before The Second and Twentieth arrive. Noisy Valley he's welcome to, he can play in the ashes of those empty sheds as long as he pleases, but as Mars is my witness, I'm damned if I'll let him anywhere near my eagle until it's accompanied by two others just the same. Let's be about it, gentlemen!'
The first indication to the Tungrians that the warband had struck was a distant glow against the eastern horizon. On being called by the sentries, Julius, as that night's guard captain, took one look and called for the cohort's senior officers. First Spear and Prefect stood on the fort's high wall for several minutes, watching the minute flicker of light in silence. At length the senior centurion turned away from the view. Taking no pride in the vindication of his professional opinion, he turned to Equitius.
'That will be the Rock burning, at a guess. The warband must have come down the North Road during the night and attacked the fort without much warning. Impressive discipline to make a move like that in the dark with untrained savages … sentries, watch for another fire, a little to the south of the first. Duty officer, enter orders in the night report that all men are to parade at dawn and be ready to leave the fort at short notice. Pull the mile fort units back in after breakfast, but leave a fast runner at each point to keep watch for any activity over the Wall.'
He stamped off back to his bed, leaving the guards to watch for any further sign. It came an hour before daybreak, another tiny flicker of light in the distance, and the dawn revealed a distant plume of black smoke that rose in concert with that of the original blaze, and once again the senior officers grimly gathered to view the scene. Julius, off duty but unwilling to sleep, grimaced at the sight, chewing morosely at an apple while Marcus stood silently alongside him, not quite able to fully comprehend what was happening on the horizon. Julius shook his head sadly.
'Noisy Valley. There goes the forward supply station. We can only hope that Northern Command had the good sense to get all of the weapons and grain out before the barbarians decided to strike. I don't much fancy tackling thirty thousand blue-noses if they've all got a belly full of our bread and half a dozen of our spears apiece to repatriate.'
After breakfast the cohort's women started their journey to the safety of Waterside Fort on the west coast, thirty miles in the opposite direction from the horizon's grim signs of battle, the older women and small children riding in mule carts while the remainder walked alongside. A courier galloped up to the walls minutes later, his horse and those of his four escorts lathered in sweat from the speed of their journey. Equitius hurried down to the gate to receive the dispatch, calling the officers together in his office. The courier party, their horses watered, rode away to the south-west, heading for the Second Tungrian Cohort at Fair Meadow.
'The Rock and Noisy Valley are burnt out, but their units are largely intact and falling back to the west to hook up with the units gathering at Cauldron Pool. Northern Command has given orders for the prefect commanding Cauldron Pool to exercise local initiative, but to avoid any last stand that would result in heavy loss of trained men …'
The centurions waited imperturbably, wondering how they would have reacted to an order to abandon the fort. Cauldron Pool was only nine miles distant, with only the fort at Badger Holes between them to block the barbarian progress to the Hill.
'Early reports are that two warbands of about ten thousand men apiece have been deployed through the gap in the Wall, one turned east and driving for White Strength, the other advancing south. That leaves something like another ten thousand men as yet uncommitted somewhere in their rear, and a lot of options still open for Calgus to exploit. We're directed to deploy forward to Cauldron Pool and join the Second Asturian Horse, the Batavians, the Raetians and the Thracians, plus our neighbours the Second Tungrians, to form a strong combined blocking force. The general's intention would seem to be that of deterring any westward movement by the forces already identified, while we wait for the legions to move in from their forward camps. After that we'll start trying to find the warbands, and destroy them one at a time. Anything to add, First Spear?'
Frontinius rubbed his scalp, stepping out in front of the centurions.
'Brief your men that we're marching east to take a blocking position along with other cohorts from the line forts. Don't tell them that the total strength of the blocking force between the rest of the line forts and the blue-noses will only be five hundred cavalry and three thousand infantry. Do tell them that we'll be away from the fort for a long period, and that we are very likely to see combat. No, tell them that we are certain to see combat. Be ready to march as soon as the sentries are back in, guard commander to sound the recall. That's all. Centurion Corvus, a word.'
He drew Marcus to one side.
'What I didn't mention yesterday, when I gave your century the reward of being first in the line of march, was the role traditionally played by the leading century in this cohort in time of war.'
'Sir?'
'The first-placed century gets all the kudos, carries the standard about and dies gloriously in its defence if all is lost. The second-placed century, on the other hand, gets all the dirty jobs, scouting in front of the cohort, diversionary tasks and the like. In other words, all of the fun. Are you game for a little fun, Centurion?'
Marcus straightened his back, pushing his chin out.
'Yes, sir!'
'Good. In that case I've got just the job for you …'
With the 9th Century detached for the First Spear's speculative mission, the cohort marched from the fort seven hundred men strong, Julius's 5th Century marching with the standard at the heart of the column that snaked out on to the military road and headed purposefully away to the east at the double. Marcus waited in front of his men until the last were clear of the vicus, then turned to address them over the diminishing clatter of hobnails on the road's surface. His farewell to Rufius had been hurried, his friend simply clasping arms and tugging his head down to whisper into his ear.
'Keep it simple, Marcus, and don't be afraid to ask Dubnus for advice if you're uncertain about anything. I expect to see your pretty Roman features within a day or two, so don't disappoint me.'
Marcus nodded to himself without realising it, then turned to face the century, drawn up in parade formation.
'Very well, Ninth Century, we're on detached duty until our present task is finished and we head for Cauldron Pool to rejoin the cohort. Let's go hunting.'
Four hours later, having slipped through the wall at a now unguarded mile fort, far enough from the Hill to be out of sight of anyone watching the fort, the 9th stole quietly back towards their camp in the steady light of a cloudy afternoon. The emphasis now was upon stealth rather than speed across ground, the soldiers picking each footfall with care to avoid snapping fallen branches, their passage marked by nothing noisier than the buzzing of disturbed flies in the oppressively heavy air. Dubnus, long accustomed to the hill country's weather, looked at the sky for the tenth time in half an hour, working out how long they had before the inevitable rain started falling. The century was stretched across the rough country in a half-mile-wide net, each tent party spaced across its own hundred-pace frontage, the men at each end keeping sight of their opposite numbers in the neighbouring parties. Marcus and Dubnus moved silently in the rear, waiting for any sign that their men had made contact, their backs covered by a watchful Antenoch. If the Hill were under observation, for whatever purpose, they would know soon enough. At length, later than Dubnus had predicted, a steady rain began to fall, slowly growing heavier until water had penetrated down everyone's necks, no matter how tightly capes were fastened.
'At least the rain will cover any noise we're making.'
Dubnus snorted at Marcus's comment, flicking water out of his beard.
'You've officially been here too long when you start finding reasons why it's good for rain to fall.'
In the early afternoon, after an hour or more of painstakingly slow progress in the continuing rain, a flurry of hand signals rippled down the line of soldiers, who, as instructed, went to earth once the message was passed on. Marcus and Dubnus made careful haste up the line until they reached the soldier who had raised the alert, behind the cover of a thorn bush. He pointed forward, then pointed to his nose and sniffed audibly. Marcus sampled the air, finding the slight tang of wood smoke on the breeze, and nodded to Dubnus, who leant in close to whisper in his ear above the rain's pattering.
'I'll take the two closest tent parties in.'
Marcus nodded. The rest of the century would stay in place until the order was given to move again.
'We're too far from the Hill for this to be the watch point. Try to do it silently, and we'll get the watcher as well …'
After a whispered conversation with the two tent party leaders, their men gathered behind the thorn bush. Dubnus whispered a command and the group split up, one tent party remaining with the officers, the other snaking away on their bellies to move around behind the source of the smells that had betrayed their quarry.
Marcus and Dubnus crept up to the edge of the copse from which the cooking smells were emanating, allowing time for the men making their way around to the far side to get into position. As they slowly eased in between the trees the guttural sound of native conversation grew louder. Clearly the hidden men did not fear discovery. Raising his head with a hunter's patient stealth, Dubnus peeped through the top of a bush, then sank back into place. He whispered to the nearest man, Marcus straining to pick up the words despite his proximity.
'Three men, one well dressed, one poorly dressed, one old. Kill the young peasant, spare the others if you can.'
The whispered command was passed around the group, and a man wormed around to brief the other tent party, while the soldiers readied themselves to spring. Dubnus hefted his throwing axe, then stepped out of the shade of his bush, barking a low challenge at the startled Britons as Marcus came to his feet. A rough circle of bare ground had been created in the copse's middle, half a dozen trees having been felled to clear enough space for a shelter of branches and turf to be erected in its middle. To one side of the clearing a man of about twenty years, dressed in rough woollen leggings and tunic, was tending a cooking fire protected from the rain by a crude turf roof, over which were suspended half a dozen gutted hares, his shocked face an upturned white blur. An old man of fifty or so, sitting on the stump of one of the felled trees, was looking up at the last member of the group, a man in his early middle age and dressed, as Dubnus had indicated, well enough to be a local noble of some kind.
The cook leapt to his feet, reaching for a sword propped against his cooking spit. A spear blurred out of the trees behind him and thudded into his body, arching his back and dropping him across the fire face first. The other two men drew swords, spinning back to back as the rest of the hunting party burst into their hiding place, snarling defiance at their attackers.
'ALIVE!'
Dubnus stepped into the clearing, smashing the noble's sword from his hand with a sweep of his axe, following up with a shield punch that knocked the man out cleanly. Faced with half a dozen armed troops, the older man's resistance crumbled, and the soldiers disarmed him without a struggle. Marcus strolled into the copse, eyeing the dead cook, whose rough clothes were smouldering.
'Get him off that fire. There may be others close at hand. We need to know what these men were about, and quickly …'
'Yes. Put the knife to the older man.'
Marcus turned to find Antenoch at his shoulder.
'Why him?'
The subject of conversation glowered up at them, crouched in a kneeling position under the swords of a pair of soldiers, his wrists and ankles bound firmly. Antenoch squatted to look into his eyes, smiling at him without any change of expression in his own eyes.
'He's seen more than most, to judge from his age. Probably fought in the uprising of '61, killed, saw men die horribly …'
'Wouldn't that just harden him?'
'For a while, but as a man grows older his own mortality begins to press upon him. I can get the information we need. But I'll have to shed blood to get it quickly enough.'
Marcus hesitated.
'Centurion, they wouldn't think twice about skinning you alive if they captured you.'
'And we have to descend to their level?'
The other man shrugged.
'Depends whether you want to win or not.'
Marcus nodded.
'Take the other one away, out of earshot. I don't want to risk him hearing any of this.'
Dubnus nodded, gripping the unconscious Briton by the arms and dragging him from the clearing. Marcus squatted down alongside Antenoch as his clerk drew a small dagger. If he condoned the act of torture he could hardly walk away from its consequences. The Briton stared unhappily at the knife, only his eyes and nose visible above the heavy cloth gag that had silenced his muttered protests. Antenoch tossed the blade from hand to hand, staring at the older man until he dragged his attention away from the weapon and returned the gaze. The soldier spoke in the British language, gesturing with the knife to emphasise his point.
'You know that you're going to die, don't you?'
Marcus was perturbed to see the other man nod impassively.
'But then you're not that far from dying in any case, five or ten years at the most. Better to go this way than slowly, with no teeth and depending on the help of your sons to eat and shelter, eh?'
Again the nod. The Briton had clearly come to the same conclusion.
'In fact, the only thing between you and a nice clean death is the fact that you know some things that I need you to tell me. You talk, I slit your throat and make sure you're buried too deep for the wolves to find you. How's that for a deal?'
They waited while the Briton digested the suggestion. At length he shook his head unhappily, pulling a deep breath into his lungs, in preparation for what might be to come.
'Shame. You see, I reckon you're a respected warrior, with many heads on your walls. I think you've earned the rewards of the afterlife, all of the good things you denied yourself to live a life of training and devotion to the sword. The women will be oiling themselves up in the great kingdom over the river, ready for your arrival. Be a shame for all of you when you arrive without your manhood.'
Without warning he reached down and unfastened the bound man's leggings, pulling them down to reveal his genitalia.
'Not bad, not bad at all. Think what the girls upstairs are going to miss out on.'
He grasped the Briton's testicles, separated one from the other and, with a flourish of the knife, neatly sliced it from the captive's body, holding the bloodied organ up for him to see. One of the watching soldiers vomited noisily into a convenient bush, earning a glare from Dubnus, who had returned to witness the interrogation.
'Show some respect.'
The Briton's howl of pain and anguish was muted by the gag to a low moan, his eyes bulging with the pain. Antenoch stopped him from slumping to the ground with an outstretched hand, holding him up as the waves of pain washed over him, waiting until the man's eyes opened again.
'Now, from here it can go one of two ways. Either you can be sensible and tell us what you know, or I can remove the rest of your manhood and send you on your way incomplete. I'd imagine even one ball and your cock would be of more use to you in the afterlife than nothing whatsoever …'
The older man nodded, honour satisfied. Antenoch cut his gag away, keeping the knife close to his throat once the obstruction to speech was removed. The Briton spoke through gritted teeth, fighting back the pain with a conscious effort.
'You'll kill me cleanly, and put my body where the wolves can't drag it to pieces?'
'My word. And his.'
He gestured over his shoulder to the silent Marcus, who nodded gravely.
'I will tell you what you want to know. But first, there's a woman …'
Antenoch frowned.
'What woman?'
The warrior sighed and shook his head at a memory, his breath still shaky with pain.
'I warned him not to take her, I told him that no good would come of it. It offended Cocidius. She's one of his people …'
He nodded his head at Marcus.
'… although I can't say if she still lives. Or what's been done with her.'
The confession and burials took another two hours, during which time Dubnus took three tent parties and found the watcher's hide post betrayed by the Briton, leaving the lone watcher's head tied to a branch by the hair as a calling card. The century took a swift meal of bread and cheese from their packs, then headed north-east in early evening's half-darkness, dragging the unwilling noble with them and using their intimate knowledge of the terrain to make reasonable progress under a fat full moon.
When they stopped five hours later, within thirty minutes' march of their target, Marcus and Antenoch took the noble off into the dark, a tent party of soldiers shadowing them in a watching arc to ensure that no unfriendly strangers interrupted. Dubnus busied the century with the task of camouflaging their faces with saliva-moistened mud, each man painting broad stripes across another's features to break up the large area of pale flesh. Out of sight of the halted century Antenoch pushed the man to the ground, and pulled his knife, finding Marcus's hand on his shoulder.
'My turn. Translate.'
He squatted next to the noble, pulling his regulation dagger from its place at his side.
'I always thought I'd never use an issue weapon for a dishonourable purpose. This country is changing my mind in all sorts of ways. We're a mile from your farm where, I'm told, you have a Roman woman captive …'
The other man shrugged at the translation, spitting at Marcus's feet.
'We offered your companion the chance to change his mind earlier. My bodyguard here only cut off one of his balls, and then allowed him to think again about telling us what he knew. He told us that you had already taken the woman by force, and that you intend giving her to your men as a celebration of the great victory to come.'
Another shrug.
'You don't get that extra chance to change your mind. You will die here, either intact and quickly, or no longer a man and in terrible pain, and very slowly. I expect that the wolves will find you quickly enough if we slit your belly and peg you out for them. Take a moment to consider your choice, but don't expect to get an opportunity to make that choice more than once.'
The nobleman looked from Marcus to Antenoch, who nodded slowly to emphasise the threat. He coughed noisily to clear his throat, then glared up at Marcus. His Latin, roughened by lack of practice, was nevertheless clear in its emphasis.
'Better to die without my manhood than to betray my people. You should understand that. Do what you must.'
Marcus turned away, his mind thousands of miles and several years distant. On a windy afternoon late in the year, training inside the house to avoid dust stirred up by the gusts outside, his trainer, sensing boredom in his student, had suddenly dropped his sword to the floor, and indicated to him to do the same.
'Sometimes you won't have a blade to defend yourself with, Master Marcus. In the arena I've had my blade smashed from my hand more than once, but still won the fight.'
'How?'
'Ah, got your attention now, have I? Simple enough, young man, know where to strike a man, and how hard to strike him. If you're fast enough to get inside his defence and land a blow, you can choose to put your opponent on his back or simply take his life. Just hit him here …'
Pointing a finger to touch Marcus's throat.
'… and you'll stop him breathing. You choose how long for. A little tap will put him down for a moment, short of breath and helpless. A decent thump, carefully measured, will probably knock him out for a few minutes. Anything harder will almost certainly kill him. Since swords obviously don't entertain today, let's practise that killing blow, eh?'
He raised an arm, pointing to the back of his wrist.
'Strike here, as hard as you like … no, boy, I said hard. Your opponent just smiled at you and stuck his sword into your guts. Pick a point a foot behind the target and punch at that … Good, excellent follow-through! Again … Excellent! Now let's work on the harder job, just knocking the man down for a little while …'
He spun back and struck the kneeling man's throat with the dagger's hilt with killing force, dropping him choking into the grass. After a moment or so the spasmodic jerking slowed, then stopped altogether. He knelt, and put two fingers to the man's neck.
'Dead. He'll meet his ancestors a complete man, and I didn't dishonour the blade.'
Antenoch frowned in the moonlight.
'Why didn't you torture him?'
'Because he wasn't going to talk. And we don't have the time to waste carving one man when there's a job to be done. Come on …'
He turned back to the century's waiting place, leaving his clerk staring quizzically after him in the darkness.
The Tungrians made a silent approach to the farm, advancing down the dark hillside that brooded to its south until the black shapes of its round huts and fenced enclosures which surrounded them stood out against the stars. A stop group of three tent parties moved carefully around the buildings, heading for their position at the farm's rear to catch any escapees, while the rest of the century dropped their packs into a large pile and advanced to the walls, still silent behind their shields.
In the darkness a dog awoke, smelt strangers and barked indignantly, joined a heartbeat later by half a dozen others. Marcus drew his sword and jumped the wall, sprinting across the empty animal pen and kicking hard at the door to the main building. It resisted his attack, and he stepped back to allow a pair of soldiers to shoulder-charge through the barrier, moving through the shattered doorway in their wake and peering into the gloom over the top of his shield, sword ready to strike.
A man charged out of the darkness, a faint light reflecting the line of steel brandished high above his head, and without conscious thought Marcus stepped forward into the brace and punched his shield into the contorted face, stabbing his sword upwards into the unprotected chest. He stepped back again, watching the body crumple back into the darkness. A shriek sounded from the far side of the hut as another point of resistance was extinguished. Dubnus moved swiftly past him, stepping over the sprawled body of his kill, and headed away into the darkness. Marcus followed, through a wooden archway and into a smaller hut, this one lit by a candle in whose puddle of light huddled a woman and her three children. Dubnus grabbed a soldier, pushing him at the terrified group.
'Watch them. Kill them if they try to escape.'
On the hut's far side, barely illuminated by the candle, was a heavy door, secured by a bar. Dubnus tossed away the bar and heaved the door open, then ducked away as a wooden bowl flew past his ear. A cultured female voice spat Latin imprecations at them from the darkness within.
'Come on then, you bastards, come and get me!'
Dubnus backed away from the door, gesturing to Marcus to try his luck. Marcus peered around the frame, quite unable to make out anything in the dark.
'Chosen, get me some light. Ma'am, we are the Ninth Century of the First Tungrian Cohort, Imperial Roman Auxiliary forces. You're free …'
A slight scraping movement inside the room made him duck instinctively, but the wooden cup caught him neatly under the eye, making stars flash before him for an instant.
'Jupiter! Where's that bloody light? Captured Roman citizen or not, if you throw one more thing at me I'll …'
Dubnus ducked back into the hut with a blazing torch, careful not to let it catch at the straw roofing. Marcus sheathed his sword and took the light, holding it carefully in front of him as he stepped back into the doorway.
'Take a good look. Armour, helmet, shield. I am a Roman soldier. Satisfied?'
The woman stayed where she was, crouched behind a small knife in the far corner of her cell. Her dark hair was in disarray, straggling across a dirty face, out of which shone piercing green eyes above a snub nose and small mouth. Her chin, wobbling slightly as she fought back the tears, was delicately pointed. She was dressed in a woollen shift and little else, her feet crusted with scabs from previous cuts and scrapes, her clothes and shoes presumably stolen on her capture.
'Very well, suit yourself. We'll leave you here for the blue-noses to find when the fire brings them running.'
He turned away, winking at Dubnus.
'No! Wait!'
He opened his mouth to invite her out of the cell, just as a sudden scream sounded from outside the hut. Dubnus chose the fastest way out of the structure, hacking fiercely at the wall to make a small gap through which he burst in a shower of dried mud and horsehair into the night. In his wake Marcus drew his sword, shouting at the soldier already guarding the still-terrified family to watch the woman as well. Outside, the fighting had already all but ended with two of the 9th's men down, one not moving, and half a dozen native men in rough woollens sprawled in the light of Dubnus's torch. Two remaining enemy were falling back under the advance of a dozen of Marcus's men, through whose line Dubnus charged in a blaze of light, tossing the torch at one of them even as he ran another through with his sword. Leaving the sword buried in the dying man's guts, he ripped the axe from his belt and hurled it into the distracted tribesman's throat, a froth of blood sheeting out from the wound as the man dropped to his knees, then pitched headlong to the ground. Marcus grabbed the nearest man that wasn't vomiting, demanding to know where the barbarians, clearly too well equipped to be farm peasants, had come from.
The soldier, still wide eyed from sudden combat, pointed vaguely out into the darkness. His voice shook with fear, rising as if a shriek was waiting to explode from his body.
'Came from out there. Might be more!'
Marcus took the man by the throat, pinching his windpipe hard to get his attention and putting his face in close.
'Steady! There aren't any more of them or they'd be all over us by now. Dubnus, get these men ready to probe forward!'
He looked at the wounded soldier, seeing a great dark stain blacken the man's right legging above the knee, a bloody spear lying near him. The man lay back against the cold earth, his eyes closing as if to sleep.
'Bandage carrier!'
A calm voice spoke behind him, assured in its tone.
'I'll treat him. You concentrate on doing your job.'
He turned to find the woman at his arm, her eyes locked on the fallen soldier.
'You …?'
'He's going to die, Centurion; the wound has pierced the great artery. Let me comfort his last few moments.'
He turned away in wonder, pushing a pair of soldiers towards her and telling them to watch over her, and get her a cloak, then stalked off to find Dubnus.
'Chosen, are these men ready to scout forward?'
'Yes, sir, I …'
'Good, then go and organise the searching of the farm and get the rest of the century ready to move out. We'll be back inside ten minutes.'
Dubnus stared at him hard in the gloom, then turned away to his task. Marcus looked his men over. Most of three tent parties, twenty-five men, all looking jumpy enough to run if a small boy with a wooden sword came out of the darkness.
'Right, we're going forward to look for signs of where those barbarians came from. We're going to move in a line, and I want you to look for anything that might give us a clue as to what a party of warriors was doing hanging around a latrine like this.'
That got a laugh at least.
'Form a line, two-foot spacing, and follow me. Oh, and by the way …'
They stared at him, a mixture of curiosity and dread distorting their faces.
'… you won that one, yes? Be proud of yourselves, you're all warriors now.'
He ignored the fact that half of them had probably stood watching in amazement when the fighting started. That was for those that had actually fought to take advantage of later. What he needed now was for them to take courage and, for the most part, they did, some of them actually standing taller under the praise.
He led them forward, using his drawn sword to feel ahead into the darkness, a tinge of purple in the east betraying the approach of sunrise, only an hour away. Not a good time to delay, in the face of an enemy of unknown strength and disposition. Fifty paces brought them to a fence, which Marcus vaulted with a bravado he was far from feeling, grateful to hear the grunts and thuds of his men crossing the obstruction even as he hissed at them for silence. Ten paces past the barrier he heard a tiny sound, a scraping rustle against the ground that made him duck into his shield and advance the sword, wrist cocked arena-style, ready to strike. A heavy breath puffed against his cheek, making him jump backwards in shock, a muted bellow of greeting bringing his heart into his throat.
The soldiers started to laugh, one of them walking forward to get a better look.
'Cattle, sir. Lots of them!'
Marcus sheathed his sword in disgust, taking a closer look. The animals jostled around them, hoping for food. The ox that had startled him crowded in closest, nudging at his hands with its massive snout, like an overgrown mastiff, and his heart lightened as he realised that the biggest threat was being trampled if the animal thought there might be fodder somewhere behind him. Beasts like these became used to being pampered, hand fed with the best food that could be found for them, anything to make them fatter and glossier for the day when the army's purchasing officer came to call. Children tended to get the job of looking after them, and, as children do, ended up domesticating them into pets. He sighed at the thought, and how his men, many of them the children of the local farms on both sides of the Wall, might react to what he already knew was his only course of action.
'Very well, farm boy, they seem to like you well enough. Take a rough count and let me know how many there are. You, get me some light. You, get the chosen and bring him here, quickly!'
Dubnus arrived just as the count was completed, roughly fifty fully grown animals standing silently in the dark field. Dubnus stroked his beard.
'I left two tent parties guarding the farm. Those enemy troops must have been guarding these, heard our noise and ran into our men. There's flour in the farm, enough for thousands of loaves, and big hearths built into the walls, firewood too, and pine pitch and staves for making torches, lots of jars. Fifty oxen are enough to feed ten thousand men. This is a supply dump, waiting for a warband the size of a legion …'
He stared sadly at the cattle, their breath steaming in the torchlight. Marcus nodded agreement. But where was the enemy – within marching distance and hungry for supplies before they went at the Wall, or was this just a contingency, an option prepared for an eventuality that might not come to pass? They looked at each other, sharing a moment of understanding.
'How many jars of pitch?'
'Enough.'
'Very well, let's get it over with.'
The chosen nodded, then shook his head ruefully.
'War makes for unhappy tasks …'
He swung to face the waiting troops.
'Odd-numbered tent parties, fetch firewood from the barn. Three loads each, bring them here to me. Even numbers, to me.'
The slaughter was grimly efficient, farm-raised soldiers reluctantly leading the oxen out of the enclosure one at a time, to be greeted by a party of the stronger men, who gently penned each beast in their ranks, using gentle hands and words to soothe the animals. Dubnus and two of the older soldiers, one of them a butcher's apprentice in his youth, all of them bloody spectres after the first few animals, calmed each animal further with soft words, then dispatched each one with a swift twisting thrust of their long knives beneath the massive jaws. The soldiers dragged each fresh corpse away with ropes taken from the farm, building a pyre of their bodies with the firewood piled around them. Soon they too were liberally streaked with the animals' blood, as it worked deep into scalps and fingernails.
The man who had first gone forward into the herd, gently touching and caressing the oxen as he counted them, turned away and wept at the spectacle. To Marcus's astonishment, not only did his colleagues keep a respectful distance until his eyes were dry again, but Dubnus wrapped a bloody arm around his bony shoulders and spoke a few private words of comfort. After a while, tired of the smell of the animals' blood, Marcus went back down to the farm buildings while the cull was completed, finding the Roman woman sitting quietly, the dead soldier's head cradled in her lap while the men set to watch over her squatted on either side. She looked up at Marcus, her dirty face streaked with dried tears.
'He regained consciousness for a few moments. He called on Brigantia to take his spirit …'
She sniffed quietly.
'Thank you for staying with him.'
She stood, gently placing the dead man's head on his shield.
'Centurion …?'
'Valerius Aquila.'
The response was automatic, the word hanging in the air between them as her eyebrows rose with interest, visible in dawn's first light.
'A famous name in my childhood. Your family are a powerful force in Rome.'
'No more, lady, it seems. You're a native Roman?'
'Until I was thirteen, and my father was posted to the Wall. So how does the son of a famous family come to be an auxiliary officer, rather than choosing to serve with the legions …'
Her voice came to a stop as his response sank in. Marcus bent closer, whispering in her ear.
'I'd be grateful if we spoke no more of my former status until we have the privacy for a frank conversation.'
'I see. But I …'
A soldier ran up to them, his armour crusted with blood, saluting respectfully with more than half an eye on the woman's body.
'Centurion, the chosen says to tell you that the cull's finished. We're ready to burn them.'
Her eyes ignited with fury, scalding Marcus with their sudden flare of anger.
'Not the oxen. Tell me it isn't the oxen!'
He marched stony faced back up the hill, the woman running at his shoulder. When she saw the lifeless humps of flesh littering the mist-wreathed ground her anger was kindled anew. She rounded on Marcus with a snarl that made the soldiers closest to her step back involuntarily, their minds jerked back to distant memories of angry mothers.
'You bastards! Every one of those cattle represented life or death to a crofting family, and you've slaughtered them without a second thought.'
Dubnus stepped forward, interposing himself between them before Antenoch had a chance to take umbrage.
'These cattle were either taken or purchased from the crofters to feed a barbarian warband. Either way, we're denying food to the enemy.'
He turned away, accepting a torch from one of the soldiers sadly staring at the scene.
'Pour on the pitch!'
A dozen men hefted heavy jars, pulling their stoppers and pouring the sticky, viscous pitch, half liquid, half solid, over the dead animals, then repeated the act with fresh jars, until the pungent aroma spread across the field. More men stepped up with further jars, pouring until the fumes made Marcus's eyes sting and water. Dubnus stepped up to the nearest corpse, muttering a swift prayer under his breath as he lowered his torch to the dead animal's sticky fur. The pitch smoked for a long moment before catching fire, the flames slowly spreading across the pile of dead animals. The flames sent a pungent scent of roasting hair to assault their nostrils, the 9th's soldiers standing in reverential silence at the destruction of such great wealth. Smoke from the burning beasts created an artificial fog to replace that burnt away by the heat, making the men cough, and cover their faces with their sweat rags. The century watched the growing blaze for a few moments more, every man taking a drink of beer from jars found in the farmhouse as reward for their efforts with a prim-looking Cyclops posted to ensure that nobody drank more than would be prudent so far into unfriendly country. Once everyone had taken their share, and several had been turned away with bristling indignation by the beer's custodian, Marcus shook himself from his tired reverie.
'Time we weren't here. Century, form ranks for the march!'
Men ran to assume formation, transforming chaos into ordered ranks with a practised ease, half a dozen men holding the halters of ponies taken from the farm's enclosure. Marcus turned to the woman, his smile tight lipped with fatigue and residual anger at her outburst.
'Well, ma'am, would you care to ride or walk?'
She glared at him, then stalked away and mounted one of the ponies.
'Ninth Century, at the quick march … march!'
They moved quickly down to the farm. The flour intended for loaves to feed the oncoming warband had been stacked in the farm's main room, and doused with more jars of the aromatic amber pine pitch, ready for burning. Dubnus tossed a torch in through the door with a sad smile, then led them back up the hill on the far side in grim silence. At the crest he halted them temporarily, turning them to look back into the valley as the first rays of the rising sun lit the hilltops around them. The reek from the burning oxen and the newly fired farmhouse was rising in a thick dark column that would be visible for twenty miles. If there were a warband heading for the farm, its leader would shortly be doubling his efforts to reach the scene, and probably throwing whatever he had by way of mounted scouts forward at their best speed to investigate the reason for the fire. Marcus turned to face his men.
'Ninth Century, this is a major victory. There's almost certainly a large enemy warband within a day or two's march of this place, probably marching in the expectation of replenishing their supplies in preparation for an attack on the Wall. Perhaps even on the Hill … What they will find, thanks to us, is their meat destroyed, the pitch for their torches burned and their flour gone up in flames with it. Unless they have an alternative source of supply, their leader will be forced to fall back on more friendly territory in search of food.
'Now …'
He paused for effect, aware that every eye was locked on him, their sensitivities about the destruction of so many fine oxen forgotten. The responsibility of bringing the century back to its parent unit intact weighed him down for a moment.
'… now we have to think of ourselves. There might well be scouts heading for the farm even as we speak, quite possibly in numbers that would overwhelm us on open ground. My intention is that we should make a forced march for the Wall, and get it between us and any potential threat.'
He grinned at them wolfishly.
'Now's the time that we get some return on all that training. We'll eat breakfast once we're back on the civilised side of the Wall. We move in two minutes, so make fast and get ready to run.'
The soldiers set to work, tightening fastenings and making sure that their boots were secure. Once the century was on the move, any man who dropped an item, or whose footwear loosened, would be forced to drop out, then run twice as hard to catch up again. He pulled Dubnus to one side, speaking quietly in his ear.
'We need to know what happens here in the next couple of hours. Choose a good distance runner, share his kit out and have him find a sheltered spot to watch the fire. He waits until mid-morning, then pulls out and follows us back to the Wall.'
The chosen nodded silently, walking away into the century's activity. The morning air was a cool relief as the 9th jogged towards the Wall; it was too early for the sun to be uncomfortable. Looking back, even ten miles from the farm, Marcus was amazed at the size of the pillar of smoke that rose into the heavens, shearing suddenly to the west where it met a high air current thousands of feet above the ground. He smiled wryly at the probable effect of the sign on his own side of the Wall, and what it might be mistaken for. At least he could expect to meet friendly faces once the 9th had crossed the border. Scout units would in all likelihood be racing for the spot from both east and west.
They reached their original crossing point at mid-morning, and set up a temporary camp on the southern side of the Wall. Marcus gave the command for field rations to be opened, and luxuriated in dried meat and the last of the previous day's bread issue, with a little pickle from a jar that Antenoch had slipped into his pack. Climbing the rampart to survey the ground to their north, he saw that the pillar of smoke was lightening, the fire presumably having consumed the farm buildings. Its top stretched, a dirty stain in the clear blue sky, for a dozen miles or so to the west, slowly dispersing in the gentle winds. The ground in front of the Wall climbed gently for a few hundred years before falling away towards a distant line of trees. From the ground on that slope, he mused, it would be impossible to see the Wall.
He made his way back to the ground, and walked over to where the woman was taking a solitary breakfast, still guarded by the same soldiers who had shared her vigil over the dying man at dawn. Dismissing the men, Marcus squatted on to his haunches when she showed no sign of standing to meet him. Her face, seen for the first time in the daylight, bore the marks of a heavy beating within the past week, bruises past their first lividity still evident as shadows on her cheekbones and jawline.
'Ma'am, we've had no formal introduction …'
She looked up at him with a quizzical gaze, then offered her hand. He noticed the wedding ring.
'Your husband must be worried …'
'I doubt that very much. He's the reason I'm here.'
He caught the tone in her voice, and skirted away from the subject.
'Marcus Valerius Aquila at your service … although that isn't a name I've spoken to anybody else these last three months.'
She smiled for the first time, perhaps at his formality.
'When I left Rome the Valerius Aquila brothers were among the most respected senators in the city. My father spoke of them frequently. What relation are you to them?'
His eyes must have clouded, since she reached out a hand to touch his arm with an unnerving concern.
'I'm sorry …'
He smiled at her, feeling another layer of his mental scar tissue fall away.
'That's all right … It's just that you're the first Roman to ask me that question. I always wondered what I'd do when the time came – lie, and protect myself, or tell the truth and honour the dead.'
He took a deep breath, grateful that she waited patiently for him to gather himself.
'My father was Senator Appius Valerius Aquila. He fell victim to a palace intrigue led by the praetorian prefect, and, from what I've been told, my entire family was murdered to prevent any danger of attempts at vengeance. I was a praetorian centurion …'
Her eyes widened momentarily as the irony dawned on her, then softened with sympathy.
'… my father managed to bribe a tribune to send me away on a false imperial errand to this country. He told me that I was carrying a message for the legatus in Yew Grove, but it was really a last message from my father …'
'I'm sorry.'
'Thank you. I escaped two attempts to finish the job by killing me, thanks to the efforts of two men I count my as closest friends, and now I fight under the name Marcus Tribulus Corvus. Only five other men know of this deception and so now, lady, you hold the power of life and death over me. A simple denunciation will be enough to have me imprisoned and executed within days. Won't you return the compliment by telling me your name?'
She smiled briefly, her face lighting up with the expression.
'With honour, Centurion. I am Felicia Clodia Drusilla, daughter of Octavius Clodius Drusus and wife of Quintus Dexter Bassus, the prefect commanding the Second Tungrian Cohort at Vindolanda. A name with which I would far rather not have fouled my mouth!'
She glowered at the ground for a moment.
'Forgive me, Centurion. An unhappy marriage is neither your business nor your concern.'
'Except, perhaps, when it results in the abduction and … mistreatment of a Roman citizen?'
She laughed again, a strange reaction in someone who had endured the torments attributed to her captivity by their first informant.
'I wasn't mistreated in any particular way, and these bruises predate my time in captivity. I probably would have been raped senseless if the warband had arrived before your rescue, but those people were more embarrassed than excited by my presence. I ran away from my husband's fort when his cruelty and violence towards me became too much to bear. I persuaded my serving maid to disguise me as one of her own once we were out of sight of the fort. We slipped through one of the mile fort gates a week ago, and were caught by the master of that farm a day later, heading for my maid's home village. He locked me up, probably wanted to force himself on me, but his wife was too fiercely opposed, said it would bring the legions down on them. I think she took pity on the state of my face.'
'She might well have been jealous too.'
She smiled again, ruefully this time.
'Thank you for your gallantry. They still hadn't decided what to do with me when you arrived. What made you come?'
'We captured the husband spying on our fort at the Hill. One of his men told us that he'd already …'
He paused, embarrassed at the word's implication. Touched by his embarrassment, she put her hand on his arm.
'I'd guess he boasted in public to maintain his reputation. I …'
A shout from the Wall's top grabbed Marcus's attention. Dubnus beat him to the ladder, the pair of them bundling breathlessly on to the flat surface atop the mile fort's structure. In the middle distance, half a mile or so from their gate, a single man was running across the wind-blown grass.
'That's our scout!'
Dubnus nodded grimly.
'Yes, and he's running too fast for my liking …'
He turned back to look down at the resting soldiers.
'Ninth Century, stand to! Fighting order.'
Even as he spoke, a dozen horsemen broke from the cover of the trees to the north, another mile or so behind the running figure.
Dubnus hurled himself down the ladder, while Marcus scanned the distant trees for any more movement. He turned to look down at the century, each man holding his shield and javelins at the parade rest, their faces filthy from the night's impromptu camouflage of dirt, their armour and bodies covered with dried blood. Get them moving first, his instincts told him, and then explain the dangers.
'First tent party, open the gate!'
Marcus slid down the ladder, drawing his sword, which flashed in the sunlight.
'Follow me!'
He ran through the open gate, turning to watch his men charge through the opening four abreast. Jogging backwards and watching their faces, he saw fear and determination written in equal proportions. He gestured with the sword, catching their attention with its flashing arc.
'Ninth Century, we have a comrade in danger. There may be more cavalry lurking in ambush, waiting until we're clear of the Wall. If there are, we might all die seeking to rescue one man, but think how he feels seeing us coming out to him. We're going out to him, we're going to bring him back with us, or they'll have to cut every one of us down to take any one of us.'
More than a few faces stared at him in disbelief, though their legs kept them moving away from the Wall's shelter. He sensed the situation slipping away from him, and felt the first touch of panic grip his mind. Suddenly he had no words to reassure or embolden them. He turned his back on them, mutely waving the sword forward in another flashing arc that pointed to the enemy cavalry galloping across the grass. From the century's rear another voice sounded, deep and harsh, booming across the open space.
'Ninth Century … at the run … Run!'
Where the appeal to reason had faltered, the whiplash of command took the soldiers and threw them forward into a headlong run without any conscious thought process. The century put its collective head back and ran, the ranks opening out slightly as men opened their legs for the task. Marcus looked gratefully back at Dubnus, but the big chosen simply waved him forward to do his job, and in that second he understood and embraced what he had to do if they were to succeed, the adrenalin kick giving his words an unaccustomed savagery.
'Run, you bastards, no fucking horse boy beats me to one of my own!'
Grabbing a deep breath, he ran to catch the front rank, then matched strides with them and started to accelerate, pulling them out across the murderously empty ground in a race with the barbarian cavalry. They crested the gentle ridge and ran down the slope on its far side to reach the exhausted scout with seconds to spare, bundling him into the hollow square that Marcus had shouted for as he fell into their arms. The small cavalry band, shaggy-haired men on hardy ponies with long spears and round wooden shields, simply parted to either side of the square and rode around them, clearly not willing to tackle so many infantrymen readied in defensive formation. The 9th jeered and waved their spears, shouting abuse at the circling horsemen, venting their relief at the stand-off. As he stood in their midst watching the native cavalry circle impotently, Marcus felt a pull at his shoulder.
'Oh, Brigantia! Gods help us …'
Marcus looked at the point to which Antenoch pointed, his face suddenly pale with the sickening realisation that there was in reality no need for the relatively few horsemen riding round their square to take them on. A hundred and more mounted barbarians were breaking from the trees in a dark wave. |
Wounds of Honor | Anthony Riches | [
"historical fiction"
] | [
"Rome",
"war",
"Empire"
] | Chapter 12 | Marcus stared across the half-mile that separated the 9th from the forest's dark bulk, watching the enemy irregular cavalry trot briskly from their hiding places under the trees' canopy. Forming a rough line, the horsemen accelerated to a canter, starting up the gentle slope towards the century's fragile square. He looked about him at his men, their attention focused on the oncoming cavalry, their faces fixed in disbelief at the cruel twist in their fortunes. Even Dubnus seemed diminished, leaning on his pole as if suddenly tired, and for a second the hope went out of the young officer. He stared beyond his men, at the smaller group of horsemen that had drawn away to wait a short distance upslope of their position, just short of the slope's crest, close enough for them to see their mocking grins. Then, with an intensity that shocked him as much as the men he commanded, his temper ignited, firing a burning fury into his voice.
'Ninth Century, spear drill!'
A few men turned to look at him, their faces numb with the shock of their ambush by the horsemen, stoking the fire of his fury.
'Ninth Century, spear drill! Prepare to assault the horsemen to our rear!'
Dubnus came to life with a start, slapping the man next to him across the back.
'You heard the fucking officer. Spear drill!'
The century seemed to shiver for a moment, as if a powerful wind was blowing through the thin ranks, then snapped to attention. Dubnus's voice boomed again, stirring them with a fresh purpose.
'On the command form line, form a double line facing the front. Ready … Form line!'
The 9th moved quickly, months of drill practice taking over and dropping them into position without conscious thought. Within twenty seconds they were drawn up in line facing the still-distant oncoming horsemen, their spears held ready to throw. Marcus looked behind him, seeing that the smaller group of cavalry was still in place on the slope to their rear, watching curiously as their enemies apparently abandoned the small degree of safety given by their shields, but still not bothering to do any more than sit and watch. As the last men moved into their places, Marcus drew his sword, turned and pointed it up the slope.
'About face. Charge!'
The tribesmen's ponies reared in surprise as the line ran towards them, every man bellowing at the top of his voice. The more skilled horsemen among the Britons managed to wrestle their mounts out of place, and ride away up the slope, but the majority were too slow, struggling to control their beasts. As the soldiers' battle cry died away, Marcus shouted the last command necessary to launch his attack.
'Throw!'
The line of men threw almost simultaneously, exhaling a collective whoosh of breath as their spears flew from straining arms, a short vicious arc of wood and metal that slammed a rain of razor-sharp steel into the milling horsemen. Men and horses were impaled by the missiles, their screams blending into a cacophony of pain.
'Swords!'
The 9th, barely breaking step, charged in over the fallen, stabbing at men and animals with the carefree ferocity of victory, offering no mercy to those unable to run. A short, frenzied melee ended the fight, leaving half a dozen soldiers with assorted flesh wounds while almost a dozen of the dead and dying tribesmen and their mounts were scattered across the tiny battlefield.
Marcus turned back to the larger body of horse, their pace accelerating at the sight of their fellows' slaughter, and now barely four hundred paces distant.
'Form square.'
His men nodded grimly at the quiet command, retrieving their spears and moving swiftly into their allotted places, ready to receive the enemy charge and die. As the square formed, Marcus looked about him again, noticing with surprise the few survivors of his men's vicious attack, having galloped away over the slope's crest, now flying past the century in the direction of their fellow horsemen at a breakneck pace. As they passed the oncoming mass of horsemen, a couple turned back and pointed back up the slope, shouting at their fellows.
The tribal cavalry faltered, seemingly losing purpose for a second, and in the moment of their hesitation a sound came to Marcus's ears that puzzled him. It was a distant rumble, as if thunder was grumbling somewhere beyond the clear horizon, but apparent as much through his boot soles as his ears. The rumble swelled in volume, making the soldiers' heads turn as they realised that it was coming from behind them, from the direction of the Wall.
With a sudden explosion of movement and noise, a wall of horsemen came over the crest and charged down the slope, parting to either side of the 9th's tiny square. Armoured cavalrymen bent over their horses' necks and thrust long spears towards the tribesmen, who had already turned to ride for their lives, fighting horses rooted with fear by the noise of the oncoming wave of heavy cavalry. A decurion rose in his saddle, lifting his spear and shouting encouragement to his men as they passed the 9th, their shouted response lifting the hairs on Marcus's neck with its bloodlust.
'Petriana! Petrianaaa!'
The cavalry swept past the 9th's square and hammered into the rearmost of the enemy riders while the century stood in amazement, watching the tidal wave of horsemen wash across the open space between the crest and the forest. A scattered detritus of dead and wounded barbarian riders and horses studded the ground over which they passed. The mass of native horsemen became thinner by the second, their blown horses easy prey for the stronger and fresher Roman mounts. Spears were thrust into the backs and necks of the fleeing Britons, making their backs arch at the moment of impact.
A group of horsemen cantered up to the tiny defensive square, pennants below their spear heads fluttering prettily in the strong breeze blowing across the open ground. A long dragon standard, twisting and flapping in wind-blown serpentine twists, rode proudly above the formation, which opened to allow a magnificent grey stallion to approach the 9th. Like those of its fellows', the beast's eyes and long face were protected by a decorated armoured plate that curved around the snout, vision enabled by a delicate pattern of holes drilled into the half-globe bulges over each eye. Its rider searched the ranks, age-wrinkled eyes peering from beneath the peak of a heavily decorated helmet, while the riders of his bodyguard rode out to either side, watching their surroundings with professional wariness. Marcus stepped out from the 9th's ranks, snapping a salute at the prefect while he admired the man's heavily muscled bronze cuirass, secured by the customary linen band. The senior officer jumped down from his horse, passing the reins to an attending trooper before returning the salute. He stared at Marcus with unveiled curiosity, turning to survey the slaughter without any change of expression, speaking without returning his eyes to the young officer, his voice a patrician rasp.
'Y'were lucky that we happened along, young centurion, or your head would be decorating some hairy fellow's spear point by now. I'm Licinius, prefect commanding the Petriana cavalry wing. Your unit?'
Marcus stiffened to attention and saluted.
'Ninth Century, First Tungrian Cohort, Prefect!'
The other man turned back to look at him again, one eyebrow slightly raised. Marcus met his stare directly, noting the experience lines that ran down from either side of his nose and his furrowed forehead. The older man was, he calculated, soldier through and through, an experienced prefect with two or three previous postings behind him before being favoured with such a prestigious cavalry command.
'Tungrian, eh? Y'don't sound Tungrian, y'sound Roman, youngster. Look it too. So, how does the Ninth Century of the First Tungrians come to be all on its own on the wrong side of the Wall, getting ready to die on the spears of several times its strength of enemy horse, eh?'
Marcus told him the story of the last two days in quick, economical sentences that reduced their achievements to their bare bones, while the prefect watched dispassionately as his men dismounted to finish off the wounded and take souvenirs. He reached the slaughter of the oxen before the other man interrupted.
'Wait a moment … Decurion!'
An officer detached himself from the waiting troop of horsemen, trotting across to his commander and saluting precisely.
'Sir?'
'Dispatch a message rider to Cauldron Pool, message to read …'
The troop commander fished out his writing tablet, the stylus poised over its wax.
'From Petriana Wing. Rescued First Tungrian Ninth under barbarian horse attack to north of Wall at mile fort twenty-seven. Debriefed centurion. Fifty-plus oxen found ten miles to north-east of the Hill. Cattle slaughtered and burned to deny enemy supply. Number of oxen and enemy horse suggest enemy warband ten to fifteen thousand strong in vicinity, now likely to be falling back for alternative supply. Attack on Wall in this sector temporarily unlikely. Forward to commander Sixth Legion immediately. Ends. Give the rider a twenty-man escort. Go!'
The officer turned away to his task.
'Carry on, Centurion.'
Marcus completed the story, explaining their return to the barbarian side of the Wall in defence of their comrade. The prefect pulled his helmet off and tossed it to a trooper, running a hand through his thick head of hair. Streaks of grey ran through the black. After a moment of thought he turned back to Marcus and his waiting soldiers, nodding with pursed lips.
'Well, Centurion, either Fortuna herself smiles down on you, or you're an exceptionally competent officer. Either way, you have a century to be proud of. Not many infantrymen of my experience would have taken the risk your men did in seeking to safeguard your friend. I salute you all!'
And, to Marcus's amazement, he did just that, clapping him on the shoulder in congratulation.
'I would regard it as a privilege to escort you and your men to Cauldron Pool, and to take a cup of wine with you once you've had time to get your unit settled. Trumpeter, sound the recall, those layabouts have had long enough to take every blasted head on the battlefield. Now, young man, I'm intrigued by your accent. Tell me more about yourself.'
Marcus, caught in the full glare of the man's piercing intellect, and unprepared for another explanation as to his origins, thought frantically. Antenoch stepped forward neatly, saluting with a gusto that raised eyebrows throughout the 9th.
'Prefect, sir, excuse me, but our centurion has omitted to inform you that there is a young Roman lady waiting for us at the Wall gate. Your eminence might want to detail an escort to her, to ensure her personal safety in these rough circumstances?'
The prefect nodded sagely, a faint smile creasing his lips.
'Quite so, soldier, and right of you to point out the fact. Let us get back on the road to the east, Centurion, and perhaps you and I can talk further in the more relaxed atmosphere of Cauldron Pool.'
He remounted, pulled his helmet back on and rode away, spurring the magnificent grey into a canter back towards the Wall, his bodyguard wheeling their horses to follow.
By late afternoon Legatus Sollemnis was forced to admit to himself that he felt more relaxed with the circumstances of his command than at any time in the past week. He relaxed in his chair while the 6th Legion's staff officers briefed him on the current situation and felt, for the first time in several days, as if a measure of control over the whole awful mess had come his way. The sounds of tree-felling came distantly into the command tent, as his engineers laboured to perfect the field defences that would protect their flanks and rear, and reduce any frontal attack to a vulnerable crawl. With these defences, and the legion artillery commanding murderous firing arcs, his six thousand men could hold such a well-founded position at the forest's edge against thee times their number.
At length Titus Tigidius Perennis took centre stage as the legion's senior tribune, moving to the map and pointing to their position astride the road to Yew Grove ten miles south of the Wall, then to the auxiliary battle group's location at Cauldron Pool.
'So, Legatus, in summary, we face a loose enemy formation of about fifteen thousand men. Our current dispositions limit the enemy warband from doing very much other than burning a few garrison forts. If Calgus attacks south to attempt a breakthrough towards Yew Grove, we can provide the defensive anvil while Prefect Licinius and his auxiliary cohorts, plus the Petriana and Augustan cavalry wings, swing the hammer into their rear. On the other hand, if he tries a push to the west, the auxiliaries can hold him if they choose the right ground, and we can break from our defensive position and do the hammering. Either way, if he moves to attack either force we'll have him straddled like a Robbers counter, ripe for a battle of annihilation. Our good fortune in the discovery and destruction of the supplies for their presumed western force, and the Petriana's annihilation of their cavalry, has made Prefect Licinius's rear safe for the time being. The only question now is how we should capitalise on this development.'
Sollemnis nodded, staring intently at the map in front of him.
'Yes, we seem to have Calgus in a trap of his failed strategy. Without his western force he's unable to remove Licinius's threat to his flank, and effectively unable to move either west or south without dire risk. And to attack to the east would be both largely pointless and risk hemming himself in between Wall and sea. I think we have him, gentlemen, or at least we've balanced the situation enough to have stopped his rampage for the time being. My opinion is that we keep sufficient measure of the initiative just by digging in where we are, and so forcing Calgus to decide what to do next. If he attacks he puts himself at risk of being assaulted from two sides; if he waits he plays into our hands by bringing the Second and Twentieth Legions into play. Any other opinions?'
His First Spear spoke up.
'I agree, Legatus. We must stay defensive until the other legions arrive. Fighting from behind our temporary defences, with our artillery positioned to support the line, we can hold his barbarians off for long enough to let the auxiliaries strike to flank and rear. Moving forward would be suicide with only our six thousand spears.'
Perennis nodded his support.
'I agree with the First Spear, with one small addition. When Calgus moves back to the north, as he is bound to do given his position, we should follow up smartly and get north of the Wall. I have a perfect location for a forward camp in mind once we're free to advance.'
Sollemnis stood with the decision clear.
'Very well, we hold what we have for now, and push the decision on to Calgus. Let's see what he does with several barbarian tribes baying for our heads but no safe way to give them what they crave.'
The road to the fort at Cauldron Pool was uneventful enough, a gentle stroll by the standard of their regular exertions, but the spectacle of the cavalrymen riding easily to either side, heads dangling from saddle horns and spears, eventually started to rankle. Morban rattled his standard at the 9th Century, leading them off in a spirited rendition of a favourite marching song.
'Oh, the, cavalry don't use latrines.
They piss in their leather britches,
They drag their arse in the tickly grass,
Those dirty sons of bitches!'
Marcus gave the decurion riding alongside him a wry smile as the song progressed into a description of the sexual habits of the cavalry, guessing that he'd probably heard it a few times before.
After a while, as clouds rolled over the landscape and threatened rain, they concentrated on covering ground, eager to rejoin the cohort at Cauldron Pool and get the chance to eat hot food. When darkness fell, finding them still a good five miles from their destination, the horsemen lit torches and illuminated their way, triumphantly escorting them to the walls of the fort, where the First Spear was waiting for them in front of twenty men with torches. He stepped forward, gesturing them to follow him into the temporary defences of a six-foot-high turf wall, within which burned the watch fires of dozens of centuries. The 9th marched into the Tungrian section of the camp with their heads held high, to be greeted by a respectful silence from their peers as they paraded.
Marcus stepped out in front of the century, turned on the spot and saluted the waiting chief centurion, who returned the salute with a grim face.
'First Spear, Ninth Century reporting back from detached duty.'
Sextus Frontinius stared back at him, still deadpan, before speaking.
'Ninth Century, if the reports we have received of your activities are correct, you have reflected much pride on the cohort. For now you will be tired, and in need of a wash, food and rest. Your colleagues will show you where your tents have been erected, and will have washing water and hot food ready for you. Morning parade is cancelled for the Ninth Century, you will parade at midday before lunch. Without your current coating of blood and soil, that is. Dismissed.'
He turned to Marcus, putting a hand on his arm.
'Not you, Centurion. You come with me.'
He took Marcus through the darkened camp, threading between the leather tents until they reached the headquarters tent, three times the size of those designed to house a ten-man tent party. Inside, dimly lit by the guttering flames of oil lamps, a large wooden table dominated the space, scrolls neatly stacked across its width indicating that it would be a hive of administrative activity during daylight hours. In one corner a hanging screen rendered the prefect's quarters private, a pair of fully armed soldiers from the 5th Century providing immediate protection for their commanding officer. Frontinius coughed discreetly, the slight noise summoning his superior from behind the screen.
Equitius nodded to them both, indicating the seats that clustered around a low table in another corner of the tent.
'Centurion, news of your exploits travels before you. If I am to believe the dispatch relayed to me by the local prefect, your century, in the course of a simple search mission, found and destroyed not only a barbarian scouting party, but fifty head of cattle that had apparently been gathered to feed an enemy warband. Is this correct?'
Marcus nodded, dropping wearily into the proffered chair.
'Yes, sir.'
Frontinius remained silent while the prefect pulled at his beard in a distracted manner.
'I was afraid of that. You present us, young man, with something of a quandary. On one hand, you are still, had you forgotten, a wanted man, with a hefty price on your head. On the other, you are the hero of the hour, responsible for turning back an enemy warband, which might well have been ten or fifteen thousand strong, for the loss of two men. Prefect Licinius is singing your praises to anybody that will listen, and has already sent me a formal request for an interview with you. Probably wants to offer you a position with the Petriana, something better fitted to the well-bred young man you so obviously are … And there's the main problem. Once the euphoria wears off it'll take him about five minutes to start asking all sorts of difficult questions, and it doesn't take a top-class mind to see where that'll end up. If, however, I refuse him permission to speak to you, his questions will be addressed to a wider, and infinitely more dangerous, audience. I am still undecided as to my best course of action …'
Marcus nodded.
'Prefect, I've given it much thought in the last few hours. Perhaps I have a solution, for tomorrow at least.'
He spoke for a moment, gauging the other man's reaction. Equitius mulled over his idea briefly, nodding his assent.
'From first light, mind you. Let's not risk Prefect Licinius being an early riser. Very well, dismissed.'
Marcus and Frontinius stood to leave. Equitius turned away and then back again as a thought occurred to him.
'Oh, and Centurion …'
'Prefect?'
'Excellent work. Sleep well.'
Outside the tent, Frontinius put a hand on Marcus's shoulder to detain him. His eyes glinted in the torchlight, his face expressionless in the heavy shadows.
'You took your whole century back over the Wall to save the life of a single soldier?'
Marcus nodded soberly.
'Yes. In retrospect it seems a little far fetched, but yes, First Spear, I did.'
He waited for the storm. To his amazement, the older man looked at him strangely for a moment, nodding slowly.
'In the best traditions of the Tungrians, whether you knew it or not. Very well done, Centurion, very well done indeed.'
Marcus frowned.
'But what if I'd lost the whole century trying to save one man? I've thought of little else since it happened.'
Frontinius looked at him in the torchlight, shaking his head.
'There are two types of successful officer, those that do the right thing, and those that are born with Cocidius's favour. The latter can take audacious risks and get far better odds than just following the field manual. You're lucky, Centurion. Keep it that way.'
Antenoch woke Marcus before dawn, shaking insistently at his shoulder until the centurion stirred, swinging his feet from the camp bed and on to the floor.
'Dawn, centurion, and time you were dressed for the day. Here, drink this.
A beaker of warm honey, diluted by a substantial quantity of wine, opened Marcus's eyes well enough. The tent's interior, lit by a single lamp, was dark and oppressive, while a steady drumming on the tent's oiled leather roof puzzled his senses for a moment.
'Pissing down. A great day for serving out your penalty. The night watch took great delight in pointing out that it'll probably rain until midday at this rate when they woke me up. Fucking 2nd century.'
Marcus groaned softly, struggling to his feet. A swift wash in the bowl of water Antenoch had brought in with him enlivened his senses, while the rest of the honey drink warmed his stomach sufficiently to make the task of getting into uniform a welcome distraction from dwelling on the conditions outside. Antenoch helped him into his cloak, and then went to look out of the tent flap while Marcus took a final deep breath, resigned to being soaked to the skin within ten minutes of stepping out into the downpour.
'Your escort's here.'
Puzzled, he went to look through the flap. Outside, grinning happily through the rainswept grey morning, were four of the 9th's soldiers wrapped in their own cloaks, each man holding a wooden pole attached to some kind of hastily improvised wooden framework, across which was strung what looked suspiciously like the remains of a ten-man tent. The scout they had rescued the previous day was closest to the tent door, solemnly gesturing him under the shelter of their portable roof. Antenoch shook his head in amused wonder.
'Stupid bastards, spent half the night putting the bloody thing together. I told them that standing about in the rain all day might make you think twice about taking on five times our number of enemy horse next time the chance presents itself, but they insisted …'
Marcus walked out under the sheltering leather, shaking his head with speechless wonder. Cyclops, the one-eyed miscreant, freed one hand to salute.
'Where to, sir?'
Stirring himself, Marcus found his voice.
'To the headquarters tent … gentlemen, I really don't …'
Another of the soldiers, a gaunt-faced man with a heavy facial scar down one cheek, spoke up gruffly, holding up his right hand to contain Marcus's protest.
'The entire century wanted this, sir, so don't be worrying about us. There'll be another four men along in a while so's we can go and have a warm. Now, lads, on the command march, to the head shed, march!'
They paraded through the camp's empty streets, drawing amazed stares from the guards mounted at each century's section of the camp, men huddled together against the rain peering incredulously in the growing light, until they reached the headquarters tent. Frontinius peered through the tent door, stepping out into the rain with his eyes wide. The four soldiers stared resolutely at the lightening sky, while Marcus squirmed uneasily at the prospect of his superior's opinion. Having walked around the contraption once in complete silence, his immaculate boots beading with rain drops, the First Spear turned to address a nervous Marcus.
'I have to say that for the first time in twenty–two years of service I am quite genuinely amazed. You, Scarface, what's the meaning of this?'
'The Ninth Century cares for its own, sir. We won't be letting our young gentleman catch his death of cold …'
And he shut up, his face red with the pressure of having answered the cohort's senior soldier back.
'I see …'
Centurion and men waited with bated breath for the law to be stated.
'Nothing in the manual specifically states that an officer on administrative punishment can't be sheltered from heavy rain by four soldiers with a tent lashed to a wooden frame. Even if at least one of the soldiers concerned is famous throughout his cohort for holding the opinion that most officers aren't fit to scrape out the latrines after him …'
'Scarface' went an even deeper shade of red.
'… so, is there room for another under there?'
Marcus gestured to the space next to him. Ignoring the indignant eyes of the roof-bearers, Frontinius stepped in from the rain, taking his helmet off and shaking the drops from its bedraggled crest. He regarded Marcus with a sideways glance, sweeping a hand across his pale scalp to catch the odd raindrops gleaming there.
'And now, Centurion Two Knives, since you have me as a captive audience, you may tell me all about your exploits of yesterday.'
When Prefect Licinius appeared after breakfast, he too came up short at the sight of the rain cover. What put the honey in that particular cake, Morban later confided to Dubnus, was the fact that custody of the four poles was in the process of being transferred from one four-man group to another. The cavalryman had watched, speechless, while the eight men transferred the cover from one group to another with the precision of a legion parading its eagle. When the handover was finished, and the outgoing men had completed the effect by marching smartly around the corner of the headquarters tent before collapsing in stifled laughter, the prefect approached, taking in the silent centurion and his First Spear. The latter was happily chatting away about the fighting habits of their enemy, and affecting not to have noticed the senior officer.
'… whereas the warband, you see, is usually a one-shot weapon. The tribal leader points them in the right direction, whips them up into a frenzy, and then lets them run wild. Which can be a problem if they need to be turned around for any reason, since you can't just …'
He snapped to attention, shouting to Marcus and the roof-bearers to follow his example. Licinius, having thus been formally recognised, strolled forward, nodding to Frontinius and staring with visible envy at the mobile roof while rain beat at his oiled leather cape.
'At ease, First Spear.'
Frontinius relaxed, throwing the tribune an impeccable salute.
'Prefect Licinius, sir, welcome to the First Tungrian camp.'
The prefect returned the salute with casual ease, stepping close enough to gain some shelter from the incessant rain.
'First Spear Frontinius. Might one ask the purpose of this …?'
He waved an arm vaguely at the scene, raising an eyebrow at the sober-faced Frontinius.
'Prefect this centurion is under administrative punishment, one day's parade in full uniform and withdrawal of speech. For exceeding the remit of written orders specified by Prefect Equitius in that he took his century over the Wall to rescue one of his men and ended up having to be rescued by you.'
'And the prefect himself?'
'Out with four centuries, sir, patrolling down towards the North Road.'
'And this?'
He gestured again at the rain cover, its roof sagging slightly with the weight of water soaked into the oiled leather.
'Simple, sir. It would appear that this young officer has instilled sufficient pride in his men that they regard the punishment of one as a collective duty.'
The other man smiled gently, recognising the deflection of any comment he might have regarding the shelter's legal irregularity.
'I see. Very well, First Spear, please inform the centurion that I'm sorry to have missed the chance to meet him properly. The Petriana is ordered to conduct a reconnaissance in force to the west, to discover the exact dispositions of our blue-nosed friends. Doubtless we'll get another chance, though. Quite amazing …'
He turned and walked away, shaking his head in disbelief. Frontinius waited until he was out of sight, stepping out from beneath the rain cover and eyeing the steadily lightening clouds with a critical gaze.
'It'll have stopped within the hour. Very well, Centurion Two Knives, I hereby commute your punishment to confinement to your tent until dusk. Get some sleep; your century has the night guard. Doubtless the Prince will be keen to introduce you to the art of aggressive night patrolling …'
Marcus slept soundly, despite the noise of the camp, until Antenoch shook him awake again at sunset; he wolfed down a plate of cold meat and bread and went in search of his chosen man, closely followed by his clerk. Dubnus was detailing the guard roster for the night, counting the century off into tent parties and giving each one a part of the Tungrians' area of the camp to patrol. When he was finished, one last eight-man group of soldiers remained in front of the headquarters tent, a collection of older men, more than one bearing the scars of previous skirmishes. He spoke quietly into Marcus's ear.
'These are the best men for a night patrol, steadier than some of the others. We'll go over the Wall, up into the trees on the high ground, then wait and listen. This is a good camp, but we've used it many times before, so it ought to be known to the enemy. The tribes will have scouts out, and will try to infiltrate men in to watch the camp, perhaps even snatch a sentry or an officer from his tent. We hear them, we stalk them, and we kill them. Simple. You'll learn some new skills tonight. Morban can stand in as watch officer while we're out in the forest.'
He passed Marcus a thick wooden stave and a length of black cloth.
'Your cloak will hide you in the forest and keep you warm. Wrap the cloth around your head until your helmet's full, it'll keep your head warm and offer some protection if you get hit on the head. The club's a lot better for fighting in the dark than a sword, but the other side will be using clubs of their own.'
Turning to Antenoch, standing to one side with a large and distinctly non-regulation sword strapped across his back, he waved a hand dismissively.
'We won't need you tonight. Stay here, and guard your tent.'
Antenoch turned away impassively and disappeared into the surrounding shadows.
'I still don't trust him. Better if we leave him behind, and avoid the risk of a knife in the back.'
He led the party through the gap in the earth wall and up a shallow slope towards the dark treeline at a slow trot. As they reached the trees the patrol flattened themselves against the cold earth, waiting in silence for Dubnus to decide whether it was safe to move. Marcus stared out into the maze of tree trunks, his night vision slowly improving as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. Dubnus muttered into his ear.
'Look to one side of what you want to see. Seeing in the darkness is better from the corner of the eye than the centre.'
It was true. He looked into the forest, seeing the tree branches sway gently as a breeze lifted their leaves, and heard the distant hoot of a hunting owl. Below them, huddled into the river bend, the camp squatted in its solid bulk, studded with the pinprick light of torches at each guard position. Behind it loomed Cauldron Pool's fort, its whitewashed walls standing out in the gloom to his now completely night-adjusted eyes. At length Dubnus nodded to the patrol, splaying three fingers forward. Two groups of three men moved silently into the trees, heading to left and right, while Dubnus led Marcus and the remaining soldier forward to their own listening position, a hundred yards inside the forest wall.
They padded slowly and quietly through the tree trunks, fallen twigs crackling minutely under their boots. Marcus copied Dubnus's exaggerated steps and slow, cautious footfall, each foot searching for larger twigs as it sank to meet the ground, avoiding making any loud noises. At length they settled into their listening post for the night, a space between two fallen trees that Dubnus had clearly used before from the ease with which he found the sheltered spot. Marcus and the other soldier huddled into their cloaks at Dubnus's whispered suggestion, leaving him to stare out into the silent darkness.
Down in the camp, with the troops asleep for the night, and night patrols padding morosely around the perimeter fence, Annius slipped quietly through the ranks of tents, through the doglegged gap in the six-foot-tall earth rampart and up to the stone-built fort's walls. A pair of soldiers stepped forward with their spears levelled, letting him past and into the fort once it was established that he was on official business. Since the fort was more or less a duplicate of the Hill, he found his way to the supply building quickly enough, and knocked quietly on the door, slipping quickly inside as soon as it opened.
The storeman closed the door behind him, sliding a pair of massive iron bolts into their sockets, turned and silently beckoned Annius to follow him. At the rear of the storeroom he opened another, smaller door, gesturing the quartermaster through in front of him. A small personal room lay beyond, well lit by oil lamps, the walls insulated against the cold air outside by hanging carpets, while a flask of wine and a tray of small honey cakes decorated a delicately carved wooden table. A man lounged on a couch by the room's far wall, nodding graciously to Annius and indicating the couch's companion on the other side of the small table.
The quartermaster arranged himself on the couch in a dignified silence, waiting for his host to speak first. With this, as with any other negotiation, every tiny advantage was to be sought. The other man waited another moment before stirring himself to lean on an elbow, baring his teeth in a cockeyed smile below calculating eyes.
'So, friend and colleague Annius. When your mob marched in yesterday I wondered how long it would be before you and I were doing business. Are you buying, or selling?'
Annius pursed his lips, forcing his face to stay neutral.
'A little of both, my trusted friend Tacitus.'
'Excellent! Here's to a mutually profitable exchange!'
They drank, both sipping politely at the wine rather than risk its effects on their skills. Tacitus gestured to the cakes, and took one himself in the age-old gesture of trustworthiness. Annius nibbled at another.
'These are good.'
'My own baker, in the vicus. You'll take a dozen, as my gift?'
'I'm grateful.'
And down a bargaining point already. He fished in the folds of his cloak, passing the other man a small wooden box.
'Saffron?'
'The best Persian. I remembered your affection for the spice. Perhaps your baker can use it to good effect.'
And up two. The spice had cost him a small fortune, but put Tacitus in his debt by the rules of the game they routinely played.
'Well, if you have more of this to sell, our bargaining will be a memorable event …'
'Unfortunately not the case. That was the last of the traveller's supply.'
'A shame. So tell me, brother, what is it you bring to the table?'
'Little enough – we marched too quickly for detailed preparation. Five jars of Iberian wine, a small quantity of a precious ointment from Judaea … and money.'
'Money, indeed? You must be keen. And what is it that you seek?'
Damn him for a cool bastard.
'Information, Tacitus. I have a small local difficulty to manage, and remembering how good your sources have been in the past …'
Tacitus adjusted his position, rising up on one elbow.
'Ah. Problems with your First Spear? I wondered how long he'd tolerate your ways of making money. I …'
'No, it isn't Frontinius. He keeps me on my mettle, makes sure that his men have effective equipment, but he tolerates my provision of the better things in life as a necessary evil. And makes sure that my business pays a healthy percentage to the burial club. No, the problem's a step lower down the ladder than Frontinius.'
Tacitus's eyes narrowed with the admission.
'A centurion? Tell me more …'
Marcus woke again when Dubnus shook his shoulder, nodding silently at the big man's silent instruction to watch the arc to their front. The chosen man rolled into his cloak and was still, leaving Marcus alone in the darkness. He watched the silent forest with slow head movements, remembering the instruction to use the corner of his vision rather than looking directly at the subject. After a few moments purple spots started to dance in his vision, making him close his eyes for a moment before starting the process again. After an hour or so a faint sound caught his attention, a tiny click out in the trees, but sufficient to snap his senses alert. A moment later there was another, louder, and then again, the almost imperceptible but unmistakable sounds of men moving across the forest floor.
He reached out with a foot and nudged Dubnus awake, keeping his attention focused on the scene to his front. The chosen man rose silently, moving his head alongside that of his centurion.
'Breaking twigs.'
He pointed in the appropriate direction to back up his whispered warning, then kept silent. Dubnus listened for a moment and nodded, bending close to Marcus's ear.
'They're here. Perhaps too many for us. We'll sound the alarm and get back into camp. The others will do the same.'
Marcus nodded, shaking the sleeping soldier awake and whispering in his ear to be ready to run. While Dubnus prepared to put the signal horn to his lips, ready to blow the note that would alert the camp, Marcus prepared for the short run back through the surrounding trees. He leant his weight on the stub of a branch, readying himself to vault the fallen tree that formed the rear of their hide. With a rasping cough the stump, rotted through beneath the bark, tore away from the trunk under his weight, the noise echoing out into the forest's silence. For a moment the silence returned, but then, with a sudden chorus of shouts and yells, came the sound of men running across the forest floor towards them.
With a curse Dubnus put the horn to his lips and blew one high note that drowned out all other sound, tossing the horn away and hefting his club, shouting into the darkness.
'Ninth, to me!'
Their chance to run was gone, the enemy, alerted by the snapping wood, charging in at them too quickly for flight to be a realistic option. Marcus readied himself, stepping alongside Dubnus and bracing himself for the enemy's assault with his stave held ready to strike.
A body hurled itself out of the darkness, and was met by a vicious swing of Dubnus's club. Two more followed, both men going down under the defenders' blows, and then a torrent of tribesmen assaulted the trio, splitting them into tiny islands of resistance. Marcus swung his stave into one attacker's belly, releasing it as it caught in the reeling man's clothing, swept his sword out and stepped forward to strike at another, hamstringing the man as he shaped to attack Dubnus from behind. A massive tribesman stepped into the fight, swinging his own club in an expert backhand to deal a fearsome blow to Marcus's head. He fell, vision dimming as consciousness slipped away, vaguely aware of a figure standing over him with a sword held high, screaming incoherently as the sword poised for its strike.
Frontinius briefed Prefect Equitius an hour later, once the excitement of a full cohort stand-to was over and the centuries had gone grumbling back to their interrupted sleep. He'd been on the scene in minutes with the duty century, but only in time to greet the 9th's men as they carried their casualties off the hill.
'It was nothing really, just a few barbarian scouts running into our listening patrols. It was too dark for much serious fighting, and what there was seems to have been scrappy. More like a vicus bar brawl than a real fight. The turning point appears to have been one of our lads going into a blood rage in the middle of the skirmish and slicing up several of the barbarians, after which they seem to have thought better of the whole thing. We've got a man dead and two wounded, one light sword wound and a nasty-looking concussion. That's the good news. The bad news is that the man with the concussion is our very own Roman centurion, his helmet stove in by a barbarian with a strong club arm.'
Equitius groaned.
'So now he's stuck in the fort hospital for any and all to see?'
Frontinius shook his head.
'No, I spent a few minutes with the doctor and had him hidden away in a quiet part of the building, away from curious eyes. I've also told the Ninth to keep the news of his injury to themselves. The Prince can run the century for the next day or two.'
Equitius nodded thoughtfully.
'So this might even work to our advantage, and keep him out of sight until it's time to deploy into the field.'
Frontinius snorted a mirthless laugh.
'Yes. And we get to find out if his skull is thick enough to keep his educated brains in one piece, or whether the blue-noses have just solved our problem for us.'
Light pricked at Marcus's eyes as they struggled to open. He could see only a ball of light, with a dark figure floating behind it. Closing his eyes, and surrendering to the darkness again, and whatever it was that was happening, seemed much the easiest thing to do.
When he woke again the metallic taste in his mouth was gone, and the light that greeted his cautious gaze was that of weak daylight, a pale shaft through a window in one wall of the room in which he lay, still exhausted, in a narrow bed. Underneath heavy blankets he was naked, while his head ached awfully. A familiar voice called out from close by.
'Orderly! Orderly, you dozy bastard! Fetch the doctor! He's awake.'
The owner of the voice came back into the room and, fighting his eyes back into focus, Marcus recognised an exhausted-looking Antenoch.
'Lie still, the doctor's coming.'
He sat down in a chair at Marcus's bedside, running a hand through his disordered hair.
'We thought for a while you might not live, you were out of it for so long. Only the helmet saved you, and you should see the dent in that! You won't be …'
He stopped in mid-sentence, as another figure entered the room. Marcus gingerly turned his head to see the new arrival, blinking at the sunlight, recognising the doctor with a shock.
'You … but you're a …'
'A woman? Evidently your concussion hasn't entirely removed your cognitive powers, Centurion Corvus.'
It was the woman from the farm … an image of her fury at the sight of slaughtered cattle flashed into his mind. Felicia … ? His memory grasped for the name, making his brow knot with the effort.
…Clodia Drusilla? Felicia Clodia Drusilla! He raised an arm, the limb seeming heavy.
'Water … please?'
Antenoch put a cup to his lips, the liquid ungluing his mouth and throat.
'Thank you. Madam, I am …'
'Surprised?'
Her eyebrow arched in a challenge that Marcus knew was completely beyond his faltering capabilities.
'… grateful for your care.'
He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his body sag against the bed with exhaustion. Her voice reached him, as if from a distant place.
'And now, Master Antenoch, it's time for you both to get some proper sleep. Go back to your unit and sleep for at least ten hours. Here, I'll make it a formal written command … there, "to sleep for ten hours without interruption". Give that tablet to your chosen man. And tell him that the centurion will be ready to receive visitors tomorrow afternoon at the very earliest …'
Calgus stood astride the Wall with his adviser Aed as the sun set that evening, watching his warriors pouring back to the north through the North Road's smashed gates. They were moving in good order for the most part, one or two supporting comrades clearly the worse for drink, but if individuals had overindulged in captured wine it was of little concern to him. Behind them the fortress of the Rock was still smearing the sky with the grey reek of its smouldering timbers, while torches were being lit by his marching troops to provide illumination for the night movement. All things considered, he mused, he had enough reason to be satisfied as his first attack played to its close. At length his adviser Aed spoke, his opinions delivered with the customary candour that Calgus valued, where most others would tell him simply what he wanted to hear.
'So, my king, their Wall is broken, the garrison troops huddle anxiously around their forts to east and west, and their Sixth Legion seems content simply to prevent our advance on Yew Grove. Some of our people see this as victory enough, while others argue for striking west or south and destroying the Roman forces before they can join. We must explain our next moves soon, before the tribes fall to arguing among themselves. A lack of Roman shields to batter will have our peoples at each others' throats before long.'
Calgus spat on to the Wall's flat surface, his face twisting into a sneer.
'I will gut the first men who take swords to their brothers myself, you can let that be known. As for the Romans, I've told the tribal leaders that our cleverest move is the one we're making now, to pull back from the Wall and let them follow into the uncertain lands to the north if they dare. The right move is to pull back, and invite them onwards on to our ground. Of course, it would have been different if our western warband had not failed to break the Wall to the west, behind the traitor cohorts. If we could have put the soldiers waiting to the west between two forests of spears and with no place left to run, that would have been a blade to their guts I would have twisted without hesitation.'
Aed nodded, his face impassive.
'I understand, my lord. Yet I must tell you that at this moment our only real fear is the warband itself, or more particularly its urgent desire for battle. Real battle. The tribes grumble that their war so far has been one of chasing after fleeing Romans and burning empty forts. Lord Calgus, the northern tribes are clamouring for a proper fight, a fight we currently deny them.'
Calgus nodded at the advice. After the council of the tribes the previous evening he was already aware of the problem. He had called the gathering of tribal leaders knowing that he would at the least have to listen to their arguments for their warriors to run amok down the line of forts that garrisoned the Wall. These were arguments made stronger by the speed with which the defenders had evacuated their forts, rather than fight for their homes. Put simply, the defenders seemed ripe for taking, ready to fall under the tribes' attacks. He'd listened patiently until their arguments dried up in the face of his silent contemplation. When silence had fallen and all men in the gathering he'd called were waiting for him to say something, he'd voiced his opinion.
'What you propose is exactly what the legatus commanding that legion down the road to Yew Grove wants, for us to waste our time and strength destroying empty forts. They will simply retreat in front of us, leaving us to spend our energy on pointless destruction. Or worse, they will attempt to pin us between their two forces. I'm not entirely sure our warriors would stand their ground if that happened.'
One of the tribal leaders had stalked forward to stand in front of him, a dead Roman's head held casually by the hair in one hand, a Roman infantry sword in the other. He turned to the assembled chiefs, holding both in the air above his head.
'I say we fight! My people have tasted Roman blood, taken heads, taken weapons. To retreat now will bring shame upon us in the eyes of Brigantia – who knows whether she will look with anger upon a retreat in the time of victory, and punish us for avoiding battle.'
The gathering held its collective breath, waiting for Calgus to pounce from his chair, perhaps even draw the sword that hung from his waist and take the other man apart with it for the slur. He was more than capable of such sudden violence, as they all knew from experience. After a long silence, allowing time for the suddenly isolated noble to realise what he had done, Calgus laughed softly. A collective sigh of released breath greeted the sound.
'Balthus bids us storm more of the Wall forts, while the legion to our south hide in their camp, and yes, we could easily fire another half-dozen of their camps, knock the gates out of a dozen gateways, kill a few hundred careless Romans, take more swords and spears …'
He paused, looking around the gathering, meeting each of the leaders' eyes in turn.
'How many heads have we taken already? Five hundred? A thousand? What good will another five hundred do us? Do any of your men lack for swords, or shields? And as for their weapons, well, I ask you … Balthus, would you fight me here and now, man to man, you with that toothpick and me wielding the sword of any other man here?'
He paused again, waiting for the implication to settle in.
'I thought not. If we delay here we simply give the Romans more time to bring their legions together in a massive armoured fist that will smash our warbands. I have information on that subject, and it isn't good news. The southern legions started moving north several weeks ago, anticipating our attack, and will be on the Wall inside a week. And when they arrive, my brothers, the western legions will move through the Wall farther to the west, and move east to pin us here on the wrong side of their defences. And then, in all truth, we will be done for, outnumbered and unable to fall back to join the other warbands, and all because we were desperate to win a few more heads and some Roman spears?'
He turned to encompass the gathered nobles with opened arms.
'We need neither a few hundred heads more nor any number of the Romans' weapons, suited to their tactic of hiding and stabbing and not to the way we fight, man to man. What we need is to take not five hundred heads, or a thousand, but ten thousand. When a legion's standard lies on the ground before us, when we have the head of a Roman general pickled in a jar, that will be a victory! On that day, I am certain, the other legions will think carefully before coming north to punish us, but will instead send negotiators to buy peace with us, at a price of our naming. But to achieve that victory, we have to lure that single legion out on to our ground, where we, and not the Romans, choose the place and manner of our meeting. So tell me, my brothers, should we stay for a while here, and win more useless trinkets for our warriors to play with, or shall we follow our intended plan and take a prize worth having?'
He'd prevailed, of course; his argument had been all the more convincing for being correct. Finding the stores at Noisy Valley all but emptied in advance of their arrival had validated the Roman traitor's other revelation, that the western legions would arrive weeks earlier than he had expected. Now the warband was pulling back from the Wall in good order, its leaders happy enough to follow his direction and keep a muzzle on their men's urge to fight. Calgus turned to face his adviser, the older man's face inscrutable in the dusk's failing light.
'Your counsel is true, as always, Aed. I'll give the tribes all the heads they can carry, granted their patience for a few days.'
The Romans could skulk behind their defences for the time being – his warband would have vanished into the north by the time they stirred to follow. The trick now would be tempting the 6th's legatus to follow them on to a killing ground that Calgus would choose with care. That, and a little inside assistance. |
Wounds of Honor | Anthony Riches | [
"historical fiction"
] | [
"Rome",
"war",
"Empire"
] | Chapter 13 | Marcus woke again in the middle of the next morning, his head relatively clear, and his stomach growling for food. Clodia Drusilla took one look at him and ordered a bed bath and a meal, both administered by a stone-faced orderly who responded to Marcus's attempts at conversation with monosyllabic grunts. Hot water, a borrowed blade and a clean tunic lifted his spirits, even if he was still weak enough to fall back on to his bed exhausted afterwards, and a small meal of bread, dried fish and vegetables left him replete. He slept again almost immediately, and was woken by a hand gently shaking his shoulder.
It was Licinius, the Petriana's prefect, smiling down at him with a glint of triumph. Dressed in a mud-stained tunic and armour, he had clearly come to the hospital directly from the saddle. The shutter was closed, and Licinius was carrying a lamp, adding its illumination to that of the lamp already burning by the bed.
'Ah, there you are, Centurion.'
Marcus pulled himself up on to his elbows, subsiding back on to the pillow that his superior hastily pushed beneath his straining body.
'The orderly tried to send me away. Now I've seen you, I think I understand why. Are you up to talking?'
Marcus declined the chance to put the conversation off once more, too tired to be bothered with his own safety any longer.
'Yes, Prefect, we can talk, but tell me, what time is it? What's happening out there?'
The other man sat on the short stool provided for the purpose, hunching forward to hear Marcus's tired whisper. As he opened his mouth to speak again, Felicia burst through the door, her mouth a thin white-lipped slash in a face pale with anger. The prefect leapt to his feet, bowing respectfully.
'Clodia Drusilla, my dear, what a pleasure to see you again. I …'
She pushed a fist into his face, making him step back in surprise, almost tumbling over the stool.
'You have no right or permission to be here, and as this officer's doctor I'm ordering you to get out. Now!'
Marcus raised a hand, forestalling her outburst.
'It's all right, Doctor, just a friendly conversation …'
She turned on him, wagging a finger threateningly.
'That isn't your decision, Centurion, and besides …'
'No more running.'
'What?'
'No more running from the truth. Not from an honourable Roman prefect.'
'But …'
Her reproach ran dry, leaving her staring helplessly at the bedridden centurion for a moment. She turned and left the room in silence. Licinius sat down again, raising an eyebrow at Marcus.
'Clodia Drusilla seems very protective of you, young man. Perhaps y'should consider your position very carefully with regard to that young lady. I happen to be acquainted with her husband well enough to know the way he'll behave if he suspects his property is being coveted by another …'
Marcus looked at him questioningly, until the older man shrugged his shoulders.
'Never mind. Just watch yourself there. As to the time, it's late in the afternoon, two days after you took what was by all accounts quite a thump on the head. As to what's happening outside …'
He paused, rubbing his tired face with a wrinkled hand.
'Calgus came down the North Road, burned out everything down to Noisy Valley, let his men loose on White Strength and burned that down too, then retreated back up the road and vanished into the landscape, Mars damn him for eternity. I've got patrols out looking for the warband, but for the time being they're off the bloody map. Now that the barbarians have left the scene of the crime, Sixth Legion has come forward from the blocking position they were holding to the south, marched through here at lunchtime and thundered off over the horizon to some secret camp or other they scouted out a while ago. Where the other legions have got to, Mars only knows. But we, young man, have subjects closer to home to discuss, do we not?'
Marcus nodded, giving in to the inescapable.
'Firstly, as to your great secret, don't trouble yourself with the revelation, I've already questioned Equitius and got the truth out of him.'
Marcus's eyes opened wide.
'You …'
The officer waved a hand dismissively, shaking his head in amusement.
'Y'clearly don't appreciate my position here, young man. I command the Petriana cavalry wing and I'm the senior prefect of all the Wall garrisons. I'm already a senator as a result of an imperial promotion after a dirty little skirmish a few years ago, and I have some very powerful friends in Rome. When I told your commanding officer to spill the beans he did what he was told, related the whole story and offered to resign his command and fall on his sword. Because he's a realist. The man that lives in Yew Grove may nominally command the Wall garrison, executing the governor's orders, but as long as I'm in place these units answer to me, right up to the point where Sixth Legion comes forward into the line and he's in a position to take effective control.'
Marcus lay back, strangely relieved at not having to hide from the senior officer any longer.
'Did you take Equitius's command?'
Licinius snorted his laughter.
'Of course I didn't, y'fool! I can't afford to go dumping effective officers just because they happen to have an eye for a good officer!'
'But …'
The prefect leaned in close, half whispering into Marcus's ear, his patrician affectations suddenly replaced with a harder tone.
'But nothing, man. I told you I've got friends in Rome, men of influence and stature. They write to me regularly about the city and what's happening around them, and their letters have steadily become more pessimistic. Some of them even write anonymously, using recollection of our shared experiences as their identification, for fear of their words being read by the wrong person. Our new emperor is in the sway of dangerous men, and is steadily undermining the rules that have underpinned our society for almost a century. Your father and his brother were his victims, murdered for their land and to silence a potential dissenting voice in the Senate. As a loyal citizen of Rome I should, of course, arrest you, and Equitius and his First Spear, and hand you over to Sixth Legion for trial and execution.'
He stopped speaking, and looked away from Marcus, out of the room's window.
'As an officer of Rome, with a prior duty to the defence of this province, it is my judgement that I will do no such thing.'
'But you risk losing everything.'
'Centurion, there are two or three warbands out there that amount to about thirty thousand fighting men, all of them fired by the desire to liberate their lands from Roman influence and get their cocks up some nice soft flesh in the process. Against that mass of angry warriors we total ten thousand regular troops and two thousand cavalry, plus another eighteen thousand legionaries – if the legions make an appearance in time to join in the fun. If we get it wrong, I could be dead inside the week, in which case my failure to report your presence here will be inconsequential. My duty is first and foremost to the troops under my command, and to the people that depend on our protection to prevent those savages from killing and shagging their way all the way down to Yew Grove.
'And besides, quite apart from yourself, there are two other good men involved at the very least. Your First Spear is an outstanding soldier, and Equitius … Equitius has something even more special. It wouldn't surprise me to see him reach very high office indeed, if he comes through this thing intact. You'll understand when you're my age …'
He got up and walked to the door, reassuming his former aristocratic bearing.
'Anyway, you're a good officer, "Marcus Tribulus Corvus", good enough to take advantage of your luck. Make the most of that fortune in the coming days, ride it to the best possible advantage. We shall have need of your brand of audacity if we're to prevent this Calgus from nailing our heads to his roof beams. Just don't give me reason to regret this decision.'
He left, raising an eyebrow at Felicia, who glared at his departing back before hurrying back into Marcus's room, appraising him with a frank concern he found touching.
'He knows your secret, then?'
'Yes, he put the question directly to my prefect.'
'And …?'
'I'm to return to duty as soon as I'm fit. It seems that live officers are of more value than dead traitors at this time.'
She exhaled noisily, sitting down at the end of his bed.
'I'm pleased. I've known him for long enough to be aware that he has his own very particular set of principles, but I wasn't sure how he'd react to your situation.'
'He said that your husband …'
He stopped, unwilling to embarrass the woman.
'Is a violent man? Would react without thinking if he thought there might be some slur upon his manhood? He's a good judge of character. Not everyone sees through that veneer of "hail fellow, well met" that Prefect Bassus uses to mask his real nature. Did he think that we were lovers?'
Marcus blushed, unable to meet her questioning gaze.
'Yes, I think he did.'
She laughed, putting her head back. The laughter stung Marcus's pride, making his voice harsher than he would have wanted.
'Not so funny, madam, you're a beautiful woman. He can see that any man would find you attractive …'
He hoped that she wouldn't detect either his discomfort with her amusement or his almost total lack of physical experience of women. Her laughter died away, and she returned his indignant glare with a gentle smile.
'On the contrary, Centurion, it wasn't that prospect I was laughing at. The old proverb came to mind – "Better to be strangled for a sheep than a goat". If you get my meaning?'
She turned and left, the secret smile staying on her face until she was back in her tiny office, making the duty orderly raise his eyebrows in mute curiosity.
Dubnus arrived an hour later, standing awkwardly in the doorway until Marcus beckoned him in. The big man came to attention at the bottom of the bed, in which Marcus was now sitting, reading a borrowed scroll of Caesar's writings on his campaigns in Gaul, launching into a speech he had clearly prepared with painstaking care.
'Centurion, I request permission to be allocated another century, at a lower rank if necessary …'
Marcus sat bolt upright, making the ache in his head throb a little harder. He swayed for a second with the pain, causing Dubnus to leap around the bed and steady him by the arm. The pain subsided after a moment. He motioned the soldier to sit down, and took a moment to wind the scroll up, looking into the other man's stonily fixed face. What reason could his deputy have for wanting to leave the 9th?
'Why, Dubnus?'
The chosen man knotted his fingers, and his eyes blinked rapidly, betraying the turmoil beneath the surface.
'A chosen man's main job is protect his officer, and …'
'Bullshit!'
The roar surprised Marcus himself, and sent another wave of pain through his head, but the rush of relief he felt in discovering the cause of his deputy's unease mixed powerfully with his panic at the prospect of losing the man. Dubnus flinched back on the chair, his eyes widening at the sudden display of anger.
'Your job is to be my deputy, to stand behind the century with your pole's end in their backs, and ensure that the Ninth moves in accordance with my commands, steady the men when they waver …'
He stopped for a moment, and reached for the water cup by his bed, drinking deeply.
'… and that's a job you perform superbly well. Think back, Dubnus. When I decided to go out and rescue our runner, without you at the back of the column our men would have turned and run for the safety of the Wall before we'd got two hundred yards out into the open. They were shit scared, and so for that matter was I. It was only your voice behind them that made them keep moving.'
'But in the forest …'
'I managed to make enough noise to bring the tribesmen down on us. That was nothing to do with you.'
'And I failed to stay with you.'
'We were fighting for our lives, in the darkness, against superior numbers. It's a wonder we aren't both stuck in here, or somewhere worse. Look, forget it, Dubnus, it wasn't your fault, and you're not leaving the Ninth. Relax, man, you're making my headache worse! Besides, someone stepped over me and held the blue-noses off …'
Dubnus winced at the attempted humour, then became serious again, the look on his face stopping Marcus mid-sentence.
'Which is the other reason why I should leave the century. It wasn't me that saved you, it was …'
'Yes?'
'… Antenoch.'
'Antenoch?!'
Dubnus nodded miserably.
'He came out of the trees behind us, jumped over you and fought off the tribesmen until relief arrived. Killed three men, and cut the sword arm off another …'
He tailed off, watching Marcus intently.
'Antenoch followed us into the trees without y— us noticing?'
Dubnus nodded again, his face lengthening. Marcus felt his grip on his self-control starting to slip.
'After you refused to let him patrol with us?'
'Yes.'
The reply was no more than an ashamed whisper, and for a second Marcus had the sense of talking to a naughty child. He kept control of a desire to laugh uncontrollably by the skin of his teeth.
'Good.'
'Eh!?'
'I said good, and I meant it. Your feud with him has gone on long enough. From now on you'll trust him implicitly, as I evidently have every reason to do … where is he now?'
'He'll come to the hospital later. I told him to wait until I was back in camp.'
Marcus lay back, his head buzzing with pain.
'Very well. Tell him to come up and see me after the evening meal, I need to sleep some more now. And Dubnus …'
'Centurion?'
'Don't even consider leaving the Ninth again without winning a vine stick first … unless you want me to have you … have you …'
He slipped into sleep. When he woke again the pain in his head was almost gone, and Antenoch was sitting quietly at his side, reading the borrowed scroll. Seeing his centurion awake, he furled the scroll, shaking it in Marcus's face.
'And what sort of reading matter is this for a sick man? Besides, what the divine Julius actually knew about fighting the Gauls would probably have fitted on your pocket tablet with room to spare. There's more to warfare than looking good on a horse and knowing when to send in the cavalry. I'd like to have seen him stand in a shield wall with the shit flying and retain his famous composure.'
Marcus laughed at him, refusing to be drawn.
'Oh good, you're better. You must be, or the good lady Felicia wouldn't be talking about letting you out in the morning.'
'Don't be so familiar, Antenoch, unless the lady's given you permission to use her forename. One of these days you'll talk yourself into a mess I can't get you out of.'
'Oh, the lady and I are on first-name terms, Centurion, from the long conversations we had mooning over your sickbed, before you got bored with sleeping all the time. Conversations, I might add, that lead me to the belief that Felicia entertains feelings for you that go beyond those that might be expected between doctor and patient. You play it right, you could be hiding the sausage …'
Marcus's irritation boiled over, his finger stopping an inch from Antenoch's nose.
'Enough! You'll push me too far, you insolent bastard! Credit me with some sense of decorum! She's a married woman, for Jupiter's sake. Whether I want her or not, there are rules by which our lives are run.'
To his dismay, the Briton collapsed against the wall in giggles.
'Rules! Gods above, listen to him …'
He wiped his eyes theatrically, shaking his head in mock amazement.
'… and you a Roman citizen born and bred? Don't you know you people practically invented adultery?'
They stared at each other in angry silence for a moment, neither willing to concede. At length Antenoch spoke again.
'Anyway, be that as it may, the lady Felicia, who I am sure has led the most blameless of lives, entertains more than a hint of affection for yourself. And that's official.'
Marcus rose to the bait.
'What do you mean, official?'
His clerk smiled slyly.
'Her orderly told me so. We shared a mug of beer last night, after he was off duty; call it a scouting mission on your behalf, if you like. He's been with her for a year and a half down at Fair Meadow, helping her put damaged Second Tungrians together again, and he reckons he knows her better than her husband ever will …'
Marcus shook his head, aghast.
'I really shouldn't be listening to this …'
'But you will, because you feel for her just as much! I warned you I'd always speak my mind! She hates her husband because he won't recognise her abilities, and wants her to play the submissive little wife for him. Another fool that thought he could change a woman once they were married …
'Anyway, he told me that she gets all misty eyed when she thinks he isn't looking, and he's pretty sure you're the cause. Which I can understand, a nice young boy in uniform like you. And what's more …'
Marcus raised his arms in mock surrender.
'No more! I've heard all I need to. You're quite impossible, and I'm tiring fast just listening to you. Run along and play your games with the orderly, and leave me in peace. We can discuss this again once I've got a grip of my vine stick.'
Antenoch got to his feet, his smile undaunted.
'You'd only break the stick. Sleep well, Centurion, but remember what I've told you.'
He went to the door, looked out into the corridor and then turned back, as if on an afterthought.
'And if she does decide she can't resist, I think you'll owe me an apology. Perhaps we could even have a small wager on the matter?'
He ducked round the door frame, as Marcus threw the scroll at his head.
Annius sat in his tent throughout the afternoon, working through a sheaf of tablets and sending his staff around the camp to find the items he required, until he was convinced that the cohort had all of the supplies required for a deployment into hostile territory. Spearheads had already been purchased from the local armourer, spare swords traded for surplus sets of mail, and generally scarce boots quietly stolen from a neighbouring unit's store. All might be required in the next few days, and he had no intention of inviting the wrath of men he would depend upon to stand between him and thousands of angry barbarians.
Darkness fell, and he worked on by the light of half a dozen lamps, snacking from a plate of cakes purchased from Tacitus's bakery, until a disturbance outside the tent caught his attention. Rising to go to the flap, he received his clerk in the belly, the man literally thrown into the tent from outside. They fell on to his table, scattering tablets, cakes and lamps, plunging the interior into darkness. The flap was pulled open, the man standing in the opening silhouetted in the light of the torches that burned around the camp.
'Stores officer Annius?'
The cohort's guards would notice, would come to his rescue. He gathered his dignity, getting to his feet and trying to make out the indistinct figure at the tent's door.
'Yes. What …'
The other man reached into the tent, grasping him by the neck and pulling him out through the door, choking him with the pinch-hold on his windpipe. Close up, in the light of the torches, he was evidently officer class, dressed in cavalry armour, and with a body that Annius would have bet filled his cuirass without any trouble. He leaned in close to speak into the stores officer's face, his eyes shining in the torchlight and a hand sliding down to his waist, gripping the hilt of his dagger.
'I told your clerk, and I'll tell you, shut your face if you want to live. I could slit your throats and be away from here before your guards woke up. Understand?'
His vision greying from the vice-like grip on his throat, Annius nodded limply.
'Good.'
The grip relaxed, allowing him to gulp in some air. His arm was grasped, leaving him no alternative but to accompany the man as he led a winding path through the tents. Without a cloak he began to shiver in the night's cold air. After a minute's swift walk the officer pushed him into a tent, lit brightly by several large lamps, and followed, placing his bulk between Annius and the door flap. A younger man, also in uniform, sat idly in a chair at the tent's far end. A thin purple stripe ran along his tunic's hem, and he was attired in magnificently polished armour. In the lamplight Annius read his face in an instant, finding the intensity and intelligence of a predator under a shock of blond hair.
'Well, storeman, do you know who I am?'
He shook his head, realising that he should speak, and chanced a response.
'A senior officer, sir, a legion tribune to judge from your rank …'
'Quite so. And more too. You'll doubtless have heard of our emperor, Commodus?'
'Yes, Tribune.'
Did this have something to do with that young bastard of a centurion? What had Tacitus been broadcasting to the world?
'My name is Titus Tigidius Perennis. My father is the praetorian prefect of Rome. I carry a special commission from the emperor …'
He took a small scroll from inside his tunic, and waved it at Annius.
'I've read it so many times I can remember the wording as if it were open in front of me … "find and bring to justice any person guilty of treason against the throne, of whatever rank, within the Imperial Government of Britannia. Command the services of any man required to aid in this task, of whatever rank, on penalty of death for refusal." On penalty of death, storeman.
'There's more, but it's only detail by comparison. I came to Britain to serve as a tribune in the Sixth Legion, under Legatus Sollemnis, a man suspected of harbouring treacherous sympathies with certain Roman enemies of the state. Enemies since dealt with in ways fitting to their unveiled treason.'
He let the implicit threat hang in the air for a moment before getting to his feet and walking across to Annius, staring him in the eyes before restarting his discourse.
'I found the legion well trained and ready for war, the legatus obviously competent, but curiously reticent on the subject of his emperor, unwilling to discuss a subject he might have felt could trip him up. And so I waited, content to work in preparation for a war we were both convinced was close upon us. Then, a few months ago, came word that a young traitor, son of one of the men arrested for treason, had run for cover, and was seeking to join the Sixth as an anonymous centurion. Legatus Sollemnis played it straight, sending the boy back south by night as instructed by the governor, giving my men a chance to deal with him on the road. Someone, whether with the legatus's blessing or not, killed a cavalry decurion and two of his men sent to deal with the traitor. Worse, they tortured the decurion for information while he lay dying and then escaped into the open country, almost certainly with the traitor in tow. After which disappointing events nothing was heard of either the outlaw or whoever aided him. Until, perhaps, now …'
He turned away, pacing down the tent's length before turning back and speaking again.
'The decurion they killed was a respected man in these parts, first in line for promotion to first spear with the Asturians. Who, you might have heard, have sworn to a man to have their revenge on the killer, whenever and wherever the chance arises. This man …' He gestured to the officer filling the tent's doorway. '… has a particular interest in taking the killer's blood, since the man was his older brother. Now, a contact of mine within the fort tells me that you have information on the subject which I might find useful. He recommended I speak with you with all dispatch.'
He paced back to the terrified storekeeper, staring into his eyes.
'Now, you are, at this moment, weighing up whether to tell me the truth or not. Let's face it, I'm here tonight and gone in the morning, while your First Spear will always be there, and eager for revenge if he thinks you've betrayed him in such a way.'
He turned to the decurion and nodded. A pale sword slid from its scabbard, the edge winking in the lamplight.
'The decurion here, however, is another matter. He wants revenge on this traitor, and whoever helped him, and he'll be very upset indeed if he feels that you're obstructing his path to justice. So, storeman, your choices are simple – tell me everything you know, here and now, without hiding anything, or they'll find you face down in the river with a rather nasty hole in your back. It's really up to you …'
Annius opened his mouth and started talking.
Marcus read quietly through the evening, submerging himself in Caesar's two-hundred-year-old account of his subjugation of Gaul until the shadows lengthened, and the orderly came to light his lamp. After a while straining to make out the characters in the half-darkness became too much of an effort and he rolled up the scroll and slid beneath the blanket, blowing the lamp out to leave the room in darkness. Hovering above sleep's dark waters, his mind easing down to rest, he thought for a second that he felt a gentle touch on his face, soft enough not to pull him back from the brink of rest, enough to hold him there in a state of uncertain thrill.
The touch came again, and a soft voice spoke soothingly to him as a warm body slipped under the blanket beside him. His body trembled slightly with the sudden realisation, as hands caressed his back and neck, lips finding his ear and gently kissing away the fear. He rolled over to meet her kiss with his own, still stunned at the situation, pausing for breath after a long moment.
'It would seem that I owe my clerk an apology.'
Felicia renewed the kiss wordlessly, moving her body over his beneath the blanket's rough folds.
Felicia left Marcus's bed in the early hours, abandoning him to an exhausted, dreamless sleep. He woke long after dawn to the orderly's persistent shaking of his shoulder.
'Centurion, there's a messenger from your cohort waiting outside. Clodia Drusilla grants you her permission to leave the hospital, and has asked me to give you this …'
He directed a significant look towards Marcus, making it quite clear that he could guess at the tablet's contents. As he left one of Marcus's men came through the door with a bundle of clothing and equipment tied up in what Marcus quickly recognised as his cloak.
'Sir, First Spear's regards, an' he requests you to rejoin the cohort on the way to the North Road. The horse boys found the barbarians yesterday, an' we're moving to attack them …'
Marcus dressed quickly, shoving the tablet into a pocket and grabbing a piece of bread from the breakfast table as he followed the soldier out of the infirmary's quiet corridors and into the fort's orderly hubbub. The rest of the man's tent party were waiting impatiently at the door, their leader saluting smartly at his appearance among them.
'Morning, sir, good to see you looking better. I hope you're up to a run this morning, the cohort marched out at the double almost half an hour ago, along with the Second and the Batavians.'
Marcus nodded grimly, tightening his new helmet's strap until the leather bit into his chin, ignoring the pressure on his still-sensitive scalp, while the men checked that their packs were secure on their carrying poles before hoisting them on to their shoulders along with their spears. A shouted command set them running, a steady trot to which, Marcus was pleased to discover, his body adjusted after only a moment's protest. Five minutes took them across the fort's bridge and out of view of the fort, passing through wooded copses and open fields as they climbed the steep hill to the east of the river. Despite the road's arrow-straight line, Marcus kept a hand on his sword's hilt, aware that a roving barbarian scouting party would see an officer and eight men as fair game.
Half an hour's running brought no sight of the cohort, confirmation of Marcus's mental arithmetic. He had guessed that it would take the best part of another hour to catch the Tungrians, and so it proved, the black snake of men appearing on the horizon as they ran into sight of the crossroads with the North Road.
The tail-end century of the rearmost cohort was clearing the crossroads and heading out through the wall's open gates as the nine men ran up to it, Marcus recognising their companion unit, the Second Tungrians, with a sudden guilty start. They moved to the verge, padding past the marching soldiers without breaking their pace and ignoring the barrage of catcalls and insults that followed their progress up the line of centuries. At the column's head Marcus recognised his own cohort, and quickened his pace in response. A voice rang out from behind him, peremptory in its authority.
'You there! Centurion! A moment!'
He signalled his men to rejoin their colleagues, and then turned reluctantly to face the speaker, walking backwards to keep pace with the column's leading rank. An officer marched forward from his place alongside the column's head, extending a hand in greeting. Marcus saluted before taking the offered hand, turning to walk alongside the other man.
'Quintus Dexter Bassus, prefect, Second Tungrian Cohort. And you, I presume from the look of you, are the First Cohort's illustrious young cattle-burning centurion?'
Marcus drew on his praetorian etiquette training, recalling his instruction on how best to maintain a respectful posture while escorting a walking dignitary, and turned his torso towards the prefect, nodding his head slightly.
'Yes, sir …'
He took a deep breath, thinking quickly.
'… Centurion Two Knives. I prefer to fight with two swords when possible, and the title seems to have stuck.'
'I've heard it … a soldier's name if ever I heard one. Is there a name that you can share with me?'
'With pleasure, Prefect. My family name is Corvus.'
'Well, Centurion Corvus, I can only offer you my inadequate but heartfelt thanks for your rescue of my wife …'
They walked in silence for a moment, the massed rattle on the road of hobnailed boots and the jingle and rattle of harnesses and equipment filling what would otherwise have been an uncomfortable gap in the conversation.
'The thanks, Prefect, would more appropriately be offered to my century, but nevertheless I am happy to acknowledge them, and to express my pleasure that we were in the right place at the right time.'
The other man pursed his lips, perhaps, Marcus thought, caught between the need to show gratitude for the act and a curiosity as to what Felicia might have said to him during the their time together.
'You're too modest, young man. The whole army is talking about the way your century denied the barbarians their supplies, and I owe you a debt of thanks I cannot easily discharge. The gods only know what indignities your fortunate arrival spared my wife.'
'Prefect, you may be aware that I sustained a head injury during a night patrol two days ago. Your wife was good enough to administer her medical skills to my wound, greatly assisting my recovery. Any debt is thus well repaid.'
The other man stared at him for a moment.
'A noble sentiment, and more typically Roman than I'm used to from the local officers. I find it refreshing to see a young gentleman accept a position in an auxiliary unit, rather than insisting on serving with the legions. Although I'm surprised that a traditionally minded First Spear like Frontinius would ever accept such a recruit. I wonder, Centurion …'
Marcus willed his face to remain impassive.
'… if Clodia Drusilla mentioned to you what she was doing over the Wall at such a time?'
Relief flooded his mind at the man's obvious preoccupation with his woman, followed immediately by the realisation that he was still walking on eggshells.
'Ah … no, sir, now that you mention it she didn't tell me, and neither did I have the time to ask. I was preoccupied with getting my men away from danger, and …'
'And not really your business anyway, eh? Very well, Centurion, since you're clearly a man of discretion, I can see I shouldn't delay you from your men any longer. Good day.'
Marcus saluted briskly and turned, relieved to be away without having to face difficult questions regarding either his own provenance or the other man's wife. Accelerating his pace, he trotted smartly past the tail-end century, the men of the 10th striding along with their axes over their shoulders. As he passed the 10th's front rank Titus stepped out with his fist raised for the tap.
'Good work, young Two Knives, you're the talk of the cohort.'
Marcus reflexively tapped the huge man's fist with his own, shooting a surprised glance at the big man's smug smile. Normally he would now have been running alongside his own men, but the 9th were at the column's head. Otho, striding along beside his 8th Century, simply smiled his battered smile and winked as the young centurion passed. Ahead of him Brutus was walking along backwards at the head of the 7th … applauding? He slapped Marcus on the shoulder as he passed, calling after him.
'And I thought I was supposed to be the lucky one!'
Rufius's chosen man was apparently in command of the 6th, and quite sensibly kept his mouth shut and his eyes to the front as a red-faced Marcus hurried past. As he progressed up the column's length shouts of ribald encouragement from the marching ranks accompanied his progress until he reached the standard, carried in the midst of the 5th Century. Julius was marching at the Fifth's head with Rufius striding alongside him. His friend's face widened into a broad smile of welcome.
'Here's the young fellow, fresh from his deathbed. Here, Two Knives, clasp hands with me once more.'
Marcus put his hand out, only for Rufius to grasp it eagerly, rolling his eyes.
'I shook his hand! A real live hero! I won't ever wash it again …'
Julius nodded to him, his eyes showing a mix of respect and something else that Marcus was hard placed to identify. It looked almost like … concern?
'How's your head, Two Knives?'
'Harder than I thought, thank you, Julius.'
The other man nodded with a sardonic smile.
'It's going to have to be, if you're going to keep on like this.'
Rufius poked Julius in the ribs.
'He's just jealous. We've spent the last three days patrolling and sitting around bored, not tucked up in hospital with a nice lady doctor to look after our every need.'
Marcus blushed a deeper shade of red, unable to control the reaction, and Rufius pounced on the display, his bearded face split in a disbelieving grin.
'Ah, so there is something to the rumour?! You lucky bastard! I swear you could fall into shit and come out smelling of myrrh!'
Marcus bit his tongue to prevent a sheepish grin that was hovering on the bounds of his control.
'A gentleman would never discuss such a question. I'll talk to you later.'
He set off up the column with his ears still hot under the helmet's protection, making a mental note to murder his clerk at the first opportunity. The prefect was nowhere to be seen, but Frontinius dropped back from the column's head as soon as he heard Marcus's voice, returning the younger man's salute.
'You can have your century back now that you've caught up with us. Keep them moving at the double march until the signal for a rest comes, and otherwise take your cue from the Raetians ahead. If you see men to the flank, take a good look before you shout – there's a legion out here somewhere, and I wouldn't want the Tungrians to be the ones to point the spear at our own side. Keep your eyes open.'
Marcus nodded acknowledgement, then ran to the head of his century, settling into the ground-eating double march, a blessed relief after the morning's exertion. Antenoch appeared at his shoulder after a moment.
'Good morning, Centurion, I trust you slept well?'
Marcus's eyes slitted, daring the man to push his question any farther. Antenoch took the hint.
'Er, good. I've got some bread and dried meat if you're hungry after your … er … exertions?'
'Give me the food, Antenoch, and keep your mouth shut. It seems that there are far too many people in this cohort making assumptions about my behaviour without you making it any worse.'
He accepted the food and chewed quickly, wanting it inside him and not in his hands if trouble developed, gave his clerk another withering stare and then dropped down the line of march to talk to Dubnus at the century's rear.
'How are they?'
The Briton nodded grimly.
'Ready.'
'What was the morning's briefing?'
'There's a lot happened since your bang on the head. The warbands that came south of the Wall didn't stay long to fight once they found Noisy Valley burnt out and a legion dug in between them and Yew Grove. They've retreated to the north, back past Red River apparently. No one knows why. The Sixth Legion followed up and is somewhere north of the Wall. They've got cavalry in contact with the blue-noses, so now we're moving to close them down for a battle. The prefect's gone to meet the Sixth's legatus, to agree the overall plan. There's a big fight waiting for us, and not too far off either.'
Equitius wondered for the hundredth time how Sollemnis had managed to manoeuvre a whole legion through such close country, and, for that matter, why? His escort, a thirty-man detachment from the Asturian cavalry who seemed to have become Tribune Perennis's personal command, looked nervously to either side of the narrow path, into dense forest vegetation that made vision impossible after no more than a dozen yards. Something took fright deep in the undergrowth and bolted away from the path, making his horse prance nervously for a moment.
'This rather reminds me of the accounts of the Teutoburger Forest I read as a boy.'
The comment went seemingly unnoticed by the younger man for a long moment, before he responded over his shoulder, not bothering to turn in the saddle.
'I had the Asturians map this area's paths during the spring, just in case we needed to move one of the legions round an enemy's flank, if the Wall were under threat. I've got this country etched into my head. Varus made the mistake of advancing into close terrain he'd failed to thoroughly scout. That's the way to lose a legion or three.'
Equitius scowled at the other man's back, hating his self-assured swagger. And yet his plan had succeeded brilliantly so far, moving the legion from its blocking position behind the Wall into a hidden temporary fortress from where they could strike at the enemy warbands without warning, given the right opportunity. It was this very opportunity with which Equitius was riding to join the 6th, news that the Petriana had managed to pinpoint the warband's location. A horseman had galloped into the Cauldron Pool camp the previous afternoon, with news that his detachment had chanced upon the warband's well-beaten path north of the wreck of the Red River fort. Successful in their stealthy tracking of the enemy formation to its current resting place, they were calling for reinforcement, and quickly, before the warband decided to move again.
That old war horse Licinius had led the rest of the Petriana out an hour later, leaving instructions with Equitius to get the 6th Legion committed in their support as soon as possible. They had been riding ever deeper into barbarian territory since early morning, following the legion's path down what was no more than a hunter's track, and now the sun was close to its zenith. The Asturians kept to themselves, leaving him with nobody to talk to other than Perennis, a young man for whom he was gradually developing a marked aversion.
'So, Tribune, how did you come to be posted to this miserable end of the empire?'
Again the calculated pause.
'I asked for the posting. My father told me that the emperor wanted to send a young man of the equestrian class to serve with the Northern Command, to provide him with a first-hand description of the country and its people …'
A thinly disguised reference to his role as an imperial spy which, Equitius sensed, was deliberately sufficiently implausible as to make the real purpose quite apparent.
'Hearing this, I persuaded him to present me to Commodus, and to make the case for my taking the role. The emperor asked me what I would do in the case of my discovering treachery at any level of the army. Even that of a legionary legatus.'
And he paused again, letting the silence drag out.
'I told him that I would quite cheerfully condemn the traitor to a public and agonising death, as a lesson to any others of the same mind. It seemed to hit the right note …'
Equitius would have bet it did. Commodus's reputation for insecurity and bloody overcompensation was already well established. Perennis turned in this saddle, looking back at him.
'I expect you would have said exactly the same.'
Equitius met his eye, suddenly frightened for the first time in several years, hiding his fear behind a slow smile.
'I expect I would.'
Thirty yards ahead of them, and without warning, half a dozen armoured men stepped from the undergrowth, their spears ready to throw. It was, now he thought about it, perfect country to defend. If a column of attackers were surprised on the path they would be bottled up like rats in a lead drainpipe. He glanced to one side, and saw armoured men moving through the woods, closing the trap. The centurion on the path ahead demanded the password, and waited to receive it from Perennis without a change of expression.
Password given and accepted, Equitius looked down at the men as they rode past, grim-faced veterans who looked up at him with the disdain to which he'd become accustomed as an auxiliary officer. Regulars, as convinced of their superiority over any other fighting man as they were that the sun would rise the next day. Proud, and nasty with it, habitually taking no prisoners and expecting no quarter. Where a captured auxiliary would be slaughtered without compunction, as a traitor to his own people, a legionary would be saved for more exquisite treatment, to be exacted at leisure if possible. To the tribes they were not simply soldiers of the hated oppressor, but enemy citizens, or as good as, and both feared and hated in greater proportions accordingly.
A mile down the track they broke out into the open, a clearing in the forest greatly enlarged by the legionaries' labour in felling trees, the fallen trunks stripped of their branches and converted into a rough log palisade around the temporary camp's perimeter. Their branches had been hacked into thousands of stakes and set outside the wall at angles that would impale a careless night attacker. Tents mushroomed across the open space inside the fence, enough for a full legion at eight men to a tent, men still working at strengthening the camp's defences. Equitius smiled, remembering the old adage – give a legion open ground for a night and you got a field camp surrounded by an earthwork four feet high. A week, and they would pillage the surrounding land for the materials to build a full-blown fort. A month, and the officers' mess would look as if it had been there for a year.
The small party passed through the open gateway, making their way to the camp's centre, where the command tents rose above the lower troop and officer versions. Sollemnis met them at the door of his headquarters tent, accepting Perennis's salute with appropriate gravity before clasping Equitius's arm in a warm greeting.
'My good friend, it's been almost a year!'
Equitius nodded soberly, glancing significantly at the tent.
'And now we meet in a time of war, with little time for talk.'
'But talk we must. Perennis, I would invite you to share our discussion, but you probably have duties to attend to?'
The tribune nodded.
'Indeed, sir. I thought I might take a squadron of the Asturians to the west, and make sure that the barbarians haven't slipped away from the Petriana.'
Sollemnis waved a hand absently.
'Very good. Regular dispatches, mind you. I want to know where you are when we move.'
He turned away, gesturing Equitius into the command tent, past the hard-bitten legionaries guarding its flap.
'A drink?'
An orderly came forward with a tray, pouring them both a cup of wine, and then withdrew, leaving the two men alone. Sollemnis gestured to the couch.
'Please, my friend, sit down, you must be tired after a day in the saddle. Now, firstly, tell me what you think about my tribune.'
'Freely?'
'Of course. You're not overheard, and you and I are old friends. Your opinions have always been important to me, never more so than now. So, tell me what you think.'
Equitius weighed his words.
'On one level he seems the most complete soldier. Was this location really his idea?'
'Oh yes, he spent most of last summer cataloguing the ground. He has a sound grasp of tactics, and an understanding of war fighting and strategy that puts men twice his age to shame. And on the other level?'
'He's … dangerous. Do you trust him?'
'Trust his abilities? Absolutely. You'll have heard the stories about our great victory over the Twentieth in last autumn's manoeuvres? That was our Perennis, using the Asturians to scout a way around their flank patrols and bring us down on their supply train like wolves on the flock while the shepherd was away. The senior centurions recognise a kindred spirit, and they worship the ground he walks on. Trust the man? Not likely! He was imposed on me by the governor and on him by the emperor, for the purpose of ensuring my loyalty, but for a young man his ambition burns exceedingly brightly. Too brightly for my liking, I'm afraid. His father's influence, I suppose.'
'So why tolerate him?'
'I refer you back to my first answer. His skills will be invaluable to the legion in this campaign, after which I'll send him back to Rome as a hero to report our victory, and recommended to take command of a legion of his own, with promotion to senatorial rank. In the meantime I'll do everything possible to keep our secret from him. Now, I believe another young man's been making something of a reputation for himself in the last week?'
Equitius smiled wryly.
'Yes. His adoptive father did too good a job of the boy's training, turned him into a bloody assassin. We paired him with an experienced chosen man, in the hope that he'd temper the boy's lack of experience, instead of which they went storming around the countryside at the first opportunity, burning out Calgus's supplies and taking on his cavalry at suicidal odds. But for old Licinius you'd have no son now.'
'Licinius. Gods! How long did it take that old bastard to see through the matter?'
'He didn't have to. He asked me for the truth and I gave it to him. You lie to that man at your peril.'
'Hmm. And his verdict was …?'
'That the boy's too good a soldier to throw away. If the emperor's men discover him, Licinius will of course disown the pair of us as traitors.'
'So we're not discovered … yet.'
The legatus blew a long breath out.
'You have my thanks for your risk. I'll find a way to make amends once this is all dealt with. The Twentieth comes up for command rotation early next year. My recommendation will be for you to take the rank of legatus … not that the position is guaranteed to be in my gift. I never quite understood why it was that you didn't get command of the Twenty-second Primigenia in Germania. You were senior tribune, after all …'
'The legatus and I didn't entirely see eye to eye. He thought it was appropriate for the senior officers to benefit from a variety of incautious frauds against official funds. I didn't. I was caught between two fires – I either informed on him and earned a reputation as a toady, or ignored the situation and paid the price with the rest of them when they were found out. I managed to get the appropriate information to the governor, but I didn't want promotion into the shoes of a man I'd effectively condemned to death, so I asked him to send me to Britannia instead. Being appointed to an auxiliary cohort was the closest thing to a promotion I could have expected under the circumstances. Command of a legion would be a very fine thing indeed, but I'm happy enough with the Tungrians.'
His friend nodded.
'Well, if I get my way you'll have a legion soon enough. In the meanwhile, we should probably concentrate on more pressing business. Tell me about this new development with our esteemed adversary …'
The cohort went north at a fast pace, twice marching past burned-out forts. The smell of charred wood stayed with them long after the ruined outposts were out of sight, as had an altogether more disturbing odour. Marcus was kept busy until after sunset once the cohorts turned off the line of march for the day. Since the prefects had decided to avoid the previous marching camps which abounded in the frontier area, their locations likely to be known and watched, there was a four-foot turf wall to be built and no time to waste. One tent party was drawn by lot and sent to form part of the guard force, an important precaution even if the enemy could not be expected to find their encampment this late in the day, even less attack it. Another tent party was set to prepare the cohort's evening meal. With all tasks distributed and under way, and their section of the rampart growing steadily under Dubnus's expert eye, Marcus suddenly found himself lacking any worthwhile task. Knowing looks were exchanged a moment later as his wiry figure joined the working party to carry cut turfs from the increasingly distant cutting gang to the wall builders.
Antenoch, one of the more skilled rampart builders, threw down the turf he was holding in disgust, watching his officer's more or less clean mail shirt swiftly deteriorate under his first muddy load. He nudged Dubnus, who had graciously made a great show of accepting his presence in the century, who in turn set out to intercept his centurion, but a raised hand forestalled his comment.
'The more bodies involved, the quicker we finish. I can't supervise the wall building, and I can't cut turf or build the rampart with any expertise. The century is all working, I'll bet most of the officers are working, and I'm damned if I'll stand by and watch. Get on with making that rampart sound, and you can teach me the basics later.'
Frontinius walked past on an inspection a few minutes later, searched without success for the centurion's distinctive crested helmet, and was about to ask Dubnus where his officer was when he made out just who the slightly grubby figure delivering turfs to the wall-building gang was. He stood and watched as the tired centurion headed back out to the turf cutters, nodded to himself and then, with a raised eyebrow to Dubnus, went on his way.
With the wall declared complete, high enough to slow an attacker's charge to a walking pace and make excellent spear targets of anyone crossing the obstacle, the cohorts went to dinner, with the exception of the guard units, who paid for their inactivity during the building work with a later meal. Fed, the men turned their hands to their domestic chores in the flickering torchlight, making hurried repairs to clothing and equipment, well-worn jokes and insults flying between the working men in equal measure as they relaxed tired limbs and minds. Their last task was to remove the worst of the day's dirt from their uniforms and faces. A delegation from the 9th promptly demanded Marcus's dirt-caked mail, which they brushed out and returned with a polished gleam.
As the troops turned in for the night, huddled into their blankets and packed tight in their eight-man tents, the officers were called to the headquarters tent for their briefing. Equitius, who had returned just before sunset, ordered the tired centurions to stand easy.
'As you know, I met with the Sixth's legatus early this afternoon. Our situation is more than stabilised – it has become, on the whole, favourable. The Sixth is camped in this forest here …'
He pointed to a point on their rough map twenty miles distant.
'Second and Twentieth Legions have reached the Wall and are marching along the main road to join us. They'll probably arrive some time the day after tomorrow. Sollemnis plans to tackle the warband during that day with everything we can throw at it, and as quickly as possible, before it can gather any more spears. Even if it means starting the attack before the Second and Twentieth arrive. So, we break camp in the morning and march with all speed to join the Petriana and Augustan cavalry wings, which are currently holding position ten miles to the north-west. The Sixth will also move tomorrow, with the intention of joining our forces together and forcing a decisive action. Once we have their position fixed we'll gauge how best to bring them to battle but, and I emphasise this, we'll only fight if we can bring the legion and our own spears to bear, and on the right terrain for our tactics. Together we're twelve thousand men with the cavalry wings, quite enough to make a mess of twice our number of undisciplined barbarians on the right ground. So, go and get some sleep and have your men ready to move at first light. We've got a long marching day in front of us tomorrow.'
Marcus headed back to his tent, eager to roll up in his blanket and snatch a few hours' sleep. As he took his boots off something poked him in the ribs, and he remembered the tablet the orderly had given him that morning, hastily pushed into a tunic pocket and then forgotten in the rush of the day. Opening it, he leaned over close to the single lamp, straining to read the stylus marks on the tablet's hard wax.
'Marcus, thank you for last night. If I were not already taken, you would be my choice. It's cruel how the fates conspire to make this clear only after it's too late. With my love.'
The next day dawned to a thin summer drizzle, accompanied by a sharp wind to mercifully cool the hard-marching cohorts. Goaded by their centurions to a brisk pace, and for once grateful for the absence of unobstructed sunlight, they headed up the North Road towards the abandoned outpost fort at Red River. In the 9th, half a mile ahead of the leading units since the Tungrians were leading the column, nobody was in any doubt as to what they should expect.
'Roaring River Fort burnt to the ground, although I dare say they scoured the place for weapons first. Red River won't be any different.'
Dubnus nodded grimly at Morban's words as they marched, remembering the scene as the cohorts had marched past the shattered remnants of the Roaring River Fort the previous day. In peacetime the fort had been home to a sizeable detachment of auxiliaries, usually rotated out of the Wall units for six months at a time. Positioned north of the Wall, it also attracted more than its share of hangers-on – prostitutes, thieves, merchants and pedlars, all keen to part the soldiers, separated from their usual environment and loved ones, from their money in any way possible.
The warband had evidently come down the North Road fast enough that the evacuating troops had found little time to worry about the occupants of the fort's ramshackle settlements, who had themselves either taken swift flight or paid a severe price for their collaboration. Fifty or sixty men had been nailed to the remaining standing timbers at Roaring River, another twenty farther south at Fort Habitus, all of them smeared with tar and then set ablaze. Only the blackened husks of their bodies had remained, along with an overpowering stench of burnt flesh. Of the women there'd been no sign, although their fate wasn't hard to imagine. There wasn't a man in the cohort that hadn't imagined the same fate for his own fort and shuddered. Already the mood among the troops had changed, from one of concern as to what they might come up against in the field to a hunger to get some revenge, spill barbarian guts and take heads.
The same thought was obviously on Equitius's mind, for he ran forward with Frontinius and a twenty-man bodyguard from the 5th and caught up with the 9th at the milestone three miles before they reached the Red River fort.
'It's off the road here, I think, and time for you scouts to start earning your corn. If this Calgus is half the commander he's cracked up to be they'll have Red River under watch, and I'd rather stay incognito for the time being.'
He looked to either side, then pointed off to their left, at rising ground stretching up to a distant line of trees.
'We'll wait here on the road until you report that the path ahead to that forest is clear.'
The 9th went in the direction indicated, off the road to the left, and started up a narrow farmer's track that led to a rude hut, the abandoned farmer's dwelling, then on up to the treeline. The woods, three hundred yards distant across the abandoned field, were an uncertain refuge, however. Morban took a good hard look and spat derisively into the dust.
'Cocidius above, the entire warband could be in that lot and we'd never know it.'
Marcus turned back to grin at the standard-bearer.
'That's what the prefect meant when he said it was time to earn our corn. Want to take the standard back to the main body?'
'And risk getting jumped on my own on the way back? No, thank you very much, sir, I'll risk it here with a few dozen swords between my soft flesh and the enemy.'
'Very well. Chosen, we'll have a party of scouts up that path as soon as you like, the rest of the century to observe from here until we know what's behind the trees. Nice and steady, no need for shouting or rushing about.'
Dubnus nodded, walking through the troops and picking his scouts by hand, briefing them in measured tones rather than the usual parade-ground roar. The five men chosen shook out into an extended line across the field, then started climbing the slope at a measured pace, slow enough that they had time to strip ears of corn from the standing crop. They nibbled at the immature kernels as they moved through the thigh-deep green carpet.
'Look at those lucky bastards, just strolling in the country and chewing some poor bloody farmer's wheat.'
Morban spun to glare at the speaker, the soldier Scarface, shaking the bagged standard at the man, then whispered at him sotto voce.
'Shut your mouth, you stupid sod. Firstly, it's them risking a spear in the guts, not you, so a few nibbles of corn isn't exactly a great reward. Secondly, if your bellowing brings a fucking great warband down out of those trees before the rest of the cohort gets here to die with us, I am personally going to stick this standard right up your arse before they cut my head off. Statue end first!'
Scarface hung his head, red faced. Tongue lashings from Morban, while not exactly rare, were usually less vehement.
The scouts progressed up the slope, vanishing into the trees together as if at some preordained signal. After a moment a man reappeared at the wood's edge, waving them to come forward with some urgency. The century went up the track at the double, Marcus leading the way in his eagerness to see what had animated the man. Antenoch drew his sword and stayed close to his centurion, his eyes moving across the trees with hard suspicion as they ran up the slope. Morban, hurrying along behind them, muttered an insult at the clerk's back.
'What's the matter, Antenoch, hasn't he paid you yet this month?'
Inside the wood, in the shade and quiet, Marcus found two of the scouts conferring over something, while the other three were dimly visible fifty or sixty yards distant, moving deeper into the trees. There were flies swarming in the still air, their scratchy buzz sawing at his nerves as they criss-crossed the scene. The man who had waved them up the track, now recognisable as Cyclops, gestured to the ground with some excitement.
'They were here all right, sir, a day ago, perhaps two.'
Marcus looked. In a small pit, dug a foot or so into the earth, a pile of human excrement and small animal bones formed an untidy still life, a small cloud of buzzing flies still feasting on their find. He turned to find Dubnus at his shoulder. The chosen man looked down into the pit, then squatted down and poked at one of the stools with a twig.
'These men got lazy, didn't bury their leavings properly. Cyclops, look for other pits, probably filled in. See how many you can find. Two Knives, you need to brief the prefect. This is a day old from the feel of it, no more, or the flies would have lost interest by now. These were probably the men that torched Red River, set an ambush here in case there were Roman forces in the area to come to the rescue. These woods would easily conceal a whole warband, and hide their fires …'
'Sir!'
The call came from the scouts deeper into the woods. Marcus shot a glance at them.
'Dubnus, you brief the prefect, I'll see what's got their attention.'
He went on into the woods, the century spreading out to either side, spears and shields held ready. The scouts beckoned him on, pointing to the ground. Now that he took the time to look he saw that the damp earth was pressed flat for a hundred yards in all directions, the marks of many boots. Most of the prints, the most recent, were pointed in the same direction. West. |
Wounds of Honor | Anthony Riches | [
"historical fiction"
] | [
"Rome",
"war",
"Empire"
] | Chapter 14 | The cavalrymen's horses fretted at their reins, impatient to be away from the plodding infantry column and free to run. The prefect had a dozen horsemen, his escort from the 6th's camp, to use as swift messengers in the absence of the Petriana's courier riders. Four were to be loosed now, tasked to ride north-east and find the oncoming legion, to warn them that a second warband was in the field. The headquarters clerks finished coding the message with the day's cipher and a centurion whisked the tablets out to the waiting horsemen.
Equitius scratched his beard, increasingly itchy as the spartan field regime of cold-water washing took its toll on his cleanliness. He'd manoeuvred the column off the road and into the woods, then dropped his five cohorts into a swift defensive posture while he composed his message to Sollemnis. Another warband on the move gave Calgus much greater ability to threaten any advancing Roman force, manoeuvre to strike at a flank or rear while the first held their attention. Even more than before he knew the critical importance of adding their four thousand spears to those of the legion, for both their sakes. He raised an eyebrow questioningly at Frontinius.
'And now, First Spear, before I call the other prefects to confer, your advice, please. Do we push forward to our meeting point with the legion, or make a more cautious approach? There could be ten thousand or more spears waiting for us out there.'
Frontinius pondered, rubbing his scalp.
'I say we hump forward to join with the Sixth as quickly as we can. Better to be part of a combined force than wait about out here for the barbarians to find us. The Ninth can scout forward half a mile in advance, make sure we don't fall into any nasty little traps.'
Equitius nodded his agreement, turning to walk away.
'Very well, I'll get the other cohorts ready to move. You'd better get the Ninth on the job.'
The day's advance was for the most part a non-event. The 9th went forward at a steady pace while individual tent parties were directed to any feature of the rolling ground capable of concealing an enemy. Every copse, every wrinkle in the ground, was investigated by nervous soldiers, their caution easing as the day grew older and still no sign of the enemy was found. The beaten path left by the warband's passage had turned gradually away to the north-west, while the cohorts' meeting point with the 6th lay directly to the west.
By the middle of the afternoon the wind had died away to nothing, and the soldiers were starting to get hot and irritable under the burden of their armour. Helmets were removed and hung around the troops' necks, allowing the sweat to evaporate from their scalps rather than soak into their helmet liners, and water skins became an increasing source of temptation when a centurion's back was turned. One of the questing tent parties, investigating a small clump of trees just off the line of march, beckoned Marcus and Dubnus forward with frantically waved hands, the rest of the century deploying to either side in guard positions. In the middle of the copse was a grim scene, already busy with flies and stinking of decay's onset. Half a dozen men lay dead, one with his throat cut untidily wide open, the others with combat wounds. Dubnus examined the bodies, looking at each one's blue tattoos with care.
'They're from the same tribe, but four of the bodies are from one family group, two from another. They must have quarrelled …'
He moved one of the bodies with his foot, pulling a hunting bow from an indignant cloud of flies, a quiver of a dozen heavy iron-tipped arrows tied to the weapon.
'… and they must have been in a hurry to leave to have missed this. I'd guess that some of the losers escaped, and the winners headed for the warband, eager to get their version of events in front of their tribal elders first.'
He strapped the bow across his back, having tested the tautness of its string. Frontinius came forward with the runner sent to fetch him, and surveyed the scene unhappily. He looked hard at the bodies, then nodded agreement to Dubnus.
'You're right, a family squabble by the look of things. This could have been a scouting party, or just a group of men on their way to join the warband, but either way, it tells us that we're too close to the main force for my comfort. We'll push on as planned, but I want extra vigilance from here.'
The rest of the afternoon, however, passed without incident, at least until the 9th spotted a line of horse-drawn carts against the dark green mass of the next line of hills, and a row of machines made tiny by the distance.
'Legion artillery train,' Morban grunted. 'The rest of them'll be on top of the hills digging out a camp while those lazy bastards sit on their arses.'
They stopped to wait for the cohorts to catch up with them, unwilling to advance out towards the line of bolt throwers and catapults until everyone knew exactly who they were. Legion artillerymen were notoriously quick to fire at almost anything that moved, and their weapons were capable of punching a bolt through a man at four hundred paces. Once the cohorts had advanced to their position Frontinius took the 9th forward at a cautious pace, until a detachment of the legion's cavalry galloped over to investigate them. Their decurion nodded recognition, saluted Frontinius and pointed up the hillside.
'The Sixth's up there digging in, First Spear, and you're invited to join them as soon as possible. There's probably twenty thousand enemy spears within a half-day's march of here, and the legatus's keen to get everyone into defensive positions for the night.'
They marched past the supply train, eyeing the evil-looking bolt throwers, painted with names like 'Maneater' and 'Ribsplitter', and their lounging crews, then climbed the hill's long slope until they reached the crest, where a scene from a hundred field exercises greeted them. The legion's six thousand men were labouring like slaves, a steady flow of cut turfs flowing to the rampart building gangs. The 6th's camp prefect strode out to meet them, pointing over the temporary fort's rising walls to a point on the far side.
'Glad to see you, prefect, your last message put the wind up everyone. We'd like your cohorts on the eastern face, since that's the side where the slope's shallowest.'
Equitius shot a wry smile at Frontinius before replying.
'I'll take the fact that you want us to protect the most vulnerable face of the camp as a vote of confidence, Prefect. I presume that if we come under attack you'll consider yourselves invited to the party?'
Later, dug in and fed, their artillery placed around the camp and their watch fires set twice over to delude enemy scouts as to the size of their force until the camp seemed ablaze, the troops sat uneasily in their tent parties and centuries, mulling over the likelihood of action the next day. The older men passed down their wisdom, such as it was, to the younger troops, while officers and their chosen men circulated their commands, each seeking in his own way to bolster their morale. The circulation of officers was not restricted to the junior ranks either. Late in the evening Legatus Sollemnis walked into the Tungrians' lines, a dozen-man bodyguard walking about him with jealous eyes. He clasped hands with Equitius, and joined him in the headquarters tent for a cup of wine.
'So, are your men ready for tomorrow? We'll get our chance to measure our skills against theirs very soon now if I read the signs correctly.'
'Signs?'
'Didn't the camp prefect tell you? Sometimes I wonder how that man ever made it past centurion … Our cavalry scouts have the warband you've been following located, and under close watch, about ten thousand men strong. They've occupied an old hill fort, but without their own scouts they're blind, and we have freedom of tactical manoeuvre I never thought I'd enjoy on hostile ground. The original warband, the one Perennis located two days ago, is still thirty miles distant, and not showing any signs of moving yet. It's a chance to defeat the warbands piecemeal before they join together, and one I intend to take with both hands. We have the bastards that razed every fort on the North Road in our grasp my friend, and in the morning we'll give them a taste of the hammer and anvil.'
He unrolled a rough hand-drawn map of the area.
'We're here, about ten miles from the barbarian camp. Tomorrow I shall send your five cohorts and four of my own, under your command, around their left flank by this route, and send you into their rear. I will take the main body of the legion forward in frontal attack, with an approach to contact across this open area, using these two large woods as cover for as long as possible. Calgus will find spears whichever way he turns, and we shall have them bottled up for the slaughter.'
Equitius frowned.
'It's aggressive, that's clear enough. What about a reserve?'
Sollemnis nodded his understanding.
'I know, I've thought long and hard, but for a start we've got the Petriana, and your formation will act as a reserve of sorts. The simple truth is that this thing's balanced on a knife-edge – we need to get at them before the first warband joins up and makes them too big to tackle without the other legions. If we can exploit their lack of scouting ability to hit them without warning, we can get the job done quickly and efficiently.'
The other man frowned again, uncomfortable at having to tell his friend his misgivings about the plan.
'And you're basing all this on the reports of our scouts. Who presumably are still under the command of your senior tribune …?'
'Yes, and the answer to your unspoken question is just as it was before. Do I trust him not to play a dangerous game once all this is over? Of course not! But he's proved adept with his Asturians, better than the Petriana since he took over the task to let Licinius rest his men. He's put me in a position to cripple this revolt with a single decisive blow, and if I fail to take that opportunity I'll find myself recalled to Rome before you can say "imperial death warrant for failing to put down barbarian uprising". What would you do?'
Equitius nodded his agreement, although his face lost little of its pensive cast.
'If you want an honest opinion, Gaius, I'd say it's risky. There's no proper reserve, the advance to contact takes your force past two large woods that could hide thousands of men, and it's all based on reports from a man I wouldn't trust for a second … but I take your point about the risks of delaying.'
'And if we catch them in the open, without time to form up, we can grind them to shreds between our shield walls. It's a risk, but it's one I have to take. Will you take it with me?'
Equitius put a hand on his friend's shoulder, looking hard into his eyes.
'As if you even need to ask …'
Sollemnis nodded, his lips pursed with gratitude and emotion.
'Thank you. And now, I would appreciate a tour of your unit. You'll understand that there's one officer in particular I would appreciate meeting, if only briefly. I haven't seen the boy since he turned twelve apart from a brief meeting under difficult circumstances …'
The prefect raised an eyebrow.
'Are you sure that's wise? It might be better to let that sleeping dog lie.'
'I understand your concern. Look, it'll do your boys good to see that I'm out and about, and I'll only be with each century for a minute or two. I'd just like to see him once more before we confront the barbarians. By this time tomorrow one or both of us could be face down in the dirt – I'd prefer to have seen my son the way I want to remember him, rather than the way circumstances might force upon us. Please.'
Equitius relented, shaking his head slightly.
'Being too damned persuasive got you that particular problem in the first place, I seem to remember. You always were too good at getting what you wanted. I'll have Frontinius walk you around the cohort, a brief tour of inspection. Don't give the lad any reason to suspect the truth, though. The last thing I need on the night before a major action is a centurion wondering whether his dead father really was his father, wouldn't you agree?'
The First Spear met the legatus outside the cohort's command tent as bidden a few minutes later. He saluted formally, and then stood to attention.
'Legatus, I believe you have requested a tour of my cohort?'
Sollemnis smiled at him, waving a dismissive hand.
'Relax, First Spear, I just want to see what state my troops are in for tomorrow's fun and games.'
'We attack tomorrow, sir? Without waiting for the other legions?'
'Yes, and I've just had this conversation with your prefect. There are some aspects of the plan which are less than perfect, but if we destroy this one warband then we can put Calgus on the defensive. And we might well find that a disheartened barbarian army melts away in the face of a successful outcome tomorrow.'
Frontinius kept his mouth shut and Sollemnis, sensing his disquiet, extended a hand to point into the camp.
'So, shall we have a look at your men?'
They walked into the camp, heading for the closest watch fire.
As arranged at their last meeting, before the warband's rampage to the south, Calgus went to the hill fort's eastern entrance shortly after dark had fallen. His army was gathered inside the tall earth rampart's wide perimeter, taking full advantage of the protection afforded by the massive earthwork. He had, with some trepidation, agreed to the Roman traitor's suggestion that he bring the warband to its fullest possible strength in this ancient place, knowing that his army would be in deep trouble if the three enemy legions took them by surprise. Now he waited in the torchlit darkness with his bodyguard clustered close around him, eager to see if the man was as good as his word.
After a few minutes' wait a voice called softly out of the darkness.
'Bring him to me. Don't damage him.'
Four men walked forward into the night with torches, finding Perennis waiting for them fifty yards down the road, his open hands raised to show that he was unarmed. He walked back to where the barbarian leader waited, seemingly as relaxed as ever despite the spears pointing at him from all angles.
'Calgus. I see your hunger for victory has overwhelmed the risk that I might be leading you into a trap?'
'I have more than twenty thousand men at my back, Roman. I doubt there's a trap you could spring that I couldn't batter to pieces.'
Perennis smiled, the gesture half hidden in the torchlight.
'I warned you a week ago that the southern legions were farther advanced in their progress than you believed. Now I can tell you that they've reached the Wall, and are hurrying to join with the Sixth Legion. Once they've joined your chance to take advantage of my plan will be at an end, and you and I will be firm enemies rather than allies of convenience. I estimate that you have until noon tomorrow in which to strike, and no more time than that. We must conclude our business quickly if you're not to find yourself rudely interrupted by the Second and Twentieth Legions. So what's it to be, bloody victory or an ignominious retreat back into the hills? You know you can't face them in open battle.'
Calgus turned away, staring out into the darkness, his features unreadable.
'What do you propose? Even a single legion will cause my people grievous losses if I allow them to face us in line of battle with the support of their auxiliary cohorts. Have you brought my army here just to tell me we've no alternative but to run, or give battle in the very way that has always resulted in our defeat? Because if you have …'
The Roman interrupted him impatiently.
'I propose the ambush that's been in my mind since the first time I scouted this ground six months ago. I propose your warriors taking the legion by surprise while it's still deployed for the march. That way you can strike from both sides, and avoid the danger of the cohorts getting into line. There's a place not far from here that fits the bill perfectly, funnily enough.'
Later on in the evening, with most of the troops bedded down if not actually sleeping, and the legatus safely back among his own men, Equitius invited Frontinius to join him in a cup of wine, as was often their habit in the field. They sat in the flickering lamplight and talked as friends, the artificial restrictions of their ranks temporarily abandoned.
'So what did Sollemnis say while you were out walking the cohort with him?'
Frontinius took a sip of his wine.
'After we'd spoken to a couple of the centurions he asked me what I really thought about his intention to attack Calgus tomorrow.'
Equitius grimaced.
'And you said?'
'I told him that his role of late seems to consist mainly of putting my cohort in harm's way.'
Equitius grimaced again.
'Ouch. And what did he say to that?'
'He apologised for sending young Marcus to us, explained how he had no option under the circumstances. Then he asked what I thought of the boy. I told him that it was an unfair question under the circumstances, and that he should form his own opinions when he met him. Well, we walked into the Ninth's area just after that, got challenged very smartly, had a chat with young Two Knives and a few of his men, made our excuses and moved on. We can't have been there for more than two or three minutes, but it was enough for the legatus. He stopped to wipe his eyes in the shadow of a tent. When he spoke to me again he was obviously choked up by seeing his boy again. And, bearing in mind that he might not get to see him again, that seemed understandable. Now, Prefect, show me exactly what it is that our august leader plans for the morning.'
He stared at the map spread across the table in front of them, putting a finger on the position where the barbarian warband was reported to be camped.
'They're here …?'
'As reported by the younger Perennis, yes.'
'Hmm. We break camp at dawn, make a swift march to contact … can't be more than six or seven miles … and if they're in the same place when we arrive it should be a reasonably straightforward fight unless they decide to run away. Our ten thousand men against their ten thousand men, and us with the advantages of at least partial surprise and able to fight on our own terms.'
'Yes. Although you've failed to guess one aspect of the plan. He intends splitting his force into two parts, hammer and anvil. We're not going to let them run away, we're going for a battle of annihilation.'
Frontinius's eyebrows rose.
'And you think that's wise? Risk them catching and defeating each of our smaller forces in turn?'
'He's set on it. The fact that Perennis's scouts have set the whole thing up for him doesn't leave him with much alternative from his point of view.'
Frontinius shook his head.
'Well, that goes against the style of warfare that I was taught. If it all goes right we could kill lots of barbarians tomorrow, but if anything goes wrong, if they've moved since the last scout report, or if there's more of them around that we haven't found, we could both be decorating Calgus's roof beams in a week or two. I'd better go and treat this tired old body to a few hours' sleep.'
The legion and its supporting cohorts snatched a hasty breakfast in the dull grey light of dawn, and were on the march less than thirty minutes after the sun had cleared the horizon. Taking another calculated risk, Sollemnis had decided that they would camp in the same place that evening, and thus avoided the lost time of actually striking camp, leaving their tents standing ready for the legion's return. The long column of men snaked north, led by a detachment of the Asturian cavalry who had returned from their place watching the warband late the previous night. Only Perennis and a few picked men had remained in place, and they would have pulled out at first light, heading for a prearranged meeting point to provide the legatus with a last-minute briefing on the warband's dispositions.
While the Tungrians were far back down the order of march, back behind the 6th's last cohort, Equitius had ridden away with Sollemnis's officers to participate in the final orders group that would start once Perennis and his scouts rejoined the column. As the legion moved forward he stopped his horse for a moment to take the sight in, turning in the saddle to stare back down the line of soldiers marching four abreast up the rough track that had been chosen as their approach route for the battle to come. Sollemnis ranged up alongside him, his horse steaming slightly in the chilly dawn air. He recognised a cohort's senior centurion and saluted gravely, getting a brief nod and hurried salute back from the officer as he passed.
'It isn't often you'll see a whole legion bashing along this fast. Even on exercise the centurions have to lay the vine stick on pretty hard to get their boys really sweating, and yet just look at them this morning …'
The hard-bitten legionaries were slogging past them at a pace reserved for those times when the legion needed to be somewhere else very quickly indeed, and some of them were clearly already suffering from the exertion. They had been forbidden to sing this morning for fear of making too much noise – any song would in any case have quickly been blown out by their blistering pace. Equitius could already see faces in the ranks that were stretched by the effort of sucking in enough air to keep men and their sixty-pound load of armour and weapons moving so quickly. Another century passed, the officer ranging easily alongside his men with one eye on the road and the other on his people, sparing a quick glance and a sardonic smile for the officers sitting comfortably on their horses. Other glances lacked the hint of humour and were simply surly in the face of such relative luxury.
'My officers were about as happy with the prospect of today's battle as you were last night. They also asked about our lack of a defined reserve, and some of the senior centurions were quite vocal on the subject. If anything goes wrong, Mars protect us, there'll be a long queue of them ready to testify that they warned me about the dangers.'
Equitius nodded sagely.
'Quite possibly including myself, if you have the misfortune to end up with your head on the end of a spear. But if we succeed …'
'Ah, if we succeed, the old saying comes into play. You know, "victory is a child with a thousand fathers …"?'
'So, first father of today's triumph, where are we holding the orders group before splitting into two forces?'
'Two more miles up the road, if Perennis is at the spot he's chosen to meet us.'
They rode on and, as expected, Perennis was indeed waiting for them at the preordained place, a fork in the road. His Asturians tarried a short distance away, an evil-looking decurion and half a dozen horsemen, while he walked forward and saluted Sollemnis with precision. For a man who had spent the night at best rolled in his cloak and sleeping in a ditch, he looked fresh and ready for the day.
'Legatus, I have a report for you from the point of decision.'
Sollemnis nodded, gesturing his officers to gather round before motioning Perennis to begin.
'Sir, the barbarian warband is still in the same location and apparently suspects nothing. Their strength is estimated at ten thousand men, and when we left they were waking up for the day, with cooking fires lit and no sign of preparation for combat. If you still intend attacking, I would say that our chances of success are almost total.'
Sollemnis looked at his other officers as he replied.
'Thank you, Tigidius Perennis this is good news. Gentlemen, I have decided to attack as we planned last night. The first six cohorts of the Sixth will advance in column across the open valley to the enemy's front, using the woods to the right and left as cover for the move. This advance will be carried out at the battle march. On my command we will deploy into battle line and assault the barbarian hill fort. The legion artillery will accompany us, and will provide support from the flanks, if it can be deployed quickly enough.
'At the same time, the Sixth's remaining four cohorts, plus our five auxiliary cohorts, this force to be commanded by Prefect Equitius, will advance around the right flank. This force will take position ready to strike at the barbarian left and rear once the main force is engaged. The signal for them to attack will be three loud trumpet blasts followed by the advance signal. If the flank force is detected, or sees anything to indicate an alerted enemy, Prefect Equitius will sound three blasts followed by the stand fast signal, and will deploy into line ready for battle. In this case I will judge a response from the tactical situation to hand. My intention is to draw the barbarians into a battle and then close the door behind them. Gentlemen, we're not just going to defeat this collection of savages masquerading as soldiers, we're going to rip them limb from limb. Tell your men that this is going to be a victory that they'll sing about for many years to come. That is all.'
His officers turned to go back to their places.
'Ah, one more thing.'
They turned back to face him again, faces expectant.
'I hear there's talk in the legion about what happened when the North Road forts fell – Roman citizens, soldiers and civilians, tarred and torched, and the gods only know what indignities carried out on them beforehand. I expect that you've all heard men calling for equally harsh treatment to be given in return whenever we get the opportunity …?'
They waited expectantly.
'I have to say that I agree wholeheartedly. Tell your commands that there will no mercy shown to any of the enemy attempting to surrender or escape. Any prisoners that are taken will be processed to my headquarters, and will be crucified this evening. Their legs will not be broken and they will be left to die slowly with no exceptions save one. If we take Calgus alive, he'll be paraded through Rome before he feels the strangler's cord tighten at his windpipe. That is all.'
Equitius saddled up and rode back down the long column of resting legionaries, most of them lying on their backs, recovering from their exertions of the previous hour, until he reached the 7th cohort and called for the senior centurions of the last four cohorts in the column. With the officers gathered around him he confirmed the orders from Sollemnis, and told them to get their men moving. The cohorts got ready to move without any of the shouting and chivvying usual in some legions, their air of quiet determination and competence reassuring Equitius that his temporary command would perform well enough when battle was joined.
The nine cohorts headed up the track past the remainder of the 6th, past Sollemnis, who watched them pass with a pensive expression, turning right at the fork on to another track. If their scout's intelligence was correct, this road would take them along the edge of the shallow valley through which the 6th would advance to battle, round the barbarian left flank and into the position from which their attack could be launched. Equitius scanned the horizon until he saw the landmark he'd been told to look for, then reined his horse in alongside the senior centurion of the leading cohort.
'Head for that wood on the horizon, and keep your eyes open for barbarian scouts. If we're compromised I'd rather have some time to do something about it. I'm going back down the column for a chat with the auxiliaries. If you get to the wood before I'm back up here, break the march for a ten-minute rest.'
The other man nodded his understanding, and Equitius turned his horse to ride back down the column. He found the Tungrians sweating away in their place behind the last legionary cohort, and rode alongside Frontinius for a moment.
'Is the cohort ready?'
His bald head beaded with moisture, Frontinius grimaced up at his superior.
'As ready as we'll ever be. Let's just hope the scouts have got it right.'
Turning again, Equitius rode to the column's rear, stopping to talk to his fellow prefects. Each of them was grimly determined, their men looking much the same as did his own, a combination of warlike posture and underlying nerves. In the distance to their rear he could see the main force column snaking away from its rest position, heading for the side of the nameless shallow valley. Back at the front of the column the wood was drawing closer, and when it was less than half a mile away he spurred his horse forward to investigate before his men arrived.
The trees were silent and empty, with no hint of an enemy presence, and Equitius climbed down from the horse to take in the scene in the valley below, creeping cautiously to avoid making his silhouette stand out above the steadily brightening skyline. The wood was positioned at the valley's head, a small stream flowing down through it and across the almost flat expanse below. Two larger woods half filled the space, one to his right half a mile distant down the slight slope, the other half as much again to his left, and he stared intently at them for a long moment. If there were to be any threat to the 6th's approach march, it would surely come from within the densely packed trees. Nothing moved. Indeed, the landscape was preternaturally still, without even birdsong, and a vague sense of unease permeated his thinking as he watched the shadows imperceptibly shortening under the rising sun's gaze.
He turned back to look for the approaching column, and saw the leading troops less than four hundred paces distant. Remounted, he cantered the horse across to them and ordered the senior centurion to rest his men there rather than risk having them appear on the skyline and alerting any zealous barbarian foot scouts. As the first centuries fell out for their breather, a party of horsemen came into view, hurrying up the line of soldiers, pursued by the inevitable obscene catcalls. As the group approached, he realised that it was Perennis and his Asturian escort, headed by the glowering decurion. The legion tribune rode up and, without preamble or greeting, launched into his orders.
'A message from the legatus. He's received new intelligence and has therefore changed the plan. The Sixth Legion cohorts are detached from your command, as are the Second Tungrian, Raetian, Aquitani and Frisian cohorts. I am to lead these units to form a blocking position to the rear of the main force, while your cohort is to remain here and provide a watch on the woods to the right of the main line of march. You're to keep the cohort well away from the valley's edge, at least four hundred paces, and you personally are commanded to watch the valley from cover. Any enemy movement to the rear of these woods, which you will see before the main force, is to be alerted to the legatus by the triple sounding of a trumpet followed by the stand fast signal as previously agreed.'
Equitius stared at the man in disbelief. To change a battle plan halfway through the approach to contact was downright dangerous, and went against everything that both he and Sollemnis had been taught. Questions flooded his mind.
'What new intelligence? What could have changed so dramatically as to invalidate the original plan?'
Perennis looked at him with irritation and urgency, pulling a tablet from the tunic beneath his armour.
'Prefect Equitius, I am neither granted the time nor ordered to explain what's going on. Time is of the essence now, and I must carry out my orders without delay. Read this, and you will see that my orders are lawful.'
He wheeled his horse away, calling to the 7th Cohort's senior centurion.
'Decimus, you old bastard, get your grunts ready to march right now. We're heading to the west to get into position to guard the Sixth's backside!'
The officer looked at Equitius and shrugged, entirely used to the legion way of doing business.
'They're legal orders, right, Prefect?'
Equitius scanned the tablet carefully. While the writing could have been anyone's, the mark of Sollemnis's seal was unmistakable.
'Yes, First Spear, they are.'
'In that case, sir, we'll see you later. Seventh cohort, on your feet!'
The long column started moving again, the line of march swinging back to the west as it reached the place where Equitius was sitting unhappily on his horse. The Tungrians fell out of the column as they came up ten minutes later, the other auxiliary prefects stopping briefly to sympathise as they passed, and then the column was gone, marching out of sight behind a small hill.
Frontinius walked up to Equitius with a perplexed expression.
'All I heard was that we were to stay here. What the fuck's going on, Prefect?'
Equitius climbed down from his horse, passing the message tablet to his deputy.
'You tell me. One moment we're marching to take part in a pitched battle and massacre ten thousand blue-faced savages, the next I'm standing here with my phallus in my hand just in case something that those scouts assured Sollemnis couldn't happen does happen. Something smells very wrong here. Anyway, you'd better brief your officers, pull the cohort back to four hundred yards from the crest. I'll stay here to watch the valley.'
He walked unhappily away.
Frontinius took a good look around, taking in their new surroundings, and then called Marcus to him.
'Right, Centurion, you can take a tent party and scout out that wood for me. I want to be sure there are no nasty little surprises waiting for us in there, and I want to know anything else that's worth knowing about it. Keep below the skyline and don't go anywhere near the edge of the trees, I don't want anyone spotting you. Dismissed.'
Marcus gathered Dubnus and a tent party to him, leading them along the edge of the wood with deliberate care. Dubnus took the hunting bow he'd found the previous day from its place on his back and nocked an arrow, the cruel barbed head glinting in the sunshine. Close to the narrow stream that flowed down into the trees they found a path, two men wide but showing no recent sign of passage by either boot or bare feet. Thorns and branches grew across it at intervals.
'Hunter's path …' Dubnus mused. '… there must be a source of game near.'
Marcus took a look down through the archway of trees, down a path that ran arrow straight to the thumbnail-sized speck of daylight at the far end.
'Chosen, you're best at this sort of thing, scout forward for us. Cyclops, you come with me to provide the chosen man with support if he needs it. The rest of you squat down here and keep out of sight. If I call, get down this path as fast as you can and be ready to fight. Otherwise, don't move!'
Dubnus slid into the trees, deep shadow still covering the wood's floor out of the thin early light. The smell of pine needles filled the air, and insects buzzed lazily at the intrusion. He stepped softly down the path, sweeping the arrow's head slowly from side to side as if using the point to sense for enemies. Fifty yards down the path the wood was utterly silent, the trees undisturbed by animal or breeze, the exit at the far end of the path a coin-sized arch of light. Something moved off to the right, almost imperceptibly, and the arrow tracked round to cover that arc, holding steady as Dubnus bent the bow back the last inches to its full tension, with only two fingers stopping its explosive release of energy. A hare bolted from cover, weaving across the needle-coated floor, twisted in mid-leap and fell to rest transfixed by three feet of hunting arrow. Marcus and Cyclops, following up ten yards behind, breathed out long sighs of released tension. Dubnus plucked out another arrow and nocked it to the string in one fluid motion.
Five paces from the path's end he stopped, motioning the other men forward. Marcus squatted behind him, peering over his shoulder. Through the arch of trees he could see most of the valley, but was sure that they would be invisible inside the path's dark tunnel. The long grass that grew across the valley waved in idle ripples in the gentle breeze, while the trees in the large woods to right and left waved their branches fitfully. Dubnus stared intently at the scene, something as yet unidentified nagging at his sense of what felt right. To their left a sudden movement caught the eye, men coming over the side of the valley and spilling out on to the slope, a column of men moving fast and with purpose.
'The Sixth.'
Marcus nodded, watching their progress while Dubnus scanned the valley again, his gaze coming back to the woods that were piquing his suspicion without providing a basis for real concern. The legion ground across the valley at a fast pace, almost running now, centurions urging their men on with encouragement and imprecation, desperate to close the distance and get into line, knowing the vulnerability of a column in the face of a determined attack. The woods rippled their branches blamelessly in the breeze, catching his eye again, and as he stared at them the realisation hit him with a force that turned his legs to stone for a long second.
'The trees.'
Marcus looked over his shoulder, seeing only massed greenery.
'What?'
'Look at the branches. They're in the fucking branches!'
He leapt to his feet and sprinted back up the path, leaving a bemused Marcus looking for something his chosen man had spotted, but he could not work out what it was. Then Cyclops whistled low behind him.
'The branches, Two Knives, they're not moving together. The bloody barbarians are in the trees!'
'This is the point of decision, sir, these next two or three minutes.'
The 4th Cohort's First Spear wiped a hand across his sweat-beaded forehead, his legs pounding away on the soft grass to keep up the legion's pace. Sollemnis nodded gravely, recognising the truth in the panted words. A legion in column in close country was a notoriously vulnerable situation. Varus had proved it at the Battle of the German Forest by advancing three legions into a massive and well-prepared ambush by German tribesmen, red-haired giants not unlike the present enemy, and had paid with his own life and eighteen thousand other men's besides. Deployed into line, the legion could quickly reorient to meet any threat, could employ its disciplined fighting power against an enemy and exchange lives at a rate of three dead barbarians to one lost legionary. In column, with heavy cover to either side, a clever enemy could attack the legion's rear no matter which way the marching men turned to fight. As long as Perennis was right, and they could reach the line of attack undetected, all would be well …
He turned back to look down the marching column. The 6th Cohort had cleared the valley side. The head of the column was now level with the wood to their left, and was swinging to take full advantage of the cover of the one to their right.
'Five minutes, I'd say, then we'll be out of the cover of that wood and start deploying.'
He'd ordered that the column break out into two three-cohort-long lines four men deep, with the rearmost line ready to feed men into the grinder as barbarian axes and swords progressively ate into the front ranks.
'Anyone from the front rank that survives the day will be awarded the assault medal. With ten thousand barbarians to hack through and a hill fort to storm, I'd say they'll have earned it.'
His senior centurion nodded agreement. The defeated barbarians were likely to fall back into their fort, and even with the bolt throwers set up on the flanks a few hundred yards back, spitting their foot-long bolts into the hill fort to discourage the barbarian archers, it was going to be an unpleasant day for the men going face to face with the warband.
The column's head was approaching the right-hand wood now, three minutes of vulnerability left, and then he'd take a victory that would stamp out this rebellion and put fear into the barbarians that would keep them quiet north of the Wall for another generation. Calgus, if he were taken alive, would be carried off in chains and paraded in front of the emperor before a staged execution. If not, his head would have to do. He knew of native scouts who understood the art of preserving a dead man's head for years, and he would have Perennis take it to Commodus with the 6th's Legion's badge stamped on to the dead man's forehead, cement his place in imperial favour and kill the rumours of disloyalty for good. He smiled to himself at the image. Perhaps he ought to have Perennis dealt with too …
From the ridge-line to the north of the advancing legion cohorts a trumpet note sounded, catching the attention of every man in the column, repeated itself, then sounded a third time, the note switching into the stand fast call and making his guts contract. It was the signal that he'd ordered Equitius to give if they were detected, or found an alerted enemy, but it was coming from the wrong place.
With a sudden rattling hammer of iron against armour plate hundreds of arrows ripped into the legion's ranks, dropping dozens of unprepared legionaries in writhing agony or sudden death. The column dithered for a moment, another rain of arrows striking home, and this time Sollemnis saw what he'd missed in the surprise of the first volley – that they were being fired from above head height, negating the defensive protection of the legionaries' shields. A legionary near him spun and fell, an arrow lodged deep in his throat, another jerking and then toppling stiffly backwards to the ground with a feathered shaft protruding between the cheek-pieces of his helmet. The hissing passage of an arrow past his left ear warned that he was the archers' target.
'They're in the trees!'
At least one centurion had come to the same conclusion, and several centuries started to form testudos, shields held to side and overhead to frustrate the attacks, getting ready to charge into the trees and dig out the barbarian archers at close quarters. Then, as the situation started to stabilise after the first shock of attack, a thick wave of tribesmen bounded from the woods to either side of the stalled column with a berserk howl that lifted the hairs on the back of the legatus's neck, pouring out of their cover in an apparently unending stream of rage to charge into the nearest cohorts. Swinging swords and axes with hate-fuelled ferocity, the barbarians smashed into the unformed line, in an instant exploding the legion's carefully trained fighting tactic of shield wall and stabbing sword into thousands of individual duels. Sollemnis knew only too well that these were fights in which an infantryman armed with a short infantry-pattern sword was at a disadvantage faced with a weapon of twice the length.
He regained his wits, drew his sword and bellowed above the din.
'Defensive circles! Form defensive circles! The flank force will take them in the rear if we can defend long enough!'
The 4th cohort's senior centurion, his men suffering under the iron rain of barbarian arrows, but as yet not engaged, bellowed to his officers to follow the order, and Sollemnis walked into the protection of their shields with his bodyguard as the circle closed, looking across the battlefield to see two other cohorts fighting to achieve the same result under a press of barbarian attackers. The rest of the legion was already fighting in broken order, with little hope of regaining any meaningful formation before the battle's end.
Inside the circle a dozen wounded legionaries were being seen to by the cohort's medical officer, most with arrows protruding from their throats and faces. The medic looked closely at a stricken chosen man, took gauge of the wound's severity, shook his head decisively and moved on to the next casualty. The dying man, with an arrow's shaft sticking out of his neck, and blood jetting from the wound, put a shuddering hand to his sword's hilt, half drew the weapon, then stopped moving as the life ran out of him. Sollemnis wrenched his eyes from the scene, striding to the First Spear. The veteran soldier was calmly scanning the battle around them with a professional eye, looking for an advantage despite their desperate situation.
'Situation?'
'There's more than ten thousand men out there, more like twenty. We've been had! Looks like the last three cohorts are already in pieces. Ourselves, the Fifth and Sixth managed to get into defensive formations, but once the others have been polished off they'll make short enough work of us, or just stand off and let their archers pepper us until we're too weak to resist. If the flanking force doesn't get stuck in soon we're all going to die …'
The legion's eagle standard-bearer stood close, his own sword drawn, clearly determined to sell his own life in defence of the emperor's eagle. An arrow clattered off his helmet, another hitting the standard's eagle with a hollow thwock, making the man duck reflexively, his eyebrows raised at his legatus in mute comment. Sollemnis nodded grimly, then turned to stare up at the ridge-line where the alarm signal had sounded. A few figures stood silhouetted on the crest, apparently watching the battle below. The standard-bearer, a man of seniority in the legion and well known to the legatus, pushed his way to Sollemnis's side, disdaining the stream of arrows directed at the eagle.
'Why don't they attack, sir? There's another nine cohorts up there, and in good order.'
The legatus shook his head in puzzlement, hearing the screams of his command's dismemberment from all around.
'I don't know, but how Tigidius Perennis and his Asturians scouted this ground as safe for the approach is …'
A sudden insight gripped his guts hard, testing his sphincter with a sudden push that he barely managed to control. Perennis. Of course. The other warband had clearly never stayed in place as he'd been briefed, the brazen lie tempting him into a move whose audacity would clearly be judged as suicidal with the luxury of hindsight. He drew his sword and picked up a dead man's shield, tugging down his ornate helmet to be sure the back of his neck was protected.
'Very well, gentlemen, if we're going to die today, let's make sure we give these blue-faced bastards a decent fight to sing about. Wounds of honour, Sixth Legion. Wounds of honour!'
Watching the slaughter below, Equitius shook his head with fascinated horror.
'There must be something we can do.'
Frontinius replied in tones dulled by resignation to the facts.
'Yes, we can parade on the crest and in all likelihood the men down there will look up, laugh at us and get on with butchering the Sixth. Or we can advance down the slope into the battle and be dead inside ten minutes. You're looking at a doomed legion, Prefect, something few men have seen and even fewer have lived to describe. The Sixth's standard will be carried away into the northern mountains and become an object of wonder for the tribes, most likely with your friend Sollemnis's head to accompany it. He made the decision to attack across that valley; he changed our role at the critical moment; now he's paying for those mistakes the hard way …'
Equitius nodded unhappily.
'I just don't see how he could have got it so wrong. The man was a senior tribune in the war against the Marcomani, took command of a legion with a battlefield promotion when his legatus dropped dead in the middle of an action, and fought them brilliantly to rout twice his own strength of barbarians. It isn't a mistake he ended up running Northern Command … so how the bloody hell do we end up with this?'
The 6th's remaining three cohorts were creeping together, now under attack by thousands of barbarians and seeking to combine their strengths. A horn sounded, and the attackers drew back from combat, leaving the field clear for their archers to pour arrows into the compressed masses of legionaries. After a dozen volleys from the archers the horn sounded twice more, and the Britons charged in again, swords and axes glinting brightly in the morning sun as they went about their destructive work. Even at that distance the smell of blood and faeces was now reaching the watching soldiers, as the scale of the slaughter mounted. Equitius heard the sound of approaching hoofs, and turned to see Perennis and his escort approaching again. The tribune reined his horse in and took in the view from the valley's edge for a moment before speaking.
'Well, well. It would seem that our legatus has got himself into a bit of a pickle.'
Equitius stared up at him with narrowed eyes, seeing the sardonic smile playing about his face.
'Shouldn't you be worrying about bringing up the reinforcements, Tribune?'
The other man sat back in his saddle, sharing an amused glance with the decurion.
'It might have made a difference when the barbarians first attacked, a few thousand armed men piling down into the battle from up here, but not now, thank you, Prefect Equitius. Those six cohorts are all but finished, and I don't think that tossing another nine after them would be a particularly positive step, do you? At least this way I still have most of a legion's strength to command until the reinforcements arrive from Gaul.'
'You? A junior tribune? An equestrian in command of a legion?'
'Oh yes, didn't I mention my imperial warrant?'
He reached into a pocket and pulled out a scroll, tossing it down to Equitius. The prefect read it, taking in the imperial seal and the wide range of power it bestowed upon Perennis.
'I particularly like the sentence that says I should take command of the Sixth Legion should Legatus Sollemnis be found incapable of his task. I'd say he'll reach a state of incapability some time quite soon, so while I may not be of senatorial class, I will be exercising the power granted to me by the Emperor …'
Frontinius leaned over to Marcus, muttering quietly into his ear.
'Get yourself back over to the cohort. Be ready to bring your century over here in a hurry.'
'… And so, from this moment I'm assuming command. I'll incorporate the auxiliary cohorts into my legion to bolster our strength, but not your cohort, Prefect. You and your people have a special place in my plans. Stay where you are, Marcus Valerius Aquila, no trying to creep away when you think nobody's looking!'
Marcus stopped, turning slowly to look up at Perennis.
'Yes, I've known that you took refuge with these half-savages and their disloyal prefect for a while now. Your supply officer was very forthcoming one night in the camp at Cauldron Pool, when the decurion here applied the tip of a dagger to his throat. Did you really think that you could hide with these bumpkins for ever? All that you've done is bring your own disaster down on this entire cohort. Just as Legatus Sollemnis has paid the ultimate price for his treacherous attempt to hide you, so will this collection of semi-barbarian traitors!'
Dubnus put a hand behind his back, and muttered the word 'axe' quietly over his shoulder to Cyclops. The weapon slid from its place in the small of his back, the handle slapping unnoticed on to his palm, its comfortingly familiar wood rubbed smooth by years of handling. Perennis nodded to the stone-faced decurion, who jumped down from his horse and drew his sword. The other cavalrymen watched intently, arrows nocked to their bows, ignoring the single tent party of men standing in a huddle to their left. Perennis leant out of his saddle, pointing towards the wood that Marcus and his men had recently scouted.
'And now, gentlemen, your orders. The First Tungrians will establish a defensive position on the slope below that wood, and prevent the barbarians from breaking out of the valley by that route for as long as possible. There is to be no retreat from the position, which must be held at all costs and to the last man. You, First Spear, will command the cohort, since I am now declaring a sentence of death on your prefect for his treachery in harbouring an enemy of the emperor and the state. I could be more thorough in my punishment, but the rest of you will obviously be dead soon enough.'
Equitius scowled up at Perennis, full realisation of the true nature of the last hour's events striking him.
'You've just thrown six legion cohorts into a barbarian trap to get rid of one man that was in your way? And now you'll casually toss away eight hundred more spears because one innocent victim of Rome's descent into despotism takes shelter among them?'
Perennis smiled broadly.
'Your friend Sollemnis is reaping the crop he's sown, and so will you all, soon enough. The rest is detail. We'll go on the defensive for a while, Rome will send in a legion or two from Gaul, the Sixth will be reinforced back to full strength, and all will be as it should be. Besides, you've got more pressing matters to worry about. Decurion, execute the prefect.'
Frontinius half drew his sword, stopping as half a dozen drawn bows swung in his direction. Equitius put his hands on his hips, and straightened his back in readiness. The decurion took a step forward, raising his long cavalry sword for the executioner's blow before his eyes widened with shock as Dubnus's throwing axe smashed into his back. The heavy axe blade's weight punched through his armour, chopping through his spine and into the organs clustered behind it. A gout of blood spilled from his open mouth in a scarlet flood as he sank forward on to his knees, his hands helplessly seeking the source of the sudden rush of enervating pain. Before any of the cavalrymen could react, Dubnus was among them, his sword flashing as he struck at one and then another. Marcus and Frontinius drew their swords and charged in alongside him.
One of the horsemen loosed an arrow at Frontinius, the missile's iron head flicking off his helmet just as Marcus hacked at the man's leg with a fierce downward cut, his sword severing the limb just above the knee and chopping into the horse's ribs with the force of the blow. The animal reared up, tossing the crippled cavalryman from his horned saddle, then kicked out hard with its back legs in protest at the pain, catapulting another Asturian from his mount with his chest caved in.
Marcus was knocked to one side as Cyclops jumped in front of him, raising his shield to block an arrow from a horseman the young centurion had failed to notice in the melee. At less than twenty paces' range the missile punched through his shield's layered wood and leather, the iron head transfixing his shield arm and drawing an agonised grimace from the one-eyed soldier. Pivoting on his left leg with a swelling bellow of rage, Cyclops slung his spear with deadly accuracy into the horseman's chest as he reached back for another arrow. The throw's huge power punched through a weak point in the cavalryman's mail shirt, scattering a handful of broken rings from the point of impact and thrusting the spear's steel point deep into the horseman's lungs. Eyes rolling upwards, he fell backwards over the side of his horse and vanished under the hoofs of the horses surrounding him. Cyclops pointed to his one good eye, shouting over the fight's swelling volume.
'Less stabbing and more looking, young sir.'
He drew his sword, nodding to Marcus before charging into the whirling melee in search of another target for his wrath. Perennis kicked his horse's sides hard, galloping out of the knot of infantrymen which was growing bigger and nastier by the second as the rest of the tent party took on the Asturians with their spears. He was thirty paces distant when Dubnus's arrow slammed through the back of his neck an inch above the top of his cuirass's protection, and stayed in the saddle for another five seconds before collapsing stiffly over its hindquarters to land in a heap on the turf. The few remaining Asturians bolted, thrashing their horses to escape as the fastest of the 9th Century's men arrived on the scene seeking targets for their unblooded spears. Marcus was the first man to reach Perennis, coming up short when he saw the arrowhead protruding from the tribune's throat, and the man's desperate attempts to breathe. Frontinius ran up a moment later, took one look and turned away with a grim smile.
'He's got two minutes, five at the best. Say hello to the ferryman for us, Perennis, you'll be across the river a while before we get there.'
Equitius walked up to them, a haunted look on his face. Frontinius slapped him on the arm.
'Cheer up, Prefect, it isn't every day that you're condemned to death and then reprieved inside a minute.'
'Not such a reprieve, First Spear. I …'
His head lifted as he spotted a movement in the middle distance, horsemen moving through the waving grass, a long white banner twisting proudly in the breeze. He smiled wanly at the sight.
'I see Licinius retains his impeccable sense of timing …'
A single decurius of the Petriana rode up to them, Prefect Licinius dismounting before his horse had stopped moving. Grim faced, he stared down at the fighting below for a moment before turning back to speak, taking in the scene in front of him as he did.
'Gentlemen, I …'
The sight of the slowly choking Perennis left him speechless for a moment.
'Who shot him?'
Frontinius shook his head imperceptibly at his prefect before speaking.
'We did, sir, or rather one of my men who's a finer shot than I'll ever be did, and at my command. Tribune Perennis had just admitted to an act of stupidity and treason whose result you can see down there, and was attempting to murder Prefect Equitius.'
Licinius looked around him carefully, fully digesting the scene.
'Which would explain the dead Asturians scattered around? Not to mention the fact that several of your own men seem to have arrow wounds?'
'Sir.'
'You can imagine how that's going to look if it's reported back to Rome. Where is the legatus, by the way?'
Equitius stepped forward, pointing down the slope.
'He's down there, Licinius. That young bastard suborned the Asturians, or at least enough of them to be able to carry out his plan. He must have passed a message to Calgus in some way while he was supposed to be shadowing the warband. They let the Sixth get into the open and then rushed them while the legion was still in column. He's got some sort of warrant straight from the imperial palace, empowers him to take command of the Sixth if necessary, so the bastard wanted to make sure Sollemnis wouldn't survive.'
Licinius leaned in close and half whispered his next question, glancing significantly at the unsuspecting Marcus, who was busy with his wounded.
'Does he know yet?'
Equitius shook his head.
'No. Nor should he, under the circumstances.'
'Agreed. What a fucking mess. So apart from the fact that half a legion is being taken apart under our gaze, what's the local situation?'
Equitius pointed in the direction that Perennis had taken his command.
'Four cohorts of the Sixth, the Second Tungrians, Raetians, Frisians and the Aquitani are somewhere over in that direction. They were supposed to be the other half of a plan to attack the warband, but bloody Perennis took them away to where they'd be no use when this happened.'
Licinius pursed his lips.
'My boys are half an hour's ride back that way, and I met a messenger a while back who said the Second and the Twentieth are ten miles down the main road. The only problem is that that lot will have gutted the Sixth and buggered off into the hills long before we can bring them into the action …'
He walked to the edge of the slope and stared down for a long moment. Equitius sighed deeply and followed him.
'Licinius, before my tame Brigantian prince demonstrated his marksmanship with the hunting bow on Perennis, the little shit ordered us to make a stand on the slope here, just in front of this wood. He wanted to destroy us for harbouring the boy, you understand, but in his desire to see us all dead he actually issued the only order appropriate under the circumstances. An order that I and my men will follow if you ask it of us.'
Licinius turned to face him.
'You'll likely all be dead within the hour, unless I get lucky and find the other legions a lot closer than they ought to be.'
Equitius returned his gaze.
'And you think that these men don't know the meaning of a Roman soldier's honour?'
Licinius looked him straight in the eye, seeing the other man's resolve in his steady stare.
'My apologies to your command. Very well.'
He walked quickly across to where Perennis lay panting his last few breaths, searching his body with swift efficiency until he found the imperial warrant scroll, then leant over to speak into the dying man's eyes.
'Listen to me, Titus Tigidius Perennis. You thought what you were doing was clever, that the emperor would thank you for removing a traitor from imperial service. You might well have been right. Your father, however, may not be so sanguine at the loss of his family's honour. I will make it my sworn task to make sure the full story reaches Rome, to tell him how you connived to destroy half a legion, and how, when the time came, another full cohort volunteered to face the same barbarians and give me a fighting chance to take revenge for those betrayed men. And how I executed you to avoid your suffering anything that might be said to resemble an honourable death …'
He drew his dagger and slit the dying tribune's throat wide open, watching with satisfaction as life ebbed away from Perennis's amazed eyes.
'Well, that at least feels a little better. Prefect, I'm off to find the other two legions. Best of luck.'
He stood up and saluted Equitius, who gravely returned the gesture, then vaulted back on to his horse and rode furiously away, barking orders at his men. The prefect watched him go for a moment, then turned to address Frontinius.
'Well, Sextus, now it's our turn to earn our corn.'
The First Spear smiled grimly.
'Don't think I'm immune to the irony of our situation, Prefect. Young Perennis should be laughing now, wherever he is.'
Equitius put a hand on his shoulder.
'Wherever he is, First Spear, we're quite likely to see at first hand soon enough.' |
Wounds of Honor | Anthony Riches | [
"historical fiction"
] | [
"Rome",
"war",
"Empire"
] | Chapter 15 | Frontinius led his centurions down the hunter's path at the trot. In a minute or so their centuries would follow them down the through the trees, and in those few seconds he needed to lay the foundations of a successful defence. If, he mused humourlessly, while his mind worked on their options for defending an apparently hopeless position, the entire cohort not simply dying in the first barbarian assault could be termed a success. Ten yards from the forest's edge he stopped and gathered his officers around him, their faces betraying the same grim determination fixed in his own mind.
'Brothers, there isn't time for any inspirational stuff or exhortations to heroism. Put simply, we've been sent to fight and likely to die in order to buy time for the other legions to jump those blue-nosed bastards from behind and put it to them the old-fashioned way. Your men are going to realise that soon enough, when they see thousands of men coming up the hill for their heads. They will look to you for an example. Give them one. Show them a grim face, but not despair. Lead your centuries with aggression, but keep them disciplined. If we do this right we can still pull a victory out of this disaster, but that depends solely on us. We are now the most important ten men on this battlefield – so let's live up to that burden in the next hour.'
He paused, looking at each man to take a gauge of their resolve. Good enough.
'Orders. The cohort will come down this path in number order with the Fifth at the rear and the Ninth in their place in the centre, the prefect will make sure of that. Take your centuries down the slope to the line I point out to you and set up for defence, two men deep and no more, three-foot spacing per man. We're lucky that the wood curves down on both sides to meet our flanks, so we can anchor the line off the trees. Get the ground in front of you dirty as quickly as possible, and get your caltrops out straight after that. Speaking of trees … Bear?'
The big man stepped forward.
'Your axemen will be last down the path. Take them to left and right and make me an abatis as fast as you can, three rows of fallen trees deep all the way from each end of the line back round to the path, but leave the path clear of obstruction. When the obstacles are in place, widen the path enough to let four men down it abreast. In the unlikely event of our being reinforced I'd like the way in behind us wide enough for a cohort to move down it at speed. Everyone clear? And remember, brothers, win or lose, this day will be sung about long after the rain washes our blood away. Let's make it a story worth telling.'
The Tungrians exploded out of the wood on to the open ground, the centuries hurrying down to the line pointed out by Frontinius as they cleared the trees. The First Spear barked at his centurions to speed up their deployment as he pointed each century to its place, aware that the tribesmen, pausing in their assault on the shrinking remnant of the Sixth Legion to watch the new development, could turn and charge towards them at any second. The wood behind the cohort echoed with the growing racket of eighty axes working furiously on the tree-felling that would defend their flanks and rear. Each tree was under attack by two of the 10th Century's men, as they laboured with expert blows to drop it neatly into position with its branches facing outwards, presenting an impassable obstacle. Once the line was established, each end anchored in the trees to either side as the wood curved around their defence, he gave a small sigh of relief and shouted his next command.
'Get that slope dirtied up!'
The cohort's long line marched a dozen paces down the gentle slope, then stopped, the troops fishing under their groin protectors to urinate on to the grass. Selected men ran to the small stream that ran through their new position and filled their helmets with water, carrying the load carefully back to their places in the line before emptying the liquid on to the ground. On command they stamped and twisted with their hobnailed boots, digging at the wet ground beneath their feet, ignoring the spray of acidic-smelling mud that spattered their lower legs and retreating gradually back towards their former positions to leave a five-yard strip of ground in front of their line an oozing mess. Frontinius ignored the drama taking place below them as the 6th Legion's surviving troops huddled into three ever dwindling groups. With the ground to their front made treacherously slippery, he called for the last element of their defence.
'Obstacles and tribuli!'
The centuries mustered the heavy five-foot-long staves each man had carried from the camp, each one sharpened to a fire-hardened point at both ends, and lashed them into giant obstacles, each formed of three stakes tied together with rope. Bags full of the small iron tribuli were strewn around the obstacles, presenting sharp points to the feet of the unwary attacker. Julius, standing with his 5th Century behind the main line of defence, both escort to the cohort's standard and tactical reserve, turned to speak to his chosen man.
'You can keep an eye on this lot. I'm going down to the front to get a better view and have a chat with my young Roman friend. I see no reason why he should get all the fun.'
He strode down the slope, clapping an arm around Marcus's shoulders and pointing out across the warband's presently scattered force. Lowering his head to the younger man's ear, he spoke quietly, a gentle smile on his face.
'Well, Centurion, there they are. Twenty thousand angry bluefaced men who will very shortly come up this buttock of a hill to take our heads. Are you ready to die with your men?'
Marcus nodded grimly.
'Ready enough. But before they take my head, I'll send a good number to meet Cocidius before me.'
Julius laughed, slapping him delightedly on the back.
'And you don't mind if I stay for the fun? I can't stand being stuck back guarding that bloody statue while you get all the glory. And I might be of some use when the shit starts flying …'
Marcus nodded, but raised a finger in mock admonishment.
'As long as you contain your contribution to swordplay, and the occasional piece of advice, it's a deal. If you want to command the scout century, make sure you come second in the competition next year.'
A horn sounded far out across the battlefield, and the milling tribesmen hacking at the remnants of the 6th Legion's cohorts pulled back in temporary truce. Silence gradually fell across the field, the panting Britons taking an opportunity to get their breath, tend to their wounded and remove their dead and dying from the bloodied grass. Trapped behind the unmoving wall of tribesmen, the remaining legionaries did what they could for their own wounded, little enough in the circumstances.
Sollemnis squinted up the hill over the heads of the barbarians surrounding what was left of his command, making out the auxiliary cohort arrayed in defence across its slope. He tapped his First Spear on the shoulder, pointing at the Tungrians.
'What … what do you think they're about up there?'
The other man grimaced as he drew breath, the broken shaft of an arrow protruding through his armour from his abdomen, the price of taking his turn in the cohort's rapidly contracting perimeter.
'You've got me. Looks like a suicide mission. We'll be welcoming them to Hades soon enough.'
Sollemnis laughed grimly, hefting his sword.
'No doubt about that. These bastards are just having a breather, they'll be back for our heads once they've got their wind back.'
He glanced about him.
'I need to hide this sword, hope that it stays concealed from the blue-noses. Those are Tungrians up there, I can see their banner. My son's up there with them, and if he lives I want it found and passed to him.'
The other man nodded blankly, too shocked to wonder at the legate's revelation.
Sollemnis took up a dead soldier's gladius, testing its balance.
'This should serve well enough. So many dead men …'
The First Spear coughed painfully and pointed to their dead standard-bearer. An arrow had ripped into the man's windpipe a few moments before, dropping him to his knees as he choked out his life. The eagle standard still stood proud above his corpse, gripped in lifeless fingers.
'You'd best stick your sword under Harus's body … Yes, that ought to do it. They'll take the eagle, but likely leave his head if you strip away his bearskin. Unlike you and me. We'll go to our graves in separate pieces …'
Sollemnis smiled again, with genuine amusement this time.
'It seems we're to be collector's items, then?'
'Roman officers' heads. No mud hut should be without one.'
A horn rang out with a sudden bray that jerked their attention back to the warband surrounding them. The warriors charged into their pathetic remnant with a revived purpose, their swords rising and falling in flashing arcs as they butchered the exhausted survivors of the 6th Legion's cohorts. Seeing the man in front of him go down under a powerful sword-blow that cleaved his right arm at the shoulder, Sollemnis stepped into the fight alongside the few men of his bodyguard still standing with a snarl of frustration, striking fast and hard at the man responsible and tasting brief satisfaction as the man's blood sprayed across his cuirass. The feeling was short lived, his appearance marking him out as a senior officer to the men facing him. He landed one more blow, putting his gladius deep into the chest of another warrior before the man's comrade thrust a spear deep into his unprotected thigh.
The First Spear, already felled by a sword thrust into his spine, and numbly inert as the barbarians fought to strip him of his fine armour while his life ebbed away into the puddle of blood soaking the ground around him, watched the scene with the unique detachment of a dying man. Sollemnis went down on one knee, helpless to defend himself as the warriors around him gathered for the kill. A sword skidded off his cuirass and sliced into the meat of his right arm, and a vicious blow from a club cracked the elbow joint and left his borrowed sword dangling useless at his side.
'He's mine!'
A loud voice sounded over their clamour, a magnificently armoured giant of a man stepping out of the attackers' midst and calling a halt to their attacks with a simple bellowed command. He batted aside a despairing sword-thrust from the last of the legatus's bodyguard with his huge round shield, contemptuously smashing the exhausted man to the ground with another punch of the shield's heavy boss and stabbing down into the space between his helmet's cheek-pieces. The other warriors backed away, clearly too scared of the man to deny him the moment of triumph. His helmet and armour were coal black, inlaid with intricate silver patterns befitting his obvious status as a tribal champion, heavy iron greaves protecting his thighs and calves to make him almost invulnerable as long as he could carry the weight. Only his booted feet lacked protection.
Sollemnis teetered on the brink of falling on to his face, only willpower keeping him on his knees as he looked up into the swordsman's face.
'Go on, then … get it over with, y'bastard.'
His voice was no more than a croak, the words bringing a smile to the big warrior's face. He hefted his sword in flashing arcs, luxuriating in the pleasure of letting the legatus see what was coming for a long moment before swinging the blade to sever Sollemnis's head from his shoulders. A warrior retrieved the grisly trophy and carried it back to the legatus's killer as the Roman's headless torso toppled slowly sideways to the bloody grass.
As the First Spear's consciousness slipped from his faltering grasp he saw the big man lift the legion's eagle standard from the standard-bearer's lifeless fingers. Stamping down on the standard to separate the spread-winged symbol of imperial power from its pole, he tossed the broken shaft away, took the foot-high statue by one wing and stalked away from the legatus's headless corpse, back into the warband's seething mass of men.
As the cohort stood helplessly and watched the final destruction of their beleaguered colleagues in the valley below them, a keen-eyed Tungrian called out a sighting, pointing at the valley's far slope. There, made tiny by the distance, moved a party of three war chariots, accompanied by some fifty native cavalry cantering steadily across the battlefield. A great dragon banner flew proudly in the wind of their passage, its forked tail whipping eagerly from side to side. The prefect stared out at the oncoming horsemen, raising his eyebrows in question.
'The infamous Calgus, coming for a look?'
Frontinius snorted.
'Probably wondering what's going on. I doubt Perennis actually told him that he intended to send us to our doom here, and we're on rising ground and in good order. Eight hundred spears could make a medium-sized mess of his warband before they roll over us, and slow up his next move. If he's the strategist I believe him to be, he'll be worried, keen to take his prizes and get his men away before Second and Twentieth Legions come over the horizon baying for blood. I'd suggest that we might look a little more confident, just to reinforce that nagging doubt. Perhaps we could make some noise?'
Equitius smiled.
'Hail, Calgus, those about to die salute you?'
'Something like that.'
'Very well. Trumpeter, sound "Prepare for defence".'
The notes sang out sweetly, hanging for a moment over the hill, piercing the continual hammering of axes. After the shortest of pauses Frontinius heard his centurions shouting their commands, then the soft rattle of spears being readied. Frontinius strode forward in front of the cohort, as was his right, drawing his sword and raising it above his head, polished steel shining in the mid-morning sun, then turned back to face the ranks of grim-faced soldiers. He swung the weapon down to waist height, rapping the blade's flat on to his shield's scarred surface, repeating the blow to establish a slow but steady rhythm that was easy for the soldiers to follow, as they rapped their spears against the metal bosses of their shields. The noise built quickly, until the pulses of sound echoed distantly back from the slopes about them, a basic, intimidating noise that put heart back into the more timid troops, and swelled the anger of the rest as they stood and waited for the chariots and horsemen to draw close. The dragon banner snaked across the valley floor, drooping limply back on to its standard as the horsemen came to a halt two hundred paces from the Tungrian line.
After a moment a rider came forward, cantering within shouting distance and then stopping to stare across the lines of hard-faced, lean-framed soldiers before calling out his message over their noise.
'The Lord Calgus suggests negotiation. Man to man, no others to attend. Safety is guaranteed.'
He wheeled his horse, riding back to the knot of barbarian cavalry without a backwards glance. Frontinius glanced over at the Prefect, seeing the Roman's jawline tighten as his lips pursed to a white line.
'Well, Prefect, shall we go and meet the man that tarred and torched the inhabitants of Fort Habitus and Roaring River?'
The prefect stared at the distant dragon banner, fitfully prancing in the gusts above his enemy's bodyguard, for a long moment before responding, putting a hand on his First Spear's shoulder.
'The invitation was for one. I'll go. You'll stay here, and lead the cohort if this should be some sort of device to distract us, or to capture a senior officer.'
'And if it is …?'
'I'll probably be joining my father rather sooner than I've previously thought would be the case. As might "the Lord" Calgus.'
He walked on down the slope, watching his step on the treacherous strip of glutinous mud and stepping carefully to avoid the tribuli's eager spikes, and came to a stop halfway between his own troops and those of his enemy. A figure had stepped from their ranks as he had, and paced towards the field towards him, carrying a bundle wrapped in a bloodied blanket, until they were close enough for spoken conversation, although beyond sword-thrust.
They stared at each other for a moment, the prefect eying the other man's bundle with unhappy certainty as to its contents until the Briton chose to break the silence, his Latin unaccented.
'Well then, Prefect, I am Calgus, lord of the northern tribes. I broke the Wall, I despoiled your forts from Three Mountains all the way south to Noisy Valley and I,' pointing a thumb back over his shoulder, 'caught your legatus in a trap of my careful making, with his legion. And now I have something to show you.'
He allowed the bundle to fall open, its contents dropping to the grass at his feet. The highly polished bronze eagle from the 6th Legion's standard gleamed prettily in the morning sun, its defiant spread-winged pose incongruous under the circumstances, while the helmeted head rolled slowly across the grass and came to a stop on its side, Sollemnis's dead stare facing out towards the waiting Tungrians. Equitius sank to his haunches, staring intently into his friend's lifeless eyes. Calgus put his hands on his hips and waited for a response, while the prefect took a long moment before rising silently to his feet. The Roman nodded, still staring down at his friend's severed head, his face stony, then lifted his gaze to stare back at the waiting Briton.
'This man was my friend, for more years than I care to recall. We drank together, chased women together in our younger days, and we fought Rome's enemies together too. Men like you. We tasted the barbarity of combat with men like you, and we rose above it. We kept our humanity, but we always won those battles by doing whatever we had to. So if you're hoping to unman me with this display you're going to be disappointed. It's nothing less than I expected, and nothing less than I would have done in your place. But it changes nothing.'
He took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders.
'So, Calgus, let's get this over with. I am Prefect Septimus Equitius of the 1st Tungrian Cohort. I found your cattle in front of the Hill and burned them to deny your men their flesh and prevent your attack on my fortress. I lured your cavalry from the cover of the forest for the Petriana to destroy, and I,' and he in turn pointed back over his own shoulder, 'am going to keep your warband here for long enough that the rest of our army will fall on them and utterly destroy them.'
'Tungrians? Tungria lies over the water, Prefect, closer to Gaul than to Britain. Those men are Brigantes, my people, not yours.'
'I think you'll find otherwise if you're unwise enough to send warriors up that slope to meet them. Local born they may be, but their training and discipline are Roman. I think you know what that means.'
They shared a quiet smile, a spark of communication across the wind-whipped ground. The prefect pulled his cloak tighter about him, seeking to keep out the wind's questing fingers.
'Come on, Calgus, let's drop the bombast. You're an educated man, Roman educated if the stories are true. I don't think you believe in shouting insults and arse-slapping any more than I do.'
The other man nodded, his face staying neutral.
'Go on.'
'In truth I am more impressed than I expected to be. Your control of those tribesmen is better than I've seen before, and your recruitment of a Roman tribune to lure his legatus into your grasp was a clever stroke. Or more likely he recruited you, eh?'
Equitius paused for a moment, allowing the fact of his knowledge of Perennis's treachery to sink in. Calgus's green eyes narrowed with unasked questions.
'So, now that we've established that you've done a reasonable job so far, let's get down to business. You could just have sent that rabble to die on our swords, but you chose to talk first, and while I'd like to think that's because our reputation goes before us …'
Calgus smiled again, shaking his head in amusement.
'Never let it be said you lacked a sense of humour, Prefect of the First Tungrians. I came to offer you the chance to leave this battlefield intact, before you force me to send my men to slaughter yours. Will you save those lives? My aims in making this war have always been limited to the goal of a negotiated peace with Rome, certain reasonable concessions for my people and honour for both sides. After all, without a settlement, this war could last for several campaigning seasons, and consume tens of thousands of Roman lives, soldiers and innocents both. This victory, combined with the threat my warbands pose to the frontier, should be enough to bring your governor to the negotiating table. Our demands are simple enough, and do not threaten an inch of Roman territory, so there should be no need for further loss of life. After all, I am, as you suggest, an educated and civilised man at heart.'
The prefect wondered what the tribes' demands were, if not for some retreat from the frontier. Money in tribute and improved trading terms probably, removal of all Roman troops from their forts north of the wall for a certainty.
'So you ask me to walk away from the fight? And let you away from this place before the other two legions and the rest of the Sixth arrive? I think not, Calgus. I think you know that the time you'll need to break my line greatly increases the chance of our being rescued, and by overwhelming force. At the least we can buy your deaths with our own. I think you know you already have the victory, and want to save your own men's lives for another fight. You know there are other legions out there, but you don't know where, because you haven't got any mounted scouts to send out. Your mounted bodyguard alone wouldn't stand a chance, not with the Petriana roaming about looking for heads. Without that knowledge, and now that I have your traitor, you know you should disengage, and get away cleanly, but I'd guess that the tribal leaders won't let you walk away from a fight this unbalanced. If we don't leave the field we force you to fight just by standing there. True?'
The Briton smiled easily, gesturing back towards his waiting warriors.
'Perhaps. The one certainty is that if you and your men don't leave immediately then you will shortly pay the price for frustrating the will of a man with twenty times as many warriors as your entire cohort musters. Think about that, while you walk back to your command. You have a few minutes in which to spare us both further spilt blood. Otherwise the next time we meet your head will be stuck on a spear's point.'
The prefect nodded solemnly.
'Perhaps. But you'll have climbed a high wall of your own dead to enjoy the sight.'
Calgus walked back to his bodyguard, his mind moving over the calculations. He guessed at ten centuries in the Tungrian line, a full cohort. Given time they would make the thin line's flanks impossible to turn, protected by impassable barricades of hastily felled trees and rows of sloping wooden spikes to impale the unwary attacker. Attack now, or pull his men away to safety, the victory already under his belt and a Roman legatus's probably dead?
He stopped and looked up at the Tungrian line again, musing on the grim faces that had stared back at him. His own people, so familiar, obdurate in defence, incandescent in assault, but with the overlay of Roman discipline to temper their courage, which made each one of them the equal of his best warriors in terms of simple killing power. The difference, the key difference, was that no matter what the provocation, the situation, little would persuade them to break their wall of shields, from behind which their short stabbing swords would flicker like the tongues of hundreds of deadly snakes. Refusing to enter the chaotic swirl of man-to-man combat, the Tungrians could afford to fight several times their number, the more numerous enemy without any means of applying that superiority in numbers. Just one cohort, though, eight hundred men against thousands of his own. How long could that take? Even if he lost as many as he killed, or even twice as many, it was an exchange that made more than adequate sense.
He walked on, jumping back into his chariot as he reached his bodyguard. Eyes turned to him, awaiting his command, the men ready to put their lives at risk.
'They will not withdraw. Their prefect was disappointingly resolute.'
Aed raised his eyebrows, indicating a desire to speak.
'Then we must fight, my lord. No warrior will willingly walk away from that many heads begging to be taken. Besides, many are not yet blooded …'
'I agree. But it must be fast. The Roman spoke of other legions, and at the very least the other cohorts commanded by their legatus must be close at hand, and their bloody Petriana too. Handled properly, their cavalry and even one full legion could carve us to ribbons if they caught us here, even though we would be more than twice their number. Send a rider to Emer and Catalus's warbands – they've stood and watched the others kill Romans, they must be raring to get into the fight.'
The tribal bands moved forward at the run, eager after watching their fellows rip the guts out of the hopelessly outnumbered cohorts. The younger men joshed each other as they ran, boasting breathlessly of the heads they would take, the older warriors straining to catch a glimpse of their adversaries and take their measure. The two leaders met as they ran, agreeing swiftly on a simple left and right split, nothing fancy in the amount of time they had, a straight forward charge and hack, using their superior strength in numbers to overwhelm the auxiliaries.
On their slope the Tungrians stood impassively, still hammering out the menacing rhythm of spear and shield, the noise numbing their senses to any fear, replacing the emotion with an incoherent sense of common identity. The cohort had ceased to be a collection of individuals, and had become an engine of destruction ready to strike. The relentless pulse of its fighting heart had stripped away the feeling of self from its members and left them in a state of detachment from reality, ready for the impersonal fury shortly to be required for their survival. They watched, still pounding out their defiance, as the enemy advanced quickly across the open ground to their front, forming up into lines that roughly matched their own, one hundred and fifty paces down the slope, out of spear's throw. Another brief command rang out from the trumpeter, silencing the drumming and bringing their spears into the preparatory position for the throw. In the sudden silence the slight noises of weapons and armour were suddenly magnified, the dull clink of equipment ringing out across the slope as both sides made ready.
In the 9th Century's front line Scarface and his mates braced themselves for the fight to come, the veteran soldier talking quietly to the men around him. Even the tent party's watch officer deferred to the scarred soldier's twenty years of experience.
'Now, lads, this is going to be a right gang fuck once they get up the slope, so here's how it's going to go. When Uncle Sextus gives the order we'll sling a volley of spears into them. Aim for the men who've lost their footing, the ones too distracted to see your spear coming until it's tickling their backbone. You've carried the bloody thing on your back since the day you joined, and never really had the chance to use it properly, so make the fucking thing pay you back for all those miles you've carted it. That'll be one less blue-nose to wave a sword at you. Once the spears are gone we air our blades double quick and get the shields set strong, ready for them to hit the line with everything they've got. You lads at the rear, you get a good fucking grip of our belts and brace us to hold firm. We're on a nice slope, so it shouldn't be too hard to hold them if we work together. After that you just concentrate on the same old drills, board and sword, parry and thrust. Put your gladius into a blue-nose's guts, twist the fucker, kick him off it and get back behind your board. Don't fucking stand there watching him die, or his mate will carve you up just like you would if you was him.'
He paused, swelling his chest with a great draught of air.
'Breathe deep, lads, you'll need all the air you can get in the next few minutes. And just remember, any of you bastards turn from this fight before it's done and you'll have me and my blade to deal with once we're done with this shower of unwashed hairy arseholes. We stand together.'
Along the Tungrian line a few men quailed and were swiftly dealt with by the officers and their older comrades, slaps and kicks putting them back into the line. The majority listened to the cohort's veteran soldiers tell them how to deal with what was coming and stared impassively down the slope at their enemy, prepared to kill in order to live, a stark equation both understood and accepted. In order to live through, to see their women and children again, they would have to slaughter the tribesmen in great numbers. Almost to a man, the soldiers were ready to start the butchery.
In the tribal ranks men swiftly made their last preparations, discarding heavy items of clothing that would restrict their movements in the coming melee, muttering hasty prayers to their gods for victory. The older warriors, alive to the possibilities of the coming combat, sensibly added the hope for a clean death should their time have come. Without the time to indulge in any lengthy diatribe against the invaders, the chieftains looked to each other, nodded their readiness, then charged forward up the slope, hurling thousands of warriors at the flimsy Roman line.
The Tungrian centurions looked to Frontinius at the line's centre, waiting for his signal as the barbarian horde surged up the gentle incline. Waiting with one arm raised, he watched the shaggy warriors storm towards his men, thirty yards, twenty-five, the usual range of the initial spear-throw, twenty, until at fifteen yards from the shield wall they hit the strip of greasy mud that his troops had painstakingly stamped into bubbling ruin. The leading wave of attackers slowed, fighting to stay on their feet as they bunched to avoid the giant wooden obstacles' sharpened points. Crowded from behind and perilously close to falling headlong into the mud, more than a few suddenly shouted their pain as the scattered metal caltrops, half hidden in the mud, pierced their feet. The tribesmen's attention was suddenly focused more downward than forward.
Scarface raised his spear, shouting encouragement to his comrades, easing the weapon back and forth in readiness to throw, as he searched for a target among the mass of tribesmen struggling towards the Tungrian line.
Frontinius whipped his hand downward in the pre-agreed signal. A volley of spears arced flatly into the struggling tribesmen, finding targets unprotected in their struggle to stay upright. The front ranks shivered with the impact, men screaming as flying steel spitted them through limb and trunk, their flailing bodies adding to the chaos as the barbarian charge faltered.
The veteran soldier found his mark, a big man carrying a six-foot-long sword momentarily distracted by the greasy footing, and stepped forward to throw his spear, arm outstretched as he followed the weapon's flight through to his point of aim. The barbarian jerked as the spear's cruel steel head punched into his belly, blood jetting from the wound as he sank to his knees. Drawing his sword with a smile of satisfaction, Scarface backed up the slope until he felt hands grab his belt to steady him, lifting his shield into line with those to his right and left.
Along the line the centurions bawled new commands, their men drawing their swords and crouching deeper behind their shields as the barbarian wave regained some of its momentum, shrugging aside the dead and dying to struggle towards the silent Tungrian line. Seeing their momentary difficulty, Frontinius made a snap decision, lifting his sword and pointing at the barbarians with its blade, bawling the order that unleashed his men down the slope.
With a shrill of whistles from their officers the cohort lunged the few remaining paces down the hill into their enemy, smashing into the struggling barbarian line with their heavy shields and bowling the enemy front line back into the warriors behind, then stepped in with their swords.
Scarface heard the whistle, kicked back to disengage the soldier held fast to his belt and bounded down the slope alongside his comrades with a blood-curdling howl, punching his shield's metal boss into the face of a warrior with his sword raised to strike, then stabbing his sword's point into the man's guts and kicking him off the blade in one fluid motion. He shouted to his mates as he raised his shield into position.
'Line! Reform the line!'
The cohort's front rank snapped their shields back into place, presenting the barbarians with an unbroken wall to frustrate their attacks. The soldiers repeatedly punched the metal bosses of their shields into the faces of the oncoming men, upsetting their precarious balance, then stabbed their short swords into their chosen targets, aiming for the body points that centuries of experience had taught would kill a man in seconds. Blood flew across the gap between the two lines in hot sprays as men fell back from the point of combat, weapons falling from their hands as they sought to halt the flow or hold intestines into torn bellies, or simply explored agonising wounds with shocked bewilderment as life ebbed from their bodies. The ground beneath their feet, doused with a mixture of blood, urine and faeces, became steadily more treacherous. The Tungrian rear rank's role became one of keeping the men in front on their feet, and not exposed to an enemy blow on the ground. Punching and thrusting at the seething throng that railed desperately at their shield wall, parrying enemy sword and axe strokes and striving in turn to murder their deliverers, the Tungrians fought as men who understood that their only survival lay in slaughter, cold blooded and clinically efficient.
In the 9th's front rank Scarface crouched behind his shield, his left arm shuddering with the shock of sword-blows against its scarred wooden face, watching the barbarians intently through the gap between his helmet and the shield's top edge, looking for any chance to strike. The long-haired warrior facing him, hemmed in by the men around him, raised his sword to chop the blade downward in the only attack open to him, and presented a fleeting opportunity that the experienced soldier took without hesitation. Stepping forward one pace, he thrust his sword between the other man's ribs and dropped him, doubled over with the sudden awful pain, into the blood-spattered mud.
A tribesman already fallen with a spear through his thigh gathered his strength to strike at the Roman's extended leg, but the wily soldier simply slammed the sharpened metal edge of his shield down across the man's sword arm, slicing down to the bone before stepping quickly back into his place in the shield wall. The man next to him slipped on the mud, going down on to one knee and opening himself up to the blows of his attackers. Without conscious thought, Scarface shifted his shield to protect his mate for the critical seconds required for him to regain his footing, ignoring his own peril. The man to his right killed a tribesman shaping to attack the momentarily unprotected veteran, ripping open his throat with a swift stab of his gladius. Within seconds their wall of shields was complete again, steady against the barbarians railing at its unyielding face.
To Marcus, standing behind the double line of his men with a tent party of soldiers ready to thrust into holes hacked in the line, it looked like a hopelessly unequal battle. As the seconds passed he realised that most of the dying was being done on the other side of their shields. Relatively few of his own men had gone down, despite the thick throng of enemy pressing up the slope.
'Stand fast, Ninth century, parry and thrust!'
Dubnus's familiar booming voice gave him heart, and he shouted his own encouragement above the screams and shouts of the battle. A gap opened in the line in front of him, a pair of men felled by the same massive axe blow, and he instinctively pushed the replacements aside and stepped into the breach before any of the enemy could surge through. The tribesman wielding the axe stamped down at his victim, attempting to wrench the blade from deep in his victim's chest, then gaped as Marcus's powerful chopping blow hacked away his right arm, a heavy boot striking him under the chin. The maimed man fell back into the wall of frenzied blue-painted faces that confronted Marcus and was lost to view, replaced by another, who, seeing Marcus's rank, leapt forward in attack, only to be spitted by the cavalry sword's length. Twisting the blade in a savage half-circle inside the barbarian's scrabbling hands to loosen it within the body cavity, he punched forward with his shield at the dying man's chest, ripping the sword free in a shower of gore that painted both the shield and his chest dark red.
To his left a man from the neighbouring century suddenly leapt forward into the mass of the enemy, thrusting about him in a blood frenzy, killing one then another barbarian, then sank blood-soaked into the throng of the enemy, screaming as a dozen battle-crazed warriors bludgeoned him to death. The century's chosen man pushed a man into the gap, bellowing at his men to keep their heads and hold the line.
To their front, Marcus reckoned, as he parried and stabbed at the enemy in front of him with his men, the onslaught was easing, as the tiring tribesmen found it harder to stay on their feet with so many of their own dead and wounded underfoot. One of the less seriously wounded attempted to cut at his ankles from the ground, provoking a hacking stroke that neatly removed his arm at the elbow. The man rolled back under his comrades' feet, tumbling two of them on top of him with his agonised writhing.
The mass of tribesmen in front of Marcus parted without warning, allowing a tall and heavily armoured man to step out into the gap between the two lines. His black helmet and chest armour were intricately decorated with silver inlays and already coated with dried blood, his thighs and calves protected by iron greaves. He eyed the young centurion with cold appraisal for a moment, then with a sudden lunge sprang to attack the officer. Three savage hacking blows from his heavy sword smashed into Marcus's shield, their power numbing his left arm and putting him on the defensive. The big warrior paused in his attack, laughing down into Marcus's face, his voice a grating boom over the noise of the battle.
'I've already taken the head of a legatus today, so I won't bother with yours, I'll leave it to the crows. Are you ready to die, little Roman?'
Marcus held his ground, ignoring the taunts, and readied himself for the next onslaught. The big man sprang forward again, but this time Marcus met his sword not with his shield but blade to blade, turning the blow aside and stepping close in to slam his shield's iron frame down on the warrior's unarmoured foot, feeling bones crack under the impact. As the warrior fought to control the pain he attacked again, stabbing downward with his sword and spearing the blade through the man's shattered foot and into the soft ground below before twisting it savagely and ripping the sword free. Then, while the huge warrior staggered where he stood, paralysed by the crippling pain, Marcus raised his shield to the horizontal and chopped its harsh metal edge into his attacker's undefended throat with all his strength. With a stifled gurgle the tribal champion fell back from the shield wall, fighting for breath that was never going to reach his lungs through a ruptured windpipe. The barbarian line shivered and inched backwards away from the cheering Tungrians as their hero fell to the ground, his face darkening as he twisted in his death throes.
Along the line the gap between the two forces widened a little, as the tribesmen paused to regain their wind in dismay at the failure of their initial assault. The Tungrians straightened their line, one eye for the man next to them, one on the enemy. Horns blew to the warband's rear, ordering the tribesmen to pull back and reform, and they backed reluctantly down the hill, still shouting defiance at the Roman troops. No command was given to follow their retreat.
On the slope before the panting Tungrians lay hundreds of enemy warriors, some dead, some dying, all spattered with blood, some moaning pitifully with the pain of their wounds, others screaming intermittently in their agony and distress. The men of the 9th stared bleakly down at the scene, some, those few among them familiar with the sights and sounds of a full battle, with numb indifference, most simply wide-eyed at the horror of the scene. One or two made ineffectual efforts to wipe away the gore that had blasted across armour and flesh with each sword stroke, but most restricted themselves to wiping the blood from their eyes and mouths, knowing that there would be more to replace whatever they removed from their bodies and equipment soon enough. Julius sought out Marcus, pulling him from the front rank with a rebuke softened by the young officer's wide-eyed look of astonishment.
'That's a good place to get killed. Stay behind the line next time, and put your soldiers into the fight. We've got a short time before they come back. It would be a good opportunity for the century to drink some water. I'll check for casualties …'
He looked down at the two men killed by the axeman, one without head and right arm, the other cloven a foot down into his chest.
'Best you remove these two. They're already with Cocidius …'
Marcus pointed down at the wounded tribesmen to their front, almost within touching distance.
'What about them?'
The reply was dismissive.
'They're dead, they just haven't realised it yet. Leave them there; they'll slow down the next attack.'
The young officer nodded jerkily, calling for the water bottles to be passed along the line, and commanding the closest men to carry the ruined corpses of their dead into the forest at their rear.
In the Tungrian front rank Scarface leaned on his shield, grateful for the chance to get his breath back and take a mouthful of water to swill away the coppery taste of blood.
'That was good enough. We must have done twenty or so of the bastards and lost, what, two of ours? Who came forward to replace them?'
The promoted rear-rankers raised their hands sheepishly.
'You two, eh? Welcome to the front rank, boys, this is where the corn gets earned the hard way. Keep your heads for a few minutes more and you'll have a place here for the rest of your time.'
He laughed at their comical expressions as both men realised that their lives as soldiers had just changed for ever.
'Oh yes, all that piss-taking the front rank always gives the girls at the back? That'll be you giving rather than taking from now on. Welcome to my army.'
The 9th drank gratefully, the more composed soldiers discussing the fight almost conversationally, leaning tiredly on their shields like pottery workers taking a break from the kilns. Some, the more experienced and perceptive, knowing the danger of the less experienced men losing themselves to the battle rage when the fight renewed itself, worked on the men next to them, coaxing them back to reality with words of home and family. Morban found Marcus checking the edge of his sword with a careful eye, and offered him a drink from his bottle.
'Nicely fought, Centurion, you took that big bastard's arm off like lopping a sapling, and the way you did the boy in black armour with your shield was nothing short of poetic. The lads're already talking about the way you jumped into the line and got stuck in!'
Marcus nodded, sheathing his sword and holding on to the hilt to hide the shaking of his hand.
'Thank you. I hope your son escaped injury?'
'Indeed, I think so, the little I could see of him from here.'
A shout from the line of troops grabbed his attention, pointing arms guiding his stare to the edge of the valley a mile or so to their right, past the small forest's edge. There, silhouetted against the skyline, a mass of horsemen was moving into position, perfectly placed to sweep down the slope and into the barbarian flank. Their long lances were held vertically, the points making a winking glitter of razor-sharp steel in the mid-morning sunlight.
'Get the bluefaced bum-fuckers!'
'Give them the eight-foot enema!'
A chorus of shouts implored the riders, identified as the Petriana and Augustan cavalry wings by their twisting white banners, two thousand men strong, to attack the mass of men below, but their inaction once their deployment was complete was just as Equitius had expected. An unsupported charge against so many warriors could end only in a glorious failure. All the same, anything that gave Calgus one more thing to worry about, and heartened his own men, had to be good. Even as he watched a force of some five thousand men detached themselves from the barbarian mass on the plain below, wheeling at speed to form a rough defensive line of archers and spears, ready to absorb any charge.
He walked on, to the point where his command ended and Caelius's started, hailing his brother officer. The other man strode down the line of barbarian corpses, keeping one eye on the ground against the risk of being surprised by a wounded man feigning death.
'Hail, Two Knives, freshly blooded, from the rumour passed down our line, and from the blood painted across your mail. I hope you offered that prayer for me?'
Marcus smiled wryly.
'I was a little busy at the time. I'll be sure to mention you next time I can get to an altar.'
'Good enough. What do you think they'll do now?'
Both men stared downslope at the milling horde, order gradually returning to their mass.
'If I were leading them? Keep the cavalry safely at arm's length, put some archers and slingers out front, harass us with darts and stones to keep our heads down, and pull the rest away before two full legions take them dry from behind …'
Equitius was weighing the same question.
'We came down here as bait, to keep the warband in place until the main force can be moved up. I don't believe we've been here long enough to have achieved that aim, do you?'
Frontinius shook his head with pursed lips.
'Another hour at least, I'd say. I presume you'd like to attract their attention some more, rather than letting them slip away into the hills?'
'Yes. They can break into family bands and worm their way into the folds in the land. We might only take a tenth of them if that happens …'
The First Spear called a man to him, muttered instructions in his ear, and then turned back to the conversation.
'I have a way to hold them here, but it won't be pleasant. Especially since they'll come back up that slope like wild animals.'
The prefect nodded slowly.
'As long as Calgus doesn't pull his men away to safety, the price will be justified. Do whatever you have to.'
The First Spear nodded impassively and turned away, walking down the cohort's line at the high-tide mark of barbarian dead, inspecting the troops as if on peacetime parade, giving an encouraging word here and there. The man he'd sent to help him search for a particular corpse had succeeded, running down the line of shields with a freshly removed head dripping blood on his leggings.
The First Spear took it from him, examining the slack face with an intensity that was almost feral. The owner's hair was long and greasy, the seams of his face dark with the grime of long days on the march. His eyes stared glassily back, their animation long departed along with the man that had formerly watched the world through their windows.
'How do you know he was a chieftain?'
The other man held out his hand, showing his superior an impressively heavy torc stained dark red with blood, the gold wrapped in a serpentine arc that had previously been around the dead man's neck. Frontinius took the heavy piece of jewellery, weighing it in his hand and remembering the one like it that Dubnus's father had always worn, even after his dethronement.
'Somebody was important.'
He turned to stare down at the barbarian warband, quiet now, waiting for a command, and spoke again, without taking his eyes off the mass of warriors.
'Go to the prefect. Warn him to be ready.'
He stood silently on the slope for a moment, the head dangling almost forgotten from one hand, the torc in the other, until the men below him, alerted by those at the front, grew silent at the sight.
Calgus came to his decision with his usual speed and insight. At his rear waited the bulk of his warband, rested and ready to move. To his right were the enemy cavalry, at least temporarily neutralised by the screen of infantry and archers he'd thrown out to cover that wing of the warband. Their spears stood out above them in a forest of wood and steel, a full cohort from their density. In front of him, arrayed on the bloodied slope, the Tungrians stood motionless at the high-tide mark of a thick carpet of dead and dying men, waiting for his next move. Between them, slowly regaining a sense of order, the depleted tribal bands were reforming under new leaders, preparing to storm the hill once more.
'Pull them back.'
Aed raised his eyebrows.
'My lord, they are not yet successful. We …'
'I know. But there are two more legions marching in these hills. That prefect was far too relaxed for that cohort to be far from friendly spears. If they come upon us here, with the advantage of the slope, and with those fucking horsemen, we'll be dead meat. No, we leave now, break into tribal bands and go back to the muster. Then we can …'
A shout rang out across the open space, some leather-lunged Roman officer shouting the odds. Except … Calgus strained to hear the words, a fresh premonition of disaster stroking the hairs on the back of his neck.
Frontinius lifted head and torc, the former dangling by its greasy hair, the latter glinting in the early afternoon sun. Inflating his barrel chest, he bellowed out across the mass of men below, silencing their growing noise.
'Leave this place now, or we will kill you all! Warriors?! You have failed once, and you will fail again like the children that you are compared to real soldiers.'
He paused for breath, and allowed the silence to drag on for a long moment.
'We killed your leaders and threw you back down this insignificant hill with ease. You came seeking heads and left your own by the hundred! If you come back up again, we will do the same to you. See, the head of a defeated chieftain!'
He swung the dead man's head in a lazy arc by its hair, resisting the temptation to hurl its obscenity away from him and into the seething tribesmen, raising the heavy torc to glint in the sunshine and be recognised as a symbol of authority.
'You were weak, and we punished you. Now run away, before we treat you all like this!'
Feeling queasy, he put the head to his crotch and pushed his hips at it in an unmistakable gesture, then threw it high into the air above their heads. With an angry roar the tribesmen surged forward, charging up the hill in their mad fury. Frontinius ducked back into the line of soldiers, shouting for them to ready their spears.
To the warband's rear, Calgus closed his eyes for a moment as the realisation hit him.
'My lord …'
'I know. I have no choice. I must kill the prisoners and send the entire warband up that hill. But not on their terms. Get me the tribal leaders.'
The Tungrians loosed their second and last volley of spears, plunging the barbarian front rank into chaos once more, then huddled into their own shields with swords ready. The oncoming rush slowed to a walk across the slippery ground, to a crawl over the wall of their dead and wounded, until the tribesmen arrived, in ones and twos, in front of the Roman shield wall. With Frontinius disdaining a charge against such disorganised opposition, preferring to keep his men on firm ground, they waited for their enemy to stagger exhaustedly on to their shields, then began their slaughter with a professional ease. Even when more men had struggled through the obstacles in front of the cohort's line, building the attacking force to a more respectable size, the anger that had burnt out of them was replaced by a wary respect, most of them holding off from the Roman swords, content to shout defiance at the Tungrians.
Scarface's tent party crouched ready to engage behind their shields, sensing that the fight had gone out of their opponents but unwilling to believe the battle could end so easily. A single man leapt from the barbarian line, a huge warrior swinging a six-foot-long blade around his head and bellowing abuse at the Tungrians. Stripped naked and possessed by a mighty rage, he swung his long sword over the top of the shield wall and opened the two new front-rankers' throats with the blade's end before whipping it back above his head to hack down into the Tungrian shields. Scarface's neighbour, caught beneath the sword's descending blade, raised his shield two-handed in self-defence. He staggered backwards as the savage blow chopped through the iron frame and sank the razor-sharp blade deep into his shield's wooden layers. Both Scarface and the soldier on the far side of the attacker stepped in and stabbed their swords deeply into the naked warrior's sides, Scarface backhanding his stabbing stroke into the man's side and ripping the blade out through his stomach muscles to release a slippery rope of guts. Releasing the long sword's hilt, the warrior staggered back from the shield wall with blood pouring down his legs from his dreadful wounds. The two men whose throats he had slashed died where they fell, bleeding out from their severed arteries in less then a minute. They were unceremoniously dragged away behind the line, two more rear rankers taking their places.
The prefect and Frontinius had little concern for their front, however, their attention being fixed on the mass of men gathering at the slope's foot.
'He'll put more men in to threaten our flanks to fix us, perhaps throw in some skirmishers to keep our heads down, then throw that mob up the middle and look to crush us under their numbers …'
The prefect nodded unhappily.
As they watched, the warband's bulk split into three groups. Two smaller groups split to left and right, and began climbing the slope with grim purpose, while a larger third body of men, perhaps ten thousand strong, started moving up to reinforce their attackers.
'What would you advise?'
Frontinius shook his head unhappily.
'All we can do is reposition some of the weakened centuries from the centre to the flanks and hope they can hold off the fixing attacks, then strengthen the centre with our reserves.'
'It isn't much of an option.'
'Prefect, it's no option at all. Either way we'll all be dead quite shortly unless Prefect Licinius manages to get some troops here within the next ten minutes.'
The other man drew his sword, glaring down at the mass of men moving up the hill to either side of their embattled position.
'Very well, take the Fourth and Seventh out of the centre and put the Fifth and Tenth in to replace them. I can't see a reserve being much use when this comes to knife fighting. Good luck to you, First Spear. Let's hope we meet again under more promising circumstances.'
They clasped hands, then Frontinius strode down the slope, bellowing orders to his centurions and setting their last desperate plan in motion. The 5th and 10th Centuries streamed down the slope to reinforce the centre of the line.
Marcus and Julius stood together behind the thin line of their men, watching as their attackers, beaten back once more by the cohort's swords, gathered their strength. Rufius had strolled across to join them for a moment, his vine stick now tucked into his belt and his sword drawn and bloody. More and more men were clambering over the wall of dead and dying warriors, to swell the numbers facing them. To make matters worse smoke had begun to blow across their line, from trees set ablaze in the forest upwind to their right, making it harder by the moment to see their enemy. The barbarians were hammering on their shields, screaming abuse at the Tungrians, who, understanding the depth of their situation, were increasingly casting nervous glances to their rear rather than to the front. Julius stared out at the clamouring horde dispassionately.
'If they attack in that strength we'll have to abandon the line and fight in pairs, back to back.'
Marcus nodded, his mouth dry. As he squinted through the smoke, it appeared that to either side of the position the battle was yet to begin, the thousands of warriors in the flanking warbands apparently content to threaten the Tungrian flanks and hold the bulk of the cohort in position, rather than commit to an attack.
'Why don't they attack along our whole length? Surely they could push both flanks in and turn to roll us up with those numbers.'
Rufius answered him without taking his eyes off the advancing barbarians.
'Calgus wants to blood the men that haven't fought yet, give them back their manhood after Uncle Sextus put them down so cruelly. The main attack will come through the middle, right here, and we're the men that will have to stop it.'
'An interesting life and a short one, eh, brothers?'
They turned, finding Frontinius standing behind them.
'I thought your men might be feeling a little exposed, so I've come to share in the fun and show them that we're all in the same shitty boat. Julius, it's time your century stopped sitting about and actually did some fighting, so I've brought them down to strengthen the line.'
He pointed to their left, and Julius turned to see his men coming out of the smoke, his chosen man guiding them into the gap opening up as the 4th Century went to ground to let them through and into the line. Caelius, so far unscathed, pulled back with his soldiers, shot Frontinius a quick salute and then led the 4th off down the line, following the First Spear's pointed direction. Julius smiled broadly at the sight of his men.
'And about time. Excuse me, brothers. Right, ladies, get your shields up and your spears ready to throw. Let's show these bluefaced bum-fuckers the entrance to Hades!'
He trotted away to rejoin his men, shouting encouragement as he ran. To the right, beyond Rufius's 6th, the big men of the 10th Century were replacing the battered 7th. Rufius nodded grimly.
'That's going to be a nasty shock for the bluefaces. A century of axes is a terrifying prospect when they start lopping off arms and cleaving heads. The Bear's boys will be painted black from head to foot before this is over. Right, I'd best go and get my lads ready.'
He headed off to his century, leaving Frontinius and Marcus alone behind the 9th. The First Spear watched the enemy massing to their front impassively from behind his borrowed shield, keeping his eyes on the enemy as he addressed Marcus for what would probably be the last time.
'Well, Centurion, whether you be Tribulus Corvus or Valerius Aquila, I think you can take comfort in the fact that you've proved an exemplary officer these last few days. If I have to meet Cocidius in the next few minutes I'll be honoured to do so in your company.'
Marcus nodded.
'Thank you, sir.'
An arrow sailed past his head, as a sudden barrage of missiles made the soldiers hunch deeper behind their shields. The barbarian archers, using the wall of corpses for cover, began sending a continuous rain of missiles against the two centuries. Steel-tipped arrows hummed and whirred through the line, accurate shots punching into shields and clicking off helmets. Frontinius stood straight in the face of the barrage, raising his voice to continue his monologue.
'They'll keep this up for a moment or two; pick a few of us off with lucky shots, then charge in for the kill. When they do, you fight in pairs with your partner. If he's dead, find another, or fight in a three. Watch each other's backs, and don't leave your partner. If your partner is wounded, concentrate on killing bluefaces, not looking after him, or you'll be next …'
And he stopped, his eyes suddenly wide with the impact of an arrow between the greave that shielded his calf and the chain mail that ran down to mid-thigh. The missile had skewered his leg above the knee, toppling him unceremoniously on to the grass with a rivulet of blood seeping around the shaft. With a delighted roar the barbarians that had crossed the wall of bodies surged forward en masse, eager to take the one head that mattered to them above all.
The line disintegrated into a whirling melee, Marcus and Dubnus going back to back over Frontinius as a tide of tribal warriors washed past them. Several men moved to encircle them, drawing a tightening circle of swords around the three men, gathering themselves for the kill. With an incoherent, berserk scream, Antenoch hit the men facing Marcus from behind, thrusting his sword through one's back and stamping him off the blade before swinging fiercely at the other's shield. Marcus and Dubnus went on to the offensive, killing two men and putting the other two to startled flight.
Across the century's frontage knots of men were fighting their own personal wars, still parrying barbarian swords and thrusting back with their short swords, but the fight was descending into a deadly mass brawl, and without the disciplined protection of the shield wall the soldiers were horribly outnumbered. Ten yards in front of Marcus two barbarians had a single soldier cornered, one hammering at his shield while the other outflanked him and sank his sword into the beleaguered man's neck in the gap between helmet and mail. The soldier crumpled instantly, just as the sprinting centurion hit his attackers from behind, running one man through with his cavalry sword and leaving the weapon sheathed in his back, smashing the other to the ground with a shield swipe and drawing his gladius to finish the stunned warrior where he lay.
As the struggle hung in the balance, and quite without fanfare, a wave of fresh troops charged down the slope into the battle, suddenly equalising the odds and chasing off the startled barbarians. Marcus and Dubnus stood panting over their wounded superior as the reinforcements finished off the enemy wounded around them with swift unconsidered efficiency. Following the bellowed commands of their officers, the new arrivals slotted into the line between the cohort's decimated centuries, bolstering the defence to more than its original strength.
The men of the 9th Century jeered as they recognised their new companions in adversity.
'It's the fucking Second Cohort. Well done, lads, you managed to find the battlefield at last, then?'
A solidly built watch officer muscled his way into the front rank, his spear held ready to throw. He shot Scarface an indifferent glance, his attention riveted on the regrouping warband.
'That's better, all front-rankers together. Just about now one of those bluefaced boys would have been hacking your head off to take home to frighten his kids with when they wouldn't go to their bed at night. But some idiot officer said we had a duty to pull your knackers out of the fire, what with you being our sister cohort.'
He spat on the ground noisily.
'Sisters being just about right. Anyway, here we are and here we stand. No reason why you lot should get all the fun. When does the next session start?'
Where the line had been thinning to the point of desperate vulnerability there were now three unbroken lines of shields, the newcomers' strength giving fresh heart to the desperately tired Tungrians. Those of the cohort's survivors with the energy shouted the time-worn insults that had always been exchanged when the 1st and 2nd Tungrians met in the field. An officer walked out of the smoke that still drifted across the slope in pale grey curtains, his sword drawn, searching for the First Spear. Frontinius winced as Dubnus finished lashing a broken spear shaft to his wounded leg as a makeshift splint, raising a weary hand in salute as the other man stopped in front of where he lay.
'Prefect Bassus. I can honestly say I've never been quite so pleased to see the Second Cohort …'
The prefect laughed, looking out over the rampart of bodies.
'We heard your trumpet calls on the wind, so faint that some men swore it was only the wind, but the stand fast was clear enough for those with ears to hear it. The other prefects insisted on following their orders, but I never liked that greasy little shit Perennis, and seeing this lot proves I was right. Beside, Tungrians never leave their brothers dangling.'
Frontinius nodded, climbing to his feet with Marcus's help.
'I fear all you've achieved is to dangle alongside us, but I appreciate the company while we wait to die. And now, if you'll excuse me?'
The First Spear hobbled off up the slope to make his report to Equitius, using another broken spear to support his weight on the wounded leg. Bassus looked to Dubnus, raising a questioning eyebrow.
'Excuse us for a moment, Chosen.'
He waited for the big man to walk out of earshot before speaking to Marcus, his face suddenly dark with anger.
'I received a message yesterday night, a tablet from my wife, respectfully asking me for a divorce. It seems that she has tired of my company and, I can only presume, wishes for that of another. While this is hardly the time for such a discussion, I will be expecting a frank conversation with you once we have these barbarians running.'
He turned on his heel and walked away to attend to his command. Julius strolled back across the slope with a sidelong glance at the senior officer.
'Trouble?'
'Nothing I haven't earned.'
The other man smiled easily.
'I don't think he'll be troubling you after the battle. Not from what I've been hearing his troops say in the last couple of minutes.'
Marcus stared at him uncomprehendingly.
'Never mind. Everything in its time.'
The two men took stock as corpses and the seriously wounded were carried away up the slope by the walking wounded, counting another twenty casualties between their two centuries as their line clung to its ground with what was, even with the reinforcement of another eight hundred men, a tenuous hold. Through a gap in the smoke Marcus saw the Petriana waiting still on their ridge-line, the sparse forest of their spears unreduced and unmoving. Julius followed his gaze, then spat on the bloodied grass.
'No help to be expected from that direction. Bloody cavalry are all the same, good for the chase once the battle's won, just never around when the shit starts flying.'
Marcus nodded grimly, watching the barbarians working themselves up for another charge. Julius spat on to the scarred turf again, examining his sword's edge.
'This is it. This time they'll throw everything they have at us, here, on the flanks, everywhere, and that will be it, Second Tungrians or no Second Tungrians. Are you ready to die for the empire?'
'For the cohort. The empire can kiss my hairy arse.'
The older man laughed with a dark delight, his eyes wild with the fight.
'Spoken like a real Tungrian. Let's get into the line and get ready to go out in style.'
Up the slope, the prefect was weighing his options, watching as a medic carried out field treatment on Frontinius. The medic, having cleaned the entry and exit wounds around the arrow's shaft with water and a clean cloth, took an exploratory grip of the feathered end that protruded from the First Spear's knee. The prefect winced with his friend's obvious pain. Frontinius leant back on the grass wearily, closing his eyes as the bandage carrier took a firmer grip of the arrow. With a sudden twist, the medic snapped the arrow's shaft, then swiftly pulled the barbed end out of the back of the officer's knee. Frontinius watched with narrowed eyes as he expertly bandaged the wound, winding the cloth tightly as blood blossomed through its weave.
'You can stand, First Spear, but you have to keep the leg straight. And keep your weight off it.'
Frontinius struggled to his feet, accepting the prefect's offered hand to pull him erect.
'I'll be separated from my head quite shortly, sonny boy. The knee can …'
His retort trailed off as movement up the slope, at the wood's edge, caught his eye.
The Tungrians watched the wall of barbarians slowly wash up the hill towards them, picking their way carefully across the wall of their dead. There was no headstrong charge this time, only a steady advance by the thousands of men to their front, confident in their numerical advantage but made cautious by the sight and smell of the dead and dying littering the ground around them. Facing them, men from both cohorts stood in an ordered line, calm in their resignation for the most part. A man close to Scarface whimpered with fear, quietening as the veteran soldier glared down the line at him and barked out his name. The 2nd Cohort watch officer nodded approvingly.
'Too late for second thoughts now, my lads. If you can't take a joke then you shouldn't have joined in the first place. Just make sure you take some of the bastards across the river with you.'
With certain death at hand, men tightened their sweat-and-blood-slickened grip on swords and shields, waiting to kill for the last time.
The barbarian line passed over the wall of dead, speeding up to walking pace with the obstacle crossed, the lack of spears in Roman hands having reduced it to a hindrance rather than the death trap it had been earlier in the morning. Twenty yards from the Tungrians they stopped at a shouted command, allowing Calgus's messenger to step into the gap between the two forces.
'Tungrians, the Lord Calgus offers you one last chance to live. Surrender now and you will be well treated …'
His voice tailed away as Julius stepped forward, his armour painted with the blood of a dozen men, his shield scored and notched by swords, the shafts of three arrows protruding from its wooden face.
'One step more and I'll send your cock back to the Lord Calgus while the rest of you stays here. You want these …'
He raised sword and shield into their fighting positions, backing carefully into the line as the men to either side readied themselves in similar fashion.
'… then fucking well come and get them, cum stain.'
The messenger shrugged indifferently, then turned away and was absorbed into the barbarian mass. The warband's fresh warriors began banging their swords and shields, creating a wall of sound that bore down oppressively on the Tungrians, first advancing one step, then another, some swinging their swords in extravagant arcs and screaming of the slaughter to come. The Tungrians waited, hollow eyed, for the barbarian line to charge across the narrowing gap and finish the unequal contest. |
Wounds of Honor | Anthony Riches | [
"historical fiction"
] | [
"Rome",
"war",
"Empire"
] | Chapter 16 | The barbarian line gathered itself to pounce, the mass of shaggy-haired warriors baying for blood as the Tungrian cohorts waited grimly for their assault. Frontinius's voice rang out over the din, his command the last Marcus would have expected.
'Tungrians, on the ground! On the ground!'
The line went to the ground after a second's bewildered pause, the brighter soldiers realising what it meant and twisting to look back to their rear as they fell. The barbarian line wavered at the sight, as a line of hard-faced soldiers, fresh and unblooded, came out of the smoke. These men were different to those in the Tungrian line, their armour fashioned from overlaid plates rather than chain mail, their javelins topped with slender iron shanks sprouting viciously barbed points. Scarface and the 2nd Cohort watch officer exchanged looks of amazed glee.
'Legionaries? Fuck me, it's the Sixth, or what's left of 'em. They must be gagging to get into this lot.'
The watch officer nodded as he hugged the blood-sodden grass.
'They do look a tiny bit pissed off.'
'Halt!'
Prefect Licinius's voice was authoritative above the warband's din, all urbanity lost in the harsh command. The newcomers' force stretched all the way across the small battlefield behind the Tungrians, three lines of men with spears held ready to throw. More men were advancing out of the smoke behind them. A lot more men.
'Front rank, throw!'
The advancing soldiers took an unhesitating three-step run-up and launched a volley of spears into the warband's front rank.
'Front rank, kneel! Second rank, throw!'
Another rain of spears showered on to the barbarians.
'Second rank, kneel! Third rank, throw!'
The warband shuddered under the third volley, hundreds of men having fallen in the previous few seconds. Licinius's voice hardened.
'Sixth Legion, on your feet. Form line for attack.'
The legionaries were on their feet with their line dressed and ready in seconds, a wall of shields and swords suddenly presented to their amazed enemy.
'Sixth Legion, for the honour of your fallen dead …'
The hairs on the back of Marcus's neck lifted with the emotion in the prefect's voice. A sudden silence descended on the battlefield as the warband grew quiet with apprehension, their presumed easy victory suddenly impending disaster. Only the cries and moans of the wounded broke the silence. Licinius growled into the hush the last command that would be needed to start the slaughter, his harsh voice audible from one end of the line to other.
'… no … prisoners!'
The depleted legion's centurions echoed the command, ordering the surviving cohorts forward in a deliberate advance. Their determined tread took them over and past the Tungrians, the supine bodies trampled by men fixated with the view to their front. As the warband's front rank quailed at their remorseless advance, unable to retreat owing to the sheer mass of men packed in behind them, the legionaries closed the gap between them and started their slaughter with ruthless efficiency and barely restrained fury.
'Find the officers!'
Marcus recognised the voice, and stood up in the shelter of the legion's line.
'No need, Prefect, we're here.'
Licinius nodded impassively, then switched his gaze to stare out across the valley.
Through the smoke's dying efforts Marcus could just make out a mass of men emerging from the cover of the wood to their right, a cohort at the least. The thick column kept on coming, pouring on to the slope like a monstrous armoured snake. Julius, staring at the mass of troops with eyes that seemed unfocused, pulled off his helmet and scratched his sweaty scalp.
'How many?'
The prefect smiled grimly.
'Six thousand. That's the entire Twentieth Legion. And to our left is the Second, the other half of the nutcrackers. These barbarian bastards are going to pay in blood for what they've done today.'
From the cover of the wood's other arm another tide of men was washing down the other slope, another legion in full cry. On the crest above them the cavalry's armour still glittered in the morning sun, but as Marcus's eye found them they started to pour down off the hill, the Petriana on the move at last, seeking targets for their lances. The warband, in severe danger of being encircled by the legions, shivered under the shock of their sudden appearance on its flanks, then broke into hundreds of family groups, falling over each other in their haste to escape the battlefield. Marcus bent over, putting his hands on his knees to provide support for suddenly weak limbs, and was abruptly, violently, sick. |
Wounds of Honor | Anthony Riches | [
"historical fiction"
] | [
"Rome",
"war",
"Empire"
] | Chapter 17 | Postumius Avitus Macrinus, legatus of the Imperial 20th Legion, stepped on to the blood-soaked slope with a grim face, the two centuries advancing up the hill ahead of him systematically butchering any of the wounded that had survived. A stroke of luck had brought a Petriana messenger to him as his own legion and the 2nd were marching less than five miles distant. His leading cohorts had been driven forward towards the distant smoke of the battle at a merciless run by their centurions, their exhaustion turning to cold purpose as they crested the final slope and saw thousands of the enemy below. The barbarian warband had scattered like chaff under their combined attack, put to flight in their tribal and family groups and pursued by a dozen cohorts with murder in their hearts and the guidance of questing cavalrymen, eager for heads.
He'd met with Licinius briefly when the Petriana's prefect had found the oncoming legions, and had guided them in to attack from either side of the wood before taking the 6th's remaining cohorts down through the trees to reinforce the Tungrians. He'd been unsurprised to have his request for the prefect to take over the remnants of the 6th legion refused without hesitation.
'Absolutely not, Legatus, I was brought up on horseback and this style of fighting doesn't suit me. Besides, you need the Petriana out in front of your legions, and I'm the best man to keep a foot firmly up their idle British arses. Go and talk to the man that made this possible.'
He'd pointed up the hill behind them, at a cohort-sized group of warriors arrayed behind an impressive rampart of dead barbarians, and told the legate in swift, economical sentences the story of Titus Tigidius Perennis's betrayal of the 6th and the Tungrians' stand on the hillside. Both Perennis's treachery and his parentage had come as a shock to the veteran officer.
'Jupiter! Sextus Tigidius Perennis's son did this? The son of the praetorian prefect lured an imperial legion into a barbarian ambush? Every time I think I've seen it all …'
Nodding his understanding, and clapping the tired prefect on the shoulder, he'd called a senior centurion to his side, pointing up the hill.
'I'm going up there. You might want to send a few men with me in case any of those dead barbarians is faking.'
Behind him, mute testimony to the effectiveness of Perennis's betrayal, thousands of Roman bodies lay in untidy bloodstained heaps around a series of unseen diminishing circles, the successive defence perimeters of the hopelessly outnumbered and disarrayed 6th Legion cohorts taken in Calgus's trap. He had already seen Sollemnis's body for himself, needing to know that the man was really dead and not carried away as a hostage. The legatus's sword had been hidden under another man's body, concealment sufficient to foil the brief search of the fallen for valuables that had been all the ongoing battle had allowed the barbarians. The weapon now rested in its scabbard once more, carried by one of his staff. He would have the difficult honour of passing it on to the man's oldest son.
He should have been at home himself, his age advancing towards a mature fifty more quickly than he cared to consider after a lifetime fighting Rome's enemies. The throne, however, or those behind it, trusted him too well to leave him in retirement. He'd been called from his fireside to command the 20th barely three months before, with instructions to look for signs that senior officers in the province were not to be trusted.
'I won't be the imperial informer, Prefect Perennis,' he'd told the praetorian guard's commander flatly, pointing a thick finger at the emperor's right-hand man, with whom he'd served twenty years before in Syria. He'd been respectfully summoned to dine with the imperial favourite, a private dinner served by slaves who appeared deaf, so little was their interest in the proceedings.
'And no one expects you to, Senator, least of all me. I don't care if some of the younger and impressionable idiots believe all they hear from Rome, and take it into their stupid heads that Commodus isn't fit for their respect. Every young emperor has to earn the regard of the army, and he will, given time. What I want from you is hard intelligence on the British situation, who's effective and who isn't. The rumours reaching us here are that the governor is playing a foolish game, not sending all of the gold intended to keep the northern tribal leaders happy to the right places, and we'd rather know the truth with enough time to act on it. Gods above us, the last thing we need is another bloody revolt on the edge of the world. On top of that, you'll provide us with a tested senior officer in place if anything does happen.'
He'd nodded, able to accept the task he was bidden to take on. Perennis had smiled quietly and sipped his wine, then put the cup down.
'One thing, though, you could keep an eye open for the late Senator Valerius Aquila's boy. There are rumours that he might have buried himself out of sight in the Wall army.'
He'd given the other man a darker look, as unresolved as to his views on young Aquila then as he was now. He'd known the senator in happier days, and had viewed his death with a sickened resignation as one of the small dramas that play out across every change of power. If the lad was still at large, and not dead or enslaved, he was mindful not to take too close an interest. Ignoring the misdemeanours of the men that surrounded the young emperor was one thing, abetting them was quite another.
Before him, in increasing numbers as he climbed the incline, slipping more than once on the treacherous footing, were arrayed barbarian dead, the leavings of the auxiliary cohort's defiant stand at the valley's head. At first they lay alone, wounded men killed as they had crawled away from the battle, then in twos and threes. The ground, previously scattered with the blood of the wounded, became slick with blood and faeces, the earth pounded into a greasy bog under thousands of feet, and the dead suddenly outnumbered the living. An eye-watering stench pervaded the air.
Unable to avoid committing the indignity of stepping upon the fallen, the legatus climbed a wall of corpses three feet high, men hacked and torn by grievous wounds, dropped in their hundreds to form a rampart for the defenders to shelter behind. A soldier to his right spotted some minute movement among the mangled warriors, and stepped in to strike with his gladius. The legatus returned his gaze to the front, seeing auxiliary troops among the dead for the first time, their bodies neatly laid in rows by their fellow troops and covered with their capes. He winced at the number of their dead, looking to the remaining troops to gauge their fitness for further action.
The cohort was standing to attention, neatly paraded across the hillside by century, a good sign in itself, as was the fact that they had already washed most of the inevitable blood spray of battle from their faces, if not their black-caked armour. The cohort's prefect stepped forward to meet him, the man's grasp shaking slightly. Shock or fatigue? He kept his demeanour brisk, hoping to help the man a little with his battle weariness.
'Prefect Equitius? I'm Legatus Postumius Avitus Macrinus, Twentieth Imperial Legion and, with the death of our esteemed colleague Legatus Gaius Calidius Sollemnis, now general in command of this whole sorry mess.'
He paused, looking out across the sea of corpses.
'You, Prefect, seem to have gained us a victory. The Petriana's commander tells me that you held this place against many times your own number in order to keep Calgus busy until reinforcement could arrive. You paid a heavy price for that success, I see …'
The other man nodded, his eyes far away.
'You could consider this ground bought and paid for, Legatus.'
A burly man passed them without recognition, his hollow eyes fixed on the body cradled in his arms.
'Another casualty. As you say, bought and paid for.'
The prefect watched Morban deposit the corpse alongside the cohort's other dead with gentle care.
'His son, I fear.'
'Ah … a difficult moment for any man.'
The senior officer waited a moment, watching the other for signs of mental defeat, but saw none.
'I'm sorry, but I'm new enough to this country not to know your unit by anything other than name. Forgive the question as simple ignorance of your men's resilience, but can they fight on?'
The prefect nodded slowly.
'We have an overall casualty figure of one hundred and fifty-eight dead and another one hundred and three seriously wounded, of whom at least half will die, plus a couple of hundred with minor wounds, cuts and bruises, who can be treated in the field. I am three officers short, one dead and two wounded, plus a First Spear with an arrow wound that he's determined to ignore, and I've lost half a dozen or so watch officers. So it isn't pretty, but yes, we can fight, given time to bury our dead and get some food into the troops.'
'Good. And yourself?'
The other man raised an eyebrow.
'I'm in better condition than most of my men. They did the fighting here, not me.'
'And yet your quick thinking, coupled with their prowess, made amends for what would otherwise have been a total disaster. With Calidius Sollemnis dead I'm the only general officer left in this command, which gives me the undisputed right to make battlefield promotions I feel are justified. I'm also a recent appointment from the imperial court. Even the governor wouldn't consider challenging my authority on a question of promotion. You're the man I need, Prefect, to take what's left of the Sixth legion and rebuild it.'
'Legatus, with respect …'
The senior officer silenced him with a raised hand.
'No, Prefect, the respect comes from this side of our short relationship. Your auxiliaries fought like praetorians here. You know how to manage soldiers, and you come with a ready-made reputation. With Perennis dead, my only other option would be to promote a young man from my own staff, and there's none of them your equal. The Petriana's prefect told me not to bother asking him, and since they're our most potent weapon I'm happy to leave him in post. I can't guarantee you the position in the longer term, but you'll lead the Sixth for the rest of the summer, and you'll have the title and status that go with the responsibility. You'll be able to retire to a nice civil job even if you're not confirmed in position, and in the meanwhile your family will be quartered in the Yew Grove headquarters. So, don't tell me you won't accept my offer, because I'm not minded to let you refuse.'
The prefect closed his eyes for a moment, wearily considering the options.
'Who succeeds me here?'
'I presume your First Spear's competent?'
He nodded.
'Then there's no urgent need to find a man of the equestrian class to replace you. Let that wait for calmer days. For the time being your men need a familiar face to look up to, not a new one they didn't see on this bloody hillside today.'
'Very well, Legatus, I will accept your generous offer.'
'Good. Take a few minutes to brief your people and then take command of the Sixth at once. You'll find them regrouping at the far end of valley if my order to halt their pursuit reached them. I'll let you have the Frisians and the Raetians as temporary reinforcement to bring your legion up over half-strength. Oh, and have the two Tungrian cohorts pull back to the Wall. I want some rear-area security on the road between here and Yew Grove, besides which it will give them a breather. We'll need them back in the campaign soon enough.'
'Sir.'
The new legatus turned to go, then turned back.
'I presume that you've found Legatus Sollemnis's body?'
'Yes, he died on his feet, it seems. He'd been beheaded, though. I hear these wretched people sometimes preserve the head of an enemy in the oil of the cedar. Perhaps when you recover his lost eagle you'll be able to bring him some peace too.'
'Did you find his sword?'
'Indeed, my First Spear has it. I'll return it to his family when I go back to Rome at the end of the year.'
'I know Sollemnis's son better than most people. It would be my honour to return the weapon to him …'
The legate called his senior centurion over, took an oilskin-wrapped package from him and presented it with obvious relief.
'I'm happy to have the responsibility off my shoulders. I've never once enjoyed seeing the faces of the relatives when I pitch up with their loved ones' personal effects … Anyway, Legatus, away and get your new command pulled into shape. I'll see you at tonight's commanders' conference.'
He turned away and picked his way gingerly down the hillside, watched by the remaining Tungrians. Frontinius hobbled over to the prefect, a question on his face.
'I'm a legatus, Sextus, new commander of the Sixth, or what's left of them …'
Frontinius congratulated him with genuine warmth, delighted for his friend.
'You will always be able to count on our support, Legatus. Might I enquire as to your replacement?'
'For the time being you're in command here. In the longer term I expect there'll be a queue of suitable candidates …'
Frontinius nodded.
'Then I'll make the most of my brief moment in the sun. Our orders?'
'Get your dead underground with dignity and then move to join the legions. They'll be camping back on the hill we used last night, I believe. I suggest that you use the Sixth Legion's supplies since they're several thousand men down on their establishment. Tomorrow morning you'll be marching for the Rock as fast as you can alongside the Second Cohort, and will secure what's left of the fort …'
Equitius's face creased into a frown.
'… and no, it isn't a quiet option for you, or any sign that I consider your command as unfit for battle. There are probably several thousand barbarians still milling about to our rear in a variety of groupings, and while I expect them to take to the hills once news of this action gets out, some of them still might be tempted to try a run south instead. In truth we've little enough between here and Yew Grove that we can trust to get in their way. Securing the crossroads south of the Wall is my first priority, after enjoying the sight of Calgus's head on a pole and seeing the Sixth's eagle back in the hands of a bad-tempered standard-bearer. I'll ask for a century of cavalry from the Petriana to scout ahead of you, and to maintain contact with the main body of the army …'
The new prefect nodded his understanding.
'… and now I must leave. Before I go, I need one favour from you.'
Frontinius nodded.
'Legatus?'
'I need a bodyguard, just a few tent parties. These men don't know me, and I don't know them. I'd feel safer with a few close friends between me and the blue-faces.'
'Got anybody in mind?'
Equitius looked out over the battlefield, still amazed at the slaughter committed across the valley's green slopes.
'I thought I might ask you for the Ninth Century, or what's left of them. Young Corvus ought to be safe enough with Perennis out of the way … and at some point I need to give him this.'
Frontinius peered inside the oilskin package as Equitius opened it to display the weapon inside, taking in the sword's fine workmanship.
'Very pretty. Sollemnis?'
'Yes. Tradition says it goes to his oldest son …'
'And now might not be quite the right time for that story to be told.'
'Exactly.'
Frontinius nodded.
'Very well, Legatus, the Ninth it is. Just remember we want them back.'
For the 9th the next month passed as quickly as the previous week. Sixth Legion, reinforced by the addition of the two auxiliary cohorts, giving it an effective strength of six cohorts, marched into the north, while the 20th and the 2nd legions pulled back to hold the Wall and start the task of rebuilding its shattered forts. The legions' task, carried out day after unremitting day, was to sweep the open countryside for tribal bands on the run after what had quickly became known to both army and the unwilling populace through which they moved as the Battle of the Lost Eagle. After the first week, with the weather turning sour and wind-driven drizzle working its way into armour and equipment, bringing the scourge of rust without constant care, the experience soon began to pall.
Waking before dawn, often in driving rain as a succession of cloud banks swept across the country, the legion was routinely on its feet until after dark, an eighteen-hour day at that time of the year and longer for men standing guard in the night. Moving into the increasingly mountainous country in search of the fleeing barbarians exposed them to likely ambush and inevitable pinprick attacks, knives in the dark and snatched bow shots from hidden archers who frequently escaped their clutches.
Intelligence gathered by their native scouts told Equitius that the captured eagle, and with it Sollemnis's head, went before them, tantalisingly close to recapture, and for the sake of his dead friend he pushed its pursuit for longer than might have been judged prudent. Each village and farm they encountered greeted their passing with forced indifference, as if neither side knew that refugees from the battle were hidden close by. Even the petty revenges of searching the rough dwellings, stealing any valuables their inhabitants were stupid enough not to have hidden, and the confiscation and slaughter of the farm animals for food, did little to lift the spirits of men who knew their enemy was laughing at their failure to retake the legion's precious standard.
Marcus's men held up well enough, helped by the distraction of keeping Morban from dwelling on his loss. The burly standard-bearer didn't sleep, lost weight and volunteered for guard duty at every opportunity, seeking activity to prevent opportunities to brood over his son's death in the battle's last minutes. Some of the century attempted to use humour to keep his spirits up. Marcus overheard two of his men attempting to lighten the standard-bearer's mood in camp late one evening.
'Morban, how many legion road-builders does it take to light a lamp?'
'No idea.'
'Five – one to light it and four lazy bastards leaning on their shovels to watch!'
The other soldier chipped in.
'Morban, how many stores staff does it take to light a lamp?'
'Go on.'
'Ten – one to light it and nine to do the paperwork!'
The first man started back in.
'Morban, how many prostitutes does it take to light a lamp?'
'Look, just …'
'Looks like one, but she's only faking it!'
Morban smiled sadly as he stood to leave.
'Look, lads, I know you're just trying to cheer me up, and that last one wasn't too bad, but just give it a rest, eh?'
Dubnus spoke darkly to Marcus on the subject, an unusual frown on his face.
'The next action we see, he'll take his first chance to jump into the blue-faces and get killed. Which is bad enough, but I wouldn't trust some of the lads not to jump in behind him and try to save him …'
They agreed to keep an eye on their friend, and in the event of impending battle to make sure he was kept away from the shield wall. Marcus knew it could only be a temporary solution.
With the legionnaires visibly losing their edge under the constant strain, and without any indication that they might regain the legion's badge of honour any time soon, Equitius was forced to bow to the inevitable. Standing in camp late one evening, watching the troops labour over yet another turf wall in the orange light of the setting sun, he turned to Marcus and looked at the young centurion properly for the first time in over a week.
'You look tired, Centurion, in need of a decent bath and a cup of a decent red …'
Marcus straightened his back reflexively, opening eyes that had narrowed to slits in anticipation and need of sleep.
'Relax, I wasn't finding fault. The gods know I could sweat a helmet full of dirt given the chance. And as for a decent drink … anyway, I've come to a decision. Tomorrow we'll have a rest day, give the cohorts a chance to get their tunics clean and polish the rust off their swords.'
Marcus nodded gratefully.
'And the day after?'
'We turn south. Four or five days' march ought to see us back to the Wall.'
'We're giving up the hunt?'
'Yes. They're playing with us, you know, spreading rumours to lead us round the countryside like a bull being pulled round the farmyard by the ring in its nose. Soon enough Calgus will lure us into some nasty ambush or other, cost us more men we can't afford to lose, and I don't intend to give him the satisfaction. It's time to go home and wait for reinforcements from Gaul.'
A shaft of orange sunlight lit the camp, and Equitius stretched luxuriously in the warm glow.
'Share a beaker with me, Centurion?'
They sat in Equitius's private tent, pitched alongside the massive command tent, and sipped their wine. For a while neither spoke. At last Equitius broke the silence.
'I don't suppose the last year has been anything other than a waking nightmare for you. If it's any consolation, you've acquitted yourself better than I could have imagined when we took you in, back in the month of Mars. With hindsight, though, you were never going to fail this test. Not with your blood. I've been waiting for the right time to give you something, and now seems as good a time as any …'
He pulled the oilskin package from under his camp bed, putting it in Marcus's hands with a smile.
'It belonged to Legatus Sollemnis. He wanted you to have it …'
Marcus unwrapped the sword, looking closely at the hilt's ornate decoration and inlay before pulling it from the scabbard and testing its fine balance.
'It's a beautiful weapon …'
'So it should be. I was with him when he bought it and it cost him more money than I would ever have spent on a sword. It served him with honour too, right across the empire in the service of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius.'
'I'm honoured. But why me?'
'He spoke to me the night before the Battle of the Lost Eagle. Perhaps he had a premonition, I don't know, but he asked me to make sure that the sword went to you if he should be killed the next day. I'd say he wanted it to go to someone that will bring it further honour. Besides, you're about the right age to have been the son he always wanted …'
He hovered close to breaking his promise to Frontinius at that moment, resisting the urge to tell Marcus the truth only with an effort of will.
'And now, Centurion, you can get that lamp fuel down your neck and fetch the senior centurions to come and see me. The sooner that lot out there know they've got a day of rest tomorrow the happier we'll all be.'
The depleted legion turned south the day after next as promised and, with thoughts of home in their hearts, made the journey back to the Wall in four days. At Noisy Valley, where buildings were being thrown up to replace those burned out to deny the warband their supplies, the other legions had set about building a temporary camp to house them until they could march south to their fortresses at the campaign's end. Equitius went looking for the 20th's legate to make his report, taking Marcus and a tent party of his men as close escort. They found the Northern Command's new general in his freshly erected wooden principia, a clutch of legion tribunes and senior centurions gathered around him as they planned the campaign's next moves. Dismissing his escort for the time being, Equitius approached Legatus Macrinus and made his salute before joining the group.
Marcus took his men outside to wait for the legatus, sitting them down in the early afternoon's warmth with a quiet order to Dubnus to keep them busy polishing their helmets, and to call him when Equitius had completed his duties inside, then headed for the infirmary. The legionaries guarding the hospital confirmed that there were Tungrian wounded inside. He found a couple of dozen of them, including five of his own men, sporting bandages and, in a couple of cases, fracture splints. Their delight at the visit was obvious, and they sat him down on a bed and plied him with questions on the state of the campaign.
It soon became clear that they knew more about what was going on than he did, and the consensus was that there was another advance to the north planned before the end of the summer. The Tungrians had been sent back to the Hill a few days before for a week's leave and to do whatever recruiting was possible locally to boost their strength, but were scheduled to return to the swiftly growing legionary fortress that Noisy Valley was becoming for further duty. Yes, they were all well enough, although several of their mates had died in the difficult days of the march south from the battlefield, too badly hurt to survive for the most part, but the care in the hospital had saved several others, particularly that from one doctor, the last said with much rolling of eyes and significant nods.
Marcus, knowing exactly where the conversation was going, smiled weakly and took his leave, promising to remember them to their friends and, if time allowed, to send their mates in to see them. In truth he'd forced himself to forget her, assisted by the strains of the last month, and being reminded of her existence was like having an ice-cold dagger twisted in his soul. Turning away, he came face to face with Felicia, who had been standing watching him with his men with a small smile on her face. He froze with uncertainty, blushing uncontrollably.
'Centurion. I trust you find your men in good condition?'
Recovering his wits, he bowed formally.
'Yes, ma'am, I'm told that almost everyone that made it here survived. The Tungrian cohort is in your debt.'
She smiled, and Marcus's heart leapt in his chest.
'That's probably no recommendation for our care. Anyone that survived that journey was probably going to live anyway …'
The more vocal of the Tungrians butted in indignantly on her behalf, one of them volunteering to remove his bandages and show Marcus the truly horrible wound the doctor had cleaned with delicate care three times a day, picking out the dead flesh so carefully that he hadn't even felt her working, until Marcus's irritation overcame his embarrassment, and he shooed the men back to their beds. With order restored, he turned back to Felicia with fresh confidence.
'If their exuberance is any guide, I'd say you've done a fine job on them, Doctor. Perhaps we could discuss their likely further treatment somewhere a little quieter, and I'll pass your diagnosis on to their prefect when I see him next.'
She smiled a secret smile, beckoning him down the ward and into her tiny office. In the small room, lit by the sun's light through an open window, he noticed that her tunic was not dark blue, as he'd supposed in the less well-illuminated ward, but simple black. She followed his gaze and pursed her lips.
'My husband was killed in that battle you fought against the barbarians.'
Marcus frowned, confused.
'He was alive the last time I saw him.'
'It happened later in the day, apparently, during the pursuit. His cohort cornered a barbarian band which turned and fought them to the death. He was found dead after the fight. It was a spear apparently, although the circumstances seem to have been confused …'
'I'm sorry. I mean … I read your tablet … and he told me that …'
'I know. I hated the man for the last year of our marriage, and his death has freed me to do whatever I want, within reason, but I still feel guilty about what happened.'
Marcus leaned back against the wall, looking closely at her face.
'I'm … I …'
'Yes, Centurion?'
'I would prefer it if you would call me Marcus. And I'd like to think, given time, of course, that we might …'
'Be together? Yes, I thought so too. I think I still do. But I do need time to let all this work itself out. Come and see me next time you're in camp. I won't be going anywhere in the meanwhile.'
He nodded his understanding, turning for the door.
'Centurion … Marcus?'
'Ma'am?'
'Firstly you could stop calling me "ma'am" as if I were some Roman matron. You know my forename …'
He managed a smile in return.
'Yes, Clodia Drusilla. But, if you'll forgive me, I won't use it until I know whether we're to be friends or something more. Call it superstition. And secondly, ma'am?'
'You could hold me for a moment. Remind me what male affection feels like.'
He took her in his arms, holding her slim body against his armour and stroking her hair with his right hand. After a long moment she pulled away, smiling again.
'Next time we do that, I'll make a point of your not being dressed in twenty pounds of chain mail. We don't all have a compulsion for men in uniform. Now, off with you, I've got work to do.'
Marcus ran the gauntlet of the wounded Tungrians, all of whom had stupid smiles on their faces and some of whom went so far as to wink and nod vigorously at him, pulling his helmet on as he walked out past the guards to cover up his own stupid smile. From the knowing looks and sideways glances he got from the men waiting for him outside the principia, he guessed that the wounded had found some way of passing the news to their colleagues. Thinking what he would have to put up with from Antenoch, he shook his head, only making his men smile more widely behind their hands.
When Equitius emerged from the building half an hour later, the look on his face was neutral, neither happy nor troubled.
'I'm in command for the rest of the summer, at least, and then we'll see what happens. There's still the small matter of a lost eagle to be dealt with, of course. Entire legions have been cashiered for losing their standards, broken up for reinforcements, so who knows what'll happen when the news reaches Rome …Twentieth and Second Legions are going to camp here for three weeks, since the barbarians will be too busy getting the harvest in to worry much about fighting us for the rest of the month. I'm taking the Sixth south to Yew Grove, to collect three cohorts of reinforcements that are expected there from Gaul within the week. So, you can head west to the Hill and rejoin the cohort. Give Uncle Sextus my thanks for the loan of your men, and tell him that I'll have a couple of centuries of replacements put to one side for him for when he brings his people back to Noisy Valley. That should get him back to full strength. There's a troop convoy expected into Arab Town soon with initial reinforcements, real Tungrians from northern Gaul, apparently.'
One more surprise awaited Marcus before he turned his men west. Rounding a corner on his way to the stores, he bumped into a squat man in uniform, his hair cropped short in the military style.
'Young Marcus!'
'Quintus!'
They embraced with delight, Rufius standing back to look his friend up and down.
'A bit thinner, a bit more muscle … and a scar or two, I'd bet. Not to mention an attachment to a rather attractive and recently widowed lady doctor, from what I've heard.'
Marcus shook his head in mock anger.
'Isn't there anyone in this bloody camp that can mind their own business? But why are you here, and not at the Hill?'
'I asked Sextus for some leave, and a chance to sort out some of my business affairs. It's amazing, you go missing for a month or two and suddenly you have to get the money people owe you at the point of a sword. Anyway, tell me what you've been up to in the hills since we turned south, you young puppy.'
The older man backed away as Marcus prodded him playfully in the belly with his vine stick.
'Not so much of the puppy, Centurion, I've done a good deal of growing up since we met on the road to Yew Grove.'
Rufius inclined his head gravely.
'Indeed you have. Do you have time for a drink and a natter?'
They repaired to the officers' mess and drank local beer while Marcus related what had happened since their parting after the Battle of the Lost Eagle. At length Rufius sat back, nodding his head sagely.
'You have been busy. At least all this excitement has taken everyone's mind off looking for a young man called Marcus Valerius Aquila for a while. Let's hope that bastard Perennis and his Asturian cronies were the only people that knew enough about you to be dangerous. You know that Annius died soon after the Battle of the Lost Eagle? Apparently he was found with an issue spear stuck right through him. Somebody strong must have taken a dislike to him … Anyway, you're safe now.'
'That's to be seen. I hardly look like one of the locals, do I?'
'True, but you're among friends. Anyway, I must go. I'm due back on the Hill by nightfall tomorrow, and there's still a nasty little shopkeeper that owes me three months' rent on his premises.'
He stood to go, offering his hand to Marcus.
'One question, Rufius.'
'If I can answer it.'
'You were Legatus Sollemnis's man. Why would he leave me this?'
He tapped the sword's hilt, raising an eyebrow in question. Rufius looked at him with calculation.
'Lad, the legatus was a good friend of your father. Think of the risk he took to look after you the way he did. Surely that's enough reason? Don't go looking for what isn't there to be found …'
From the thoughtful look in Marcus's eye, he wasn't sure that his bluff had succeeded.
The next day, eager to see the Hill again, the 9th took their leave of the legion and headed west along the road behind the Wall, a day's easy march bringing them to the fort. Marcus dismissed his men to their barracks and a well-earned rest, and went in search of Frontinius. He found the prefect enjoying a moment of quiet relaxation in the cohort's bathhouse, sitting quietly in the deserted steam room in the quiet of the evening. His wounded knee had healed well enough, although he was careful to hold it out straight in front of him, occasionally flexing the joint experimentally.
'Well, Centurion, it's good to see you back from the wilds! How did the Sixth fare after we parted company? Sit down for a sweat and tell me your story. Are you back with us to stay?'
'The Ninth Century is detached from service with the Sixth Legion, Prefect, with forty-nine effectives and five men still in the Noisy Valley base hospital. Legatus Equitius wants us all back at the Valley by the end of the month, for reinforcement and in case the barbarians decide to have another try. As to our story, there's nothing much to tell really. We marched round the mountains of the north chasing shadows and lies for a month, and hardly saw a man of fighting age.'
'All hidden away from reprisals, no doubt. How are your men?'
'Tired and homesick. Most of them just need a few days' rest: twelve hours' sleep a day and no parades …'
'What about Morban?'
'He's still in pieces. His son's death seems to have robbed him of the will to live.'
'Hmmm. You might want to get yourself down into the vicus in that case. His son's woman died suddenly a few days ago, and I hear her mother's come to collect her grandchild. If Morban's been knocked sideways by his lad's death I'd imagine he'll be devastated when he finds he's about to lose his grandson as well …'
Marcus took his leave, dressed hurriedly and headed down to the south gate, stopping a retired soldier in the vicus's street to ask for directions. At the door to the small house indicated he stopped, hearing voices from within.
'No, Morban, the boy has to come with me. Who's going to look after him if he stays here? You won't be around most of the time, and what sort of example will you set to the boy. By all accounts you drink, you whore and I know for a fact that you swear all the time. He comes with me!'
'But the lad …'
'Will be well cared for. What's your alternative?'
Marcus knocked respectfully at the door, standing back and taking off his helmet. It opened, an older woman, wiping at tear-filled eyes with the hem of her sleeve, standing in the opening.
'Centurion?'
'Ma'am. I'm Morban's officer and I heard he might be here. Could I come in for a moment?'
She ushered him in, the four of them practically filling the room. Morban's grandson crouched in a corner, his knees pulled up to his chest and his head buried between them. Marcus squatted down to his level, putting out a hand to touch the boy's face, lifting it with one finger under his chin. Guessing the boy's age to be nine or ten, he looked into his wet eyes and felt the loss and loneliness he was suffering. Memories of another little boy of the same age flooded over him, reminding him of a past happiness he hadn't given thought to for many days. He stood up again, turning to the woman with a small bow.
'Ma'am, so that you can understand my position regarding this unhappy situation, my parents were both killed earlier this year, as were my older sisters and younger brother. If anyone in this room has an understanding of what that boy's going through, it would be me.'
The woman's face softened a little with the words.
'You both think you've got a claim on the boy, one through blood, the other through an ability to provide the upbringing he needs. Now, I could simply enforce the law and tell you that the cohort has first claim on the lad, simple as that. And, ma'am, there would be nothing you could do to stop me. However …'
He put a hand up to quell the rising concern he saw in her face, shaking his head at Morban as his mouth started to open.
'However … from my unique perspective, I happen to believe that there's only one person in this room that can make the decision as to what should be done with him. I also think you should both stop to consider the effect your argument is having on that person.'
Morban turned his head to look at the wall, a single tear running down his face. Marcus squatted down again.
'What's your name, young man?'
The boy lifted his tear-streaked face, his voice quavering.
'My mother called me Corban. Dad used to call me Lupus for a nickname …'
'Very well, little wolf, you have a choice to make. It isn't an easy one, but nobody else can make it for you, no matter how good their intentions might be. You grandmother wants you to go home with her, and live in her village. There'll be other boys of your age to play with, and you'll be able to learn a trade of some kind as you get older. Your grandfather wants you to stay here on the Hill, and grow up to be a soldier like him and your father, but you can't join until you've seen fourteen summers, which is still a long time away, and you can't stay here without anyone to look after you. Before you choose, I'll give you a third choice. I'll take you on as my servant, which will mean that you have to keep my clothes clean and polish my boots and armour every day. I'll have you taught to read and write and, when you're old enough, you'll be able to choose whether you want to become a soldier or not. Also, I'll make sure that you go and see your grandmother twice a year. So, which do you choose?'
The boy thought for a moment.
'I want to be a soldier like my dad.'
'Well, you can't, not yet. You're too young for one thing, and I don't think we have any armour in your size. You can either take my offer or go back to your grandmother's village. Either way you can volunteer for service when you're old enough.'
'I'll work for you.'
'Centurion.'
'I'll work for you, Centurion.'
Marcus stood up, turning to face Morban and the old woman.
'He's made his decision. You, Morban, will be responsible for his good behaviour, and for ensuring that he isn't corrupted by bad language and poor behaviour. You will also be responsible for making sure that he spends time with his grandmother as promised, when the cohort isn't on campaign. And you, ma'am, should be aware that he's now effectively on imperial service, albeit as a civilian. I guarantee that he'll be educated by the time he's old enough to volunteer for the military, and that he'll have the best possible start in life we can give him. I've got at least one man in the century that has more learning than I do, and we'll make sure he pays attention.'
Morban turned to face her, putting a hand out to hold hers.
'He'll have fifty parents in the Ninth. I swear he'll come to no harm.'
She thought for a long moment, and then nodded with resignation.
Marcus looked her in the eyes, feeling tears of his own distorting his vision.
'If there's one thing I understand, ma'am, it's how that youngster's feeling right now. I'll be his big brother for as long as he needs me. After what these people have done for me, it's my chance to repay some of my debt.'
He bent to the boy, putting a hand out while the other wiped his eyes dry.
'Come on, then, wolf cub, let's be about our business. We've got a century to get into shape.'
The pair walked out of the door hand in hand, turning up the street towards the main gate, drawing surprised glances from a pair of passing soldiers. They turned to make a ribald comment from the security of the shadows, saw the look on Morban's face as he emerged behind them, and immediately thought better of it. The standard-bearer watched his officer and his grandson from the doorway as they progressed up the hill, losing sight of them as they passed the soldiers on guard. He turned to follow them up the road, muttering quietly under his breath to himself with a determination he hadn't felt for many days.
'Don't you worry, Centurion, my lads are going to follow you any fucking place you command. Or I'll know the reason why.' |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | A Brief History of the World | Long ago, Namid gave birth to all kinds of life, including the beings known as humans. She gave the humans fertile pieces of herself, and she gave them good water. Understanding their nature and the nature of her other offspring, she also gave them enough isolation that they would have a chance to survive and grow. And they did.
They learned to build fires and shelters. They learned to farm and build cities. They built boats and fished in the Mediterran and Black seas. They bred and spread throughout their pieces of the world until they pushed into the wild places. That's when they discovered that Namid's other offspring already claimed the rest of the world.
The Others looked at humans and did not see conquerors. They saw a new kind of meat.
Wars were fought to possess the wild places. Sometimes the humans won and spread their seed a little farther. More often, pieces of civilization disappeared, and fearful survivors tried not to shiver when a howl went up in the night or a man, wandering too far from the safety of stout doors and light, was found the next morning drained of blood.
Centuries passed, and the humans built larger ships and sailed across the Atlantik Ocean. When they found virgin land, they built a settlement near the shore. Then they discovered that this land was also claimed by the terra indigene, the earth natives. The Others.
The terra indigene who ruled the continent called Thaisia became angry when the humans cut down trees and put a plow to land that was not theirs. So the Others ate the settlers and learned the shape of this particular meat, just as they had done many times in the past.
The second wave of explorers and settlers found the abandoned settlement and, once more, tried to claim the land as their own.
The Others ate them too.
The third wave of settlers had a leader who was smarter than his predecessors. He offered the Others warm blankets and lengths of cloth for clothes and interesting bits of shiny in exchange for being allowed to live in the settlement and have enough land to grow crops. The Others thought this was a fair exchange and walked off the boundaries of the land that the humans could use. More gifts were exchanged for hunting and fishing privileges. This arrangement satisfied both sides, even if one side regarded its new neighbors with snarling tolerance and the other side swallowed fear and made sure its people were safely inside the settlement's walls before nightfall.
Years passed and more settlers arrived. Many died, but enough humans prospered. Settlements grew into villages, which grew into towns, which grew into cities. Little by little, humans moved across Thaisia, spreading out as much as they could on the land they were allowed to use.
Centuries passed. Humans were smart. So were the Others. Humans invented electricity and plumbing. The Others controlled all the rivers that could power the generators and all the lakes that supplied fresh drinking water. Humans invented steam engines and central heating. The Others controlled all the fuel needed to run the engines and heat the buildings. Humans invented and manufactured products. The Others controlled all the natural resources, thereby deciding what would and wouldn't be made in their part of the world.
There were collisions, of course, and some places became dark memorials for the dead. Those memorials finally made it clear to human government that the terra indigene ruled Thaisia, and nothing short of the end of the world would change that.
So it comes to this current age. Small human villages exist within vast tracks of land that belong to the Others. And in larger human cities, there are fenced parks called Courtyards that are inhabited by the Others who have the task of keeping watch over the city's residents and enforcing the agreements the humans made with the terra indigene.
There is still sharp-toothed tolerance on one side and fear of what walks in the dark on the other. But if they are careful, the humans survive.
Most of the time, they survive. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 2 | Half blinded by the storm, she stumbled into the open area between two buildings. Hoping to hide from whomever was hunting for her as well as get some relief from the snow and wind, she followed an angled wall and ducked around the corner. Her socks and sneakers were soaked, and her feet were so cold she couldn't feel them. She knew that wasn't good, wasn't safe, but she had taken the clothing available just as she had taken the opportunity to run.
No sound of footsteps that would confirm she was being followed, but that didn't mean anything. Blocked by the wall, even the sounds of the slow-moving traffic were muted.
She had to find shelter. It was too cold to be out here tonight. As part of her training, she'd been shown pictures of people who had frozen to death, so she knew she couldn't stay out here much longer. But the city shelters that provided a place for the homeless would be the first places the hunters would look for her.
Was she going to die tonight? Was this the storm that was the beginning of the end? No. She wouldn't consider that possibility. She hadn't done this much and come this far for it all to end before she had a chance to begin. Besides, she hadn't seen other parts of the prophecy yet. She hadn't seen the dark-haired man wearing a green pullover sweater. She didn't have to worry about dying until she saw him.
That didn't mean she could afford to be stupid.
The building at the back of the open area drew her attention, mostly because it provided the only light. Peeking around the corner to reassure herself that she was still alone, she hurried toward it. Maybe she could figure out an excuse to stay inside for a few minutes—just long enough for her feet to thaw.
But the light, which had seemed so bright and hopeful a moment before, was merely the overnight lighting. The place was closed. Still, there was enough light for her to see the sign above the glass door—a sign that would have chilled her more than the snow and wind if she hadn't felt so desperate.
LAKESIDE COURTYARD
H.L.D.N.A.
Human Law Does Not Apply. She was standing on land that belonged to the Others. She might be momentarily safe from human predators, but if she was caught here, she was at the mercy of beings that only looked human, and even someone who had lived a confined life knew what happened to humans who were imprudent in their encounters with the terra indigene.
A second sign was taped to the inside of the door. She stared at it for a long time, despite her numb feet and the freezing temperature.
WANTED:
HUMAN LIAISON
APPLY AT HOWLING GOOD READS
(AROUND THE CORNER)
A job. A way to earn money for food and lodging. A place where she could hide for a while. A place where, even if she was found, the hunters couldn't take her back because human law did not apply.
Howling Good Reads. It sounded like a name for an Others store.
She could die here. Most people who tangled with the Others died, one way or another. But based on what she had seen in the prophecy, she was going to die anyway, so for once in her life, what happened to her would be on her terms.
That much decided, she tromped back to the sidewalk and hurried to the corner. When she turned right on Crowfield Avenue, she saw two people walk out of a store. Lights and life. She headed toward both.
Taking his place behind the checkout counter, Simon Wolfgard glanced at the clock on the wall, then said, <Now.>
The howl from the back of the bookstore produced the expected female squeals and more manly grunts of surprise.
Raising his voice to be heard by the humans within sight, he said, "Ten minutes to closing."
Not that they didn't know that. The howl was the ten-minute warning—just as the Wolf who took up a position at the door was the bookstore's own brand of security. A would-be shoplifter having his hand bitten off instilled a strong sense of honesty in the rest of the humans who came to Howling Good Reads. Having to walk over the blood—and walk past the Wolf who was still crunching on a couple of fingers—left a lasting impression, not to mention a few nightmares.
Didn't stop the monkeys from coming back the next day to stare at the bloodstains and whisper to one another as they browsed the contents of the store. The thrill of rounding a shelving unit and coming face-to-face with one of the Others in its animal form—and the more chilling thrill of sometimes seeing swift and terrible violence—tended to increase the sale of horror and thriller novels and helped the bookstore maintain an acceptable profit.
Not that any store in the Courtyard needed a profit to stay in business. The stores were run for the convenience of the terra indigene who lived in the Courtyard and provided a way for the rest of the Others to receive the human-made goods they wanted. It was more his own desire to understand the way businesses were run—and test the honesty of the human companies he dealt with—that gave Simon the push to keep his store in the black every month.
But Howling Good Reads didn't follow human retail practices when it came to hours of operation. HGR closed promptly at nine p.m. on the evenings it was open to humans, and some of the staff didn't hesitate to shift shapes and nip lingering customers who thought the store's listed closing was a suggestion rather than a firm time.
He rang up a few sales, more than he'd expected on a night when the sensible would have been tucked in at home to avoid subzero wind chills and wind-whipped snow that had as much bite as any Wolf. Of course, some of the monkeys lived nearby and used the bookstore and adjoining coffee shop, A Little Bite, as their social gathering places when they didn't want to spend an evening drinking at the taverns on Main Street.
Humans, Simon reminded himself. He adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses that he didn't need for vision but thought made him look a little gawky and more approachable. Call them humans when you're in the store. That way you're less likely to use the slur when talking to an employee. It's hard enough to find help we can tolerate. No sense driving away the ones we have by insulting them.
The word had traveled across the ocean from Afrikah, where the Liongard referred to humans as hairless, gibbering monkeys. After the terra indigene in Thaisia saw pictures of monkeys, they adopted the word because it fit so many of the humans they encountered. But he was a member of the Business Association that ran the integrated stores and Courtyard shops, as well as being the leader of the Lakeside Courtyard, so he tried not to be insulting—at least not out loud.
"Simon."
He turned toward the voice that sounded like warm syrup as the woman shrugged into a hooded parka. The movement lifted the bottom of her short sweater, revealing a couple of inches of toned belly that still looked softly bitable.
Plenty of human females came sniffing around the store, hoping to be invited for a walk on the wild side, but there was something about this one that made him want to sink his fangs into her throat instead of nibble on her belly.
"Asia." He tipped his head, a gesture that was both greeting and dismissal.
She didn't take the hint. She never did. Asia Crane had set her sights on him from the first day she walked into Howling Good Reads. That was part of the reason he didn't like her. The harder she pushed to get close to him, the more he felt like a challenge to be conquered and the less he wanted her around. But she never pushed so hard that he could justify attacking her for being in his store.
A couple more people were shrugging into winter coats and scarves, but there was no one else by the register.
Giving him a Bite me, I like it smile, she said, "Come on, Simon. It's been over a week, and you promised to think about it."
"I didn't promise anything," he said as he straightened up the counter space around the register.
She had blond hair and brown eyes, and he'd been told by a couple of human males who worked in the Courtyard that she was beautiful. But there were things about Asia that bothered him. He couldn't point a paw at any particular thing, besides her pursuing him when he'd made it clear he wasn't interested, but that feeling was the reason he'd refused to give her a job at HGR when she'd first come around. It was also the reason he wouldn't let her rent one of the four efficiency apartments that the Courtyard sometimes made available to human employees. Now she wanted to be the Human Liaison, a job that would give her access to the Courtyard itself. He'd eat her before he gave her that job. And Vladimir Sanguinati, who was the store's other manager, had offered to help more than once if Simon looked at Asia some night and felt peckish. A fair arrangement, since Vlad preferred the blood while Simon liked ripping off chunks of fresh meat.
"We're closed, Asia. Go home," he said.
She let out a theatrical sigh. "I'd really like the job, Simon. The one I've got barely pays the rent and it's boring."
Now he didn't even try to sound friendly. "We're closed."
Another sigh, followed by a pouty look as she zipped up her parka, pulled on gloves, and finally left.
John, another member of the Wolfgard, left his spot by the door to do a check for any stragglers. So Simon was alone in the front of the store when the door opened again, letting in a blast of cold air that he found refreshing after all the scents humans used.
"We're—" He glanced toward the door and swallowed the word closed.
The woman looked half frozen. She wore sneakers— sneakers, for pity's sake—and her jeans were soaked up to the knees. The denim jacket was a light covering suitable for a summer night, and she was wearing a T-shirt under it.
She looked so painfully cold he didn't have the automatic consideration of whether she'd be edible.
"Is there something I can do for you?" he asked.
She stared at him as if she'd seen him before, and whatever had happened made her afraid. Problem was, he didn't recognize her. Not by sight or smell.
Then she took a couple of steps toward the counter. He suspected that was to get farther into the store, where it was warmer, than to get closer to him.
"I s-saw the sign," she stammered. "A-about the job."
Not a stutter, he decided. Her teeth were beginning to chatter. How long had she been out in that weather? It was a natural storm, coming off the lake. The first one of the new year. Being a natural storm didn't mean it wasn't a bitch.
"What sign?"
"H-human Liaison," she chattered. "The sign said to apply here."
Moments ticked by. She lowered her eyes. Probably not brazen enough to meet his stare now that she'd said what she wanted.
Something about her troubled him, but it wasn't the same feeling he had when he was around Asia Crane. Until he figured out what that something was, he didn't want to kick her back out in the snow. And except for Asia, this was the first human to ask about the job. That was reason enough to give her a few minutes of his time.
Movement at the edge of his peripheral vision. John, now in human form and dressed in a sweater and jeans, tipped his head by way of asking, What now?
Simon tipped his head slightly in turn and looked at the cash register.
"Want me to close up?" John asked, giving the shivering woman a smile as he approached.
"Yes." He looked at the woman. "Let's go next door and have a cup of coffee while we discuss the job."
She turned toward the outer door and hesitated.
"No, this way." He took a couple of steps past the counter and pointed to an opening in the wall.
The archway between had a lattice door that could be latched when one store was closed and the other was still open to customers. On the wall beside the door was a sign that read,
PAY FOR THE BOOKS BEFORE ENTERING A LITTLE BITE, OR WE'LL TAKE A BITE OUT OF YOU.
The sign on the other side of the door read,
SURE, YOU CAN TAKE THAT MUG. WE'LL JUST KEEP YOUR HAND IN EXCHANGE.
He didn't think the woman's brain was thawed enough to take in the words. After the first jolt of seeing him, he didn't think she had taken in anything.
Tess was wiping down the glass display case when he walked in. The friendly smile she started to give him shifted to guarded when she noticed his companion.
"Could we have some coffee?" he asked as he took a seat at a table closest to the counter—and away from the door and the pocket of cold that seemed to settle around the tables close to the windows.
"There's still some left in the pot," she replied, giving the woman a sharper look now.
Simon leaned back in his chair, resting one ankle over his other knee. "I'm Simon Wolfgard. What's your name?"
"Meg Corbyn."
He heard the breath of hesitation that told him it wasn't a name she was used to. Which meant it wasn't a name she'd had for long. He didn't like liars. Humans who lied about small things tended to lie about a lot of other things as well.
And a name wasn't all that small a thing when all was said and done.
But when Tess brought the mugs of coffee to the table and he saw the way Meg cupped the mug to warm her hands, he let it go.
He thanked Tess, then turned his attention back to Meg Corbyn. "You know what being a Human Liaison entails?"
"No," she said.
"So you don't have any experience with a job like this?"
"No. But I can learn. I want to learn."
He didn't doubt the sincerity of her words, but he did wonder if she wouldn't die of pneumonia or something else before she had a chance to learn anything.
Suddenly he remembered the scarred old woman sitting in the sun, offering to read her cards and tell people their fortunes. But she didn't use her cards that day, not for him. What she had done was the reason her words had whispered through his thoughts for the past twenty years. And now her words rang in his memory as clear as if he'd heard them yesterday.
Be a leader for your people. Be the voice that decides who lives and who dies within your Courtyard. The day will come when a life you save will, in turn, save someone dear to you.
His being the leader of the Lakeside Courtyard hadn't saved his sister, Daphne, two years ago. But thinking about the old woman when this shivering young woman was waiting for his decision made him uneasy.
Tess set one of her earthenware soup bowls on the table, along with some crackers.
"Last bowl in the pot," Tess said.
"Thank you, but I can't pay for it." Meg's voice was barely above a whisper—and full of longing as she stared at the food.
Giving Simon a hostile look, Tess said, "On the house."
"Eat it," Simon said when Tess resumed her cleanup. "It's hearty and will warm you up."
He turned his head and drank his coffee while he watched Tess go through her closing routine, giving Meg a little time to concentrate on the food in front of her.
Tess was a worry. Tess was always a worry, because there was too fine a line between her being amused by humans and being unwilling to tolerate their existence. He didn't know what she was, only that she was terra indigene— and she was so dangerous even other species of terra indigene feared her. But when she arrived at the Lakeside Courtyard a few years ago, there was something in her eyes that made him certain that if she didn't get some kind of companionship, she would become an enemy of everything that lived.
Inviting her to stay had been his first official decision as the new leader of the Lakeside Courtyard. Watching her change from a brittle loner to an individual capable of running a public business, he'd never regretted that decision.
That didn't mean he always trusted her.
"What does a Human Liaison do?" Meg asked.
Simon glanced at the bowl. Half gone. He wasn't sure if her question meant she couldn't eat anymore or just needed to pause.
"By the agreements established between humans and the terra indigene, every city in Thaisia has a Courtyard, a tract of land where the Others reside. These Courtyards are also places where products manufactured by humans can be acquired. But humans don't trust the Others, and we don't trust humans. A lot of the products are delivered by humans, and there were enough incidents early on to convince the human government and our leaders that it was prudent to have someone receiving the mail and packages who was not inclined to eat the messenger. So a receiving area was built at each Courtyard and is manned by someone who acts as the liaison between the humans and the Others. Each Courtyard's Business Association decides on the pay and perks. By the agreements, the human government is required to penalize any delivery service that refuses to deliver merchandise to a Courtyard. On the other hand, there is a limited window of time when the position of Human Liaison can be unoccupied before companies can refuse to enter our land without penalty. Those kinds of interruptions tend to fray the tolerance each side has for the other—and when tolerance frays, people tend to die. Sometimes a lot of people die."
Meg ate another spoonful of soup. "Is that why you allow humans to shop in your store? To build up the tolerance between humans and the Others?"
Smart woman. Her conclusion wasn't accurate—most terra indigene weren't interested in being tolerant of humans—but it did indicate an understanding of why a Liaison was needed. "The Lakeside Courtyard is a kind of experiment. While the shops in our Market Square are exclusively for our own people and our human employees, the businesses facing Crowfield Avenue have hours when they're open to humans in general. The bookstore and coffee shop are two of those businesses. There is also a fitness center that has a few memberships available to humans, the seamstress/tailor shop, and a gallery on Main Street, which is open to anyone when it's open at all."
"But human law doesn't apply in those stores?"
"That's right." Simon studied her. He didn't trust Asia Crane. His reaction to Meg wasn't that simple. Because of that, he decided to hire her. It wouldn't hurt the Courtyard to have her around for a few days, especially if someone kept an eye on what she was doing, and it would give him time to figure out why she made him uneasy. But before he told Meg, he needed to say one more thing. "Human law does not apply. Do you understand what that means?"
She nodded. He didn't believe her, but he let it go.
"If you want the job, it's yours."
She looked at him with eyes that were the clear gray of a Wolf, except she wasn't a Wolf. The pale skin blushed with a hint of rose on the cheeks. And now that it was drying, he realized her hair was a weird shade of red—and it stank.
They would have to do something about that.
"I can have the job?" Meg asked, her voice lifted by something he would have called hope.
He nodded. "It's a basic hourly wage—and you're responsible for keeping a log of your hours. You also get the use of one of the efficiency apartments above the seamstress/tailor shop, and you can purchase items at any store in the Market Square."
Tess returned and dropped a ring of keys on the table. "I'll fetch a few basics from our stores while you show Meg the apartment. Leave the dishes on the table. I'll take care of them later." She left as quickly as she'd arrived.
Meg ate one more spoonful of soup and drained the coffee mug. "Is she angry with me?"
"You? No." With him? Sometimes it was hard to tell with Tess. Other times it was all too easy to see the warning signs.
He held up the keys. "We have rules, Meg, and we enforce them. Access to the Courtyard is restricted. You don't bring guests to your apartment without us knowing about it first. If we smell a stranger, we'll kill him. We aren't interested in excuses, and we don't give second chances. The storefront on the corner is the place where humans and Others can socialize without needing a leader's permission. You can bring guests there. Is that understood?"
She bobbed her head.
"All right. Come on. We'll go out through the bookstore."
He led her back through HGR, picking up his winter coat, which John had left on the counter for him. Shrugging into it, he pushed open the door, holding it against the wind until Meg slipped out. Then he locked the door, took a grip on her arm to keep her from slipping, and walked her past A Little Bite to a glass door in the seamstress/tailor's building.
"First key is for the street door." He pulled out the ring of keys and slipped the first key into the lock. He opened the door, nudged her into the small entry, then locked the door behind him. Remembering that humans didn't have the same night vision as Wolves, he flipped on the light switch, revealing the stairs that went up to the second floor.
She went up the stairs, then stopped on the landing to wait for him.
He went ahead of her, checked the apartment number on the key, and made an almost soundless grunt of surprise. Tess had given him the key for the front apartment that was farthest from the Crowfield Avenue door—and closer to the stairway that led into the Courtyard.
He opened the apartment door and flicked the switch for the overhead light, automatically toeing off his wet boots and leaving them in the hallway. While he waited for Meg to wrestle her feet out of the wet sneakers, he looked around. Clean and basic. Bathroom and closet at one end. A kitchen area that held a half fridge, a wave-cooker, a small counter and sink, and minimal cupboards for storage. A single bed and a dresser. A small rectangular table and two straight back chairs. A stuffed chair and hassock and a reading lamp next to an empty bookcase.
"There should be a set of towels in the bathroom," he said. "You look like you need a hot shower."
"Thank you," Meg whispered.
"Bathroom's over there." Simon pointed.
She was shivering so hard, he wondered if she'd be able to get out of those wet clothes. But he had no intention of helping her.
The bathroom door closed. Couldn't hide much from animal-sharp hearing, but he ignored the sounds. While he located the extra blankets in the dresser's bottom drawer, the toilet flushed. A moment later, the shower turned on.
He was staring out the window, watching the still-falling snow, when Tess walked in carrying two big zippered bags.
"I put it all on your account," she said. Her hair, usually brown and straight, now curled wildly and had green streaks—a sign that Tess wasn't feeling calm. At least the streaks weren't red, the indication that she was angry.
When her hair turned black, people died.
"Put what on my account?" he asked.
"Two sets of clothes, sleepwear, toiletries, a winter coat and boots, and some food."
The coat was a bright red, which was a color that attracted a lot of the Courtyard's residents because it usually signified downed prey. Since that was the most likely reason no one had bought it, he wondered why Tess would bring it for Meg.
"I thought we could offer the midday meal as part of her pay," he said.
"You might want to discuss this with the rest of the Business Association before you make so many decisions, especially since you just hired a new Liaison without talking to the rest of us," Tess replied with a bite in her voice.
"You brought me the apartment keys before I asked for them, so you must have made a decision too," Simon countered.
She didn't respond. She just set one of the bags on the bed, then took the other into the kitchen area. After putting the food away, she joined him by the window. "You're not in the habit of taking in strays, Simon. Especially not stray monkeys."
"Couldn't leave her out in the cold."
"Yes, you could. You've left other humans to fend for themselves. Why is this one different?"
He shrugged, not wanting to talk about the scarred old woman whose words had shaped so many of his choices.
"We need a Liaison, Tess."
"A fool's idea, if you ask me. The only humans that want the job are thieves who think they can steal from us or ones hiding from their own law. The last one you threw out for being a lazy bag of shit, and the one before that... the Wolves ate the one before that."
"We weren't the only ones who ate him," Simon muttered.
But he had to admit that Tess had a point. Liaisons barely had time to learn the job—if they even bothered to learn the job—before a replacement needed to be found for one reason or another. Humans always had a reason for wanting the job that had nothing to do with the job. Wasn't that one of the reasons he wouldn't give it to Asia? Wanting the Liaison job was just her next attempt to make him notice her. He didn't need her sniffing around him more than she already was.
"What is Meg Corbyn running from?" Tess asked. "She didn't start out around here. Not with the clothes she was wearing."
He didn't respond because he didn't disagree. Meg might as well have runaway stamped on her forehead.
The green streaks faded from Tess's hair. She sighed. "Maybe she'll stay long enough to clear out some of the backlog of mail and packages."
"Maybe," he said. He didn't think Meg Corbyn, or whoever she really was, would stay beyond receiving her first paycheck. But she had said she wanted to learn, and none of the other humans had said that. Not even Asia.
An awkward silence.
"You should go," Tess said. "Naked girl in the shower. Strange man. I read these kinds of stories in books the humans write."
Simon hesitated, but Tess was right. "Tell Meg I'll meet her at the Liaison's Office at eight thirty tomorrow morning. That will give me time to go over a few things with her before deliveries start at nine."
"You're the boss."
Setting the keys on the table, he left the apartment—and wondered if, by leaving Meg alone with Tess, he'd just murdered the girl.
The hot water pouring over her hurt, and it felt wonderful. She used the shampoo and soap that was in the shower rack, then just stood there with one hand braced on the wall.
Safe for now. The wind and snow would have scoured her tracks away. She would be seen by humans, and that was a danger, but as long as she stayed within the boundaries of the Courtyard, no one could touch her. Not even...
Shaking, she held out both arms. Thin, straight scars marched down the tops of both arms from shoulder to elbow, one-quarter inch apart. The same kind of scars marched down the top of her left thigh and on the outside of her right thigh. There was a line of them down the left side of her back—precise in their execution. They had to be precise or the cut was worth less—or even worthless. Except for punishment.
Ignoring the crosshatch of scars on the upper part of her left arm, she studied the three scabbed lines on that forearm. Those scars she wouldn't regret. The visions she'd seen when she made those cuts had bought her freedom. And had shown her a vision of her death.
A white room. A narrow bed with metal railings. She was trapped in that room, in that bed, feeling so cold her lungs couldn't draw in a breath. And Simon Wolfgard, the dark-haired man she'd seen in the prophecy, was there, pacing and snarling.
She turned off the water and opened the shower stall door.
A moment later, someone tapped on the bathroom door.
"Meg? It's Tess. I'm going to open the door and leave some pajamas for you. Okay?"
"Yes. Thank you."
Meg grabbed a towel and held it in front of her, glad the mirror had steamed up so that no one would see the scars the towel didn't hide.
When Tess closed the door again, Meg got out of the shower, dried off as quickly as she could, and dove into the pajamas. Wiping the condensation off the mirror, she double-checked to be sure she wasn't showing any scars, then opened the door and stepped into the rest of the apartment.
"Give me your wet clothes," Tess said. "I'll get them dry for you."
Nodding, Meg fetched the clothes she'd left in the bathroom and handed them to Tess.
"There's a bit of food in the cupboards and fridge," Tess said. "And two sets of clothes. I guessed at the sizes, so you can exchange them at the shop if they don't fit. Simon will meet you at the Liaison's Office at eight thirty tomorrow morning to go over your duties."
"All right," Meg said. Now that she was warm, staying awake was almost painful.
"Keys are on the table." Tess headed for the door.
"You've been very kind. Thank you."
Tess turned and stared at her. "Get some sleep."
Meg counted to ten before she hurried to the door. She wasn't sure it was possible to hear anything by pressing her ear against the wood like people did in movies, but she did it anyway. Hearing nothing, she locked the door and switched off the overhead light. The streetlights on Crowfield Avenue provided enough light for her to make her way to the windows. She pulled the heavy drapes over one window, then hesitated and left the second window uncovered. Feeling her way to the bed, she got in and lay shivering until the sheets warmed from her own heat.
Death waited for her somewhere in the Courtyard. But it wasn't coming for her tonight. No one was coming for her tonight.
Breathing out a sigh of relief, Meg closed her eyes and fell asleep.
Simon shook himself to fluff out his fur. Wouldn't want to be out here in his human skin, but the snow had stopped falling and, as a Wolf, he didn't mind the cold—especially when some of the Wolves were heading out for a romp and run through the Courtyard.
Spending too much time in human form made him edgy. Yes, he had volunteered to run this Courtyard and had been the one to push for opening up a few stores to humans as another way of keeping an eye on them. But that didn't make him less edgy about being around them or wearing that skin for so many hours when he was in Howling Good Reads. He needed time in this skin, needed to run.
Elliot trotted up to him. Simon was the dominant Wolf at Lakeside, but his sire was the Courtyard's official face. Elliot had no interest in running businesses and wasn't comfortable dealing with the other terra indigene, especially the Elementals and the Sanguinati, but he had a knack for dealing with human government and was the one among them who could talk for hours with the city mayor or other officials and not bite anyone.
So Simon was often thought of as the business leader, while the more social and sophisticated Elliot was mistaken for being the leader of the Lakeside Courtyard. And that suited Simon just fine. His sire could shake hands and attend dinners and have his photograph taken. And if the mayor and his buddies were very lucky, they would never discover that Elliot's sophistication really was only skin deep.
Seven more Wolves joined them. Pleased with the company, Simon headed up the snowy road. Each species of terra indigene that lived in the Courtyard had a section that was respected as its home territory, but the rest of the land was shared by all of them. Once Simon and his friends crossed the Courtyard Creek Bridge, they would be in the Hawkgard area, so they would take the first road that led into the interior for their romp and run.
Wolf, he thought as they all settled into an easy trot to warm up their muscles. Maybe wolves had looked like them when the world was young, but the terra indigene— swift, strong, and lethal—had kept the larger, more primal form. Now the animal humans called wolf was to the terra indigene Wolf what a bobcat was to a tiger.
They trotted over a couple of inches of snow on the road; the rest of this evening's snowfall was artfully drifted on either side. He'd have to remember to thank the girls at the lake for that.
Muscles warmed up, Simon stretched into a run, leading the pack over the bridge. Good to run. Good to feel the clean bite of weather. Good to taste...
The wind shifted. An Owl, one of the Courtyard's nighttime sentinels, flew overhead, calling a warning. <Intruders!>
There shouldn't be anyone out on the road that wound between Lakeside Park and the Courtyard except for the snowplows that would rumble through the night to clear the roads for all the humans heading to work the next day. If a city worker had to come into the Courtyard, especially at night, a government official would have called Elliot beforehand. So no human had a reason to be here tonight.
Catching the scent, Simon turned onto a narrow service road that ran close to the Courtyard's fence, pushing for all the speed he could get.
No howl, no sound, no warning. Just black, white, and gray shapes blending with the snow and the night as they raced toward the enemy.
A danger if the humans brought weapons, since the deeper snow on the service road was slowing the Wolves down enough that the intruders might get off a shot or two. But the humans had to break a trail through that snow too, so even if they wounded a couple of Wolves, they still wouldn't get away.
<There,> Simon said.
Three humans slogging through the snow, heading away from the black wrought-iron fence that served as the Courtyard's boundary.
<Rifle,> Elliot said.
<I see it,> Simon replied. Only one coming into their land with a weapon? Not likely. Just because he couldn't see other weapons didn't mean they weren't there.
He caught sight of the black smoke moving just above the snow, rushing toward the intruders. Ignoring the smoke, he focused on the man with the rifle. The fool wasn't paying attention and didn't see him or the other Wolves coming until the third man looked around and shouted a warning.
The rifle swung in Simon's direction.
They wouldn't reach the enemy fast enough. The shot was going to hit one of them.
The black smoke suddenly surrounded the man with the rifle. Some of the smoke changed into hands that jerked the rifle skyward just as the man pulled the trigger.
Simon raced past the smoke and leaped, hitting the second man so hard they both lifted out of the broken trail and landed in fresh snow. His teeth closed over the thick scarf wrapped around the man's neck, and the crushing power of Wolf jaws slowly strangled the prey while other Wolves clamped down on the man's wrists, preventing him from fighting back.
The man engulfed in the smoke screamed.
Simon held on to his prey until it stopped struggling. Releasing the throat, he raised his head and sniffed the man's face. Just unconscious.
Perfect.
Blood spread on the snow from the throat of the third man as the Wolves ripped open the clothes to get at the meat.
The smoke around the first man condensed until it became a black-haired man dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans. His arms were around the human; his hands were still clamped over the hands holding the rifle.
In their smoke form, the Sanguinati engulfed their prey and drew blood out through the skin. Not much skin was exposed in this weather, but the man's face was sweating beads of blood that froze almost instantly.
<Vlad,> Simon said.
Vladimir smiled, revealing elongated canines. "I'll take this one back to the Chambers. Grandfather is watching some of his old movies and will appreciate a fresh snack."
Simon dipped his head in acknowledgment.
"Nyx and I will come by later to sort out whatever might be useful and dispose of the rest." Still smiling, Vlad ripped the rifle out of the man's grip, got a good hold of the heavy winter coat, and headed back to the Sanguinati's part of the Courtyard, running easily as he dragged his prey.
Following the trail the humans left, Simon studied the broken junipers that had been planted as a screen to keep the Courtyard private from cars driving by—and from unwelcome eyes that might be watching from the park on the other side of the road. Standing on his hind legs, he shouldered between two bushes.
The trail led from a car parked on the shoulder of Parkside Avenue, its flashers blinking. The car would be reported when the next snowplow went by, but no one would come asking questions until morning—if anyone came by at all.
He trotted back to his prey.
Several Wolves were happily ripping the other body apart. Elliot waited near the unconscious man. When Simon approached, Elliot looked in the direction Vlad had gone.
<That was our prey,> Elliot growled.
<His too,> Simon growled back, showing his teeth. <We share.>
<Waste of meat.>
<Not a waste.> True, the Sanguinati didn't use the meat, but after Vlad's family had dined, he would call Boone Hawkgard, the Courtyard's butcher. Tomorrow there would be a discreet sign in the shop's window informing the terra indigene that special meat was available.
A change in the man's breathing indicated a return to consciousness. Now it was time to eat.
Front toes elongated into strong, furry fingers with heavy claws. Simon and Elliot tore open the winter coat, ripped off the scarf, flannel shirt, and T-shirt, and shredded the jeans and long johns from thighs to ankles.
A gasping breath. The man opened his eyes.
Baring his teeth, Simon bit into the belly while Elliot tore out the throat, cutting off the man's scream.
Rip. Tear. Gulp the hot, fresh meat. Simon pulled out the liver and gleefully devoured it, leaving the heart for Elliot. He ate his fill, then moved away, shrinking his front toes back to Wolf form as he rolled in fresh snow to clean his fur. When his friends had eaten their fill, Simon howled the Song of Prey. Any other Wolves who were out running tonight would swing by for a bite or two.
We share, he thought, looking at the arm he'd torn off the body at some point during the feeding. He picked it up and retraced his steps back to the Courtyard's main road. Then he trotted off. He crossed over the Courtyard Creek Bridge and passed the Wolfgard land, finally leaving the arm in the Corvine part of the Courtyard. The Crows would appreciate an easy breakfast tomorrow.
A minute later, Elliot caught up to him, lugging part of a ribcage. His sire might not like sharing a kill, but when they had moved to Lakeside, Elliot had agreed to follow Simon's lead.
Yes, the Crows would eat well in the morning. And by the time everyone else had had their share, there wouldn't be much left of the monkeys to burn and bury. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 3 | T his is a car, this is a train, this is a bus.... Skull and crossbones means poison.... Shh. Be quiet. This is another lesson.... Pay attention, cs759. Watch what happens to someone who is poisoned.... This is a dog, this is a cat.... This video shows a woman riding a horse.... This is a child, this is a hammer. This is what happens to a face when...
A rumbling sound jerked Meg out of a restless sleep. Heart pounding, she stared at dark shapes defined by gray light, trying to remember where she was while she listened for footsteps in the corridor that would indicate the Walking Names were coming to begin the day's spirit-breaking "pampering" and lessons.
The caretakers and other staff in their white uniforms with nametags pinned above the breast pocket. The men in white coats who poked and prodded and decided what the girls needed to stay in prime condition. And cs747 screaming at them that she had a name too, her name was Jean, and just because she didn't have her name pinned to her shirt didn't make it less true.
Jean had been restrained for weeks after she stole one of those name tags and used the pin to carve her name in big letters across her belly, ruining all that expensive skin. After that, the uniforms had the names sewn on with thread. And when Jean returned to the training sessions, she referred to everyone who worked in the compound as a Walking Name, refusing to give them so much as a distinct designation.
The Walking Names hated Jean. But Meg had listened to the older girl's ravings and dim memories of a different kind of life, and had yearned for something she had glimpsed only through the images that made up the lessons. Thinking of herself as Meg instead of cs759 had been her first silent act of rebellion.
Another sound, more a steady crunch than a rumble.
She wasn't in the compound anymore. Wasn't within reach of the Walking Names or the Controller who ran the place. She was in the Lakeside Courtyard... within reach of the terra indigene.
Slipping out of bed, Meg crept to the side of the window where she could look out without being seen.
Another rumble as a big truck came down the street, its heavy blade clearing the snow in its path.
Snowplow. The ones she'd seen in training videos hadn't made a sound, but that was typical. Identifying sounds was a different lesson from identifying images. Except when the girls were being shown video clips, sounds and images weren't often used together.
Steady crunch.
She shifted to see more of the street.
Car moving down the street. The crunching was the sound of its tires on the snow. Her feet had made that same sound last night. Snow and bitter cold. Now she had a sound to go with what she'd seen and felt—a memory image rather than a training image.
Shivering, she got back into bed and huddled under the covers until she warmed up again.
She'd escaped and she'd run. She wasn't sure where the compound was located—she'd been focused on where she needed to go and not where she had been—but it felt like she was a long way from the place where the Controller had kept his girls. He would send someone to find her. Even if she'd been used up enough for him to write her off as a loss, he couldn't allow her escape to be successful. More girls might try to get away, and that was something the Controller couldn't afford.
But for now, she had a job—and an employer who was a Wolf in his other form. That's what his last name meant. Anyone named Wolfgard was a terra indigene who could change into a Wolf. Or maybe it was a Wolf who could change into a human. Even the Controller, with all his spies searching for information, couldn't find out much about the Others that wasn't known by almost everyone.
She thought about the snow and cold. She thought about staying snuggled in bed for a day.
Then she thought of being dismissed on her first day of work and being out there alone. So she got up and took another long, hot shower, because there was no one to tell her she couldn't. Bundled in her robe, she rubbed her hair dry while she considered the clothes Tess had left for her. Not much variety. A pair of black jeans and a pair of dark blue jeans. Two heavy pullover sweaters—one black; the other a medium blue. Two cream-colored turtleneck tops.
The black seemed too solemn for her first day, so she chose the blue outfit. Relieved that everything fit, from the underwear to the shoes that looked clunky but were surprisingly comfortable, she went into the kitchen alcove, opening cupboards and drawers. She identified a small coffeemaker, which she didn't know how to use, and a wave-cooker, which she didn't know how to use. She found instruction manuals in one of the kitchen drawers, but a glance at the clock discouraged her from trying to understand either appliance. Her head was full of images, but they were pictures or snips of a complete action—enough for her to identify something, but not enough to figure out how to do anything for herself.
The cuts she had endured as punishment for lies and defiance had almost driven her insane, but they had also connected many previous images that she must have seen in prophecies, suddenly putting them into a useful context. If she hadn't been punished, she wouldn't have learned how to escape.
Not sure how long the food was supposed to last, she settled for a half glass of orange juice, two bites of a sharp yellow cheese, and one chunk of cooked chicken. Still hungry, she rummaged in the cupboards and found a box of dry cereal and a package of chocolate cookies.
She tore open the package and ate two cookies so quickly, she barely tasted them. Taking one more cookie, she ate it slowly, savoring the flavor. Then she put the package back in the cupboard and firmly shut the door.
Training image. Bugs crawling over open packages of food left in a cupboard.
Meg opened the cupboard and pulled out the package of cookies. It wouldn't seal properly, so she rummaged through the other cupboards until she found small, glass-covered dishes in the storage unit under the wave-cooker. But none of them were big enough to fit the package—unless she ate more cookies.
She reached for another cookie, then shook her head and went back to searching the cupboards. She found a pot that was big enough and had a lid. A glance at the clock above the cooker warned her that she'd used up her time, so the pot would have to do.
She pulled on the boots, then tucked her shoes in one of the large zippered bags Tess had left. She'd have to see about getting a purse for any small personal things she needed to carry with her.
What things did women carry with them?
She walked toward the door, completely focused on recalling every training image of purses and their contents. A quiet knock made her squeak as she stumbled away from the door, her heart pounding. The second knock, louder and impatient, sounded more reassuring, in a scary way.
She turned the lock and pulled the door open enough to look out.
Simon Wolfgard stared back at her.
"Mr. Wolfgard." She pulled the door open. "I wasn't expecting you."
"Weren't you?" He stepped over the threshold, forcing her to back up. "Since you hadn't done this kind of work before, I thought you'd like an explanation of your duties. And I thought you'd like to see the shortcut to the Liaison's Office instead of walking on the street."
How did he know she wanted to avoid being outside their territory as much as possible? Did he know who she really was? What she was?
He watched her. The wire-rimmed glasses he wore didn't hide the amber predator eyes the way they did last night. But he wasn't doing anything except watching her... because he was waiting for her to get her coat so he could show her to the Liaison's Office before he went on to his own work.
In some movie clips she'd seen, people said "Duh" or smacked a hand against their foreheads to indicate a brainless moment. She had a feeling he already thought she was pretty brainless, and she didn't want to confirm it.
She fetched the red coat from the closet.
"Hat, gloves, and scarf," he said, looking around the room as if checking for differences between what he'd seen last night and now.
She found those items on the stacked shelves built into one side of the closet. She wrapped the scarf around her neck and pulled on the hat as she hurried toward him.
"Keys," he said.
She spotted the keys on the table. She looked around much as he had and wondered if there was anything else a normal person would remember to do before leaving their domicile.
"Ready?" he asked.
Was that a trick question? She had so many questions. There were so many things she didn't know. But he was her employer, so it didn't seem smart to ask him about anything that didn't involve her job.
He stepped into the hallway and watched her fumble through locking her door. She put the ring of keys in the coat pocket, relieved when she realized the pocket had a zipper. People were always losing keys. She had scars on her toes to prove it.
Just a few steps away from her door was another hallway that went to the back of the building and ended at a glass and wood door.
Simon turned the lock. "This is the third key on the ring. You don't need a key to get out, but you do need one to get back in."
"Third key," she repeated. She followed him outside and felt her lungs freeze. "It's cold."
"You're in the northeast and it's winter. It's supposed to be cold. Be careful on these steps. They were swept this morning, but they can be slippery."
In contrast to his own warning, he bounded down the stairs. Meg kept a firm grip on the handrail with one hand while she clutched the zippered bag in the other.
Simon pointed to a building catercorner from where they stood. "That's the back of the Liaison's Office. We'll go there in a minute. First..." He strode past a one-story building with large doors. "Garages. A couple of them hold vehicles; the others are used for storage."
"Garages," she muttered, struggling to keep up with his longer stride.
He turned left, and they walked past an empty space enclosed by walls on three sides.
"Employee parking lot," he said. He paused a moment and pointed to a door in the back wall. "That leads to the customer parking lot. It's locked and used only when we're doing maintenance." He passed the parking lot and went through an archway.
Meg looked at the buildings that surrounded an open space. The buildings on three sides were three stories tall. The side that had two larger archways was two stories.
"This is the Market Square," Simon said. "There are steps leading down to the open area, but you can't see them now, so stick close to the buildings." He pointed at various doorways. "The Courtyard library. You can borrow books there or buy them at Howling Good Reads if there is something you want to keep. Music and Movies both loans and sells. We have a grocery store, a butcher shop, an office for the terra indigene bodywalkers—what you would call doctors—a toother, a drugstore, general store, clothing..."
"Sparkles and Junk?" she asked, catching sight of a sign next to a shop door.
"Five of the Crows run that one. You can find fake diamonds, real diamonds, or a one-armed doll. The humans who are allowed to shop at the Market Square say the Crows' store is a cross between a stall market and a jewelry store. Mostly it's other Crows who find it appealing, but I'm told humans find good stuff if they know what they're looking for."
Sparkles and Junk sounded like an interesting place, and she caught sight of other simple signs that intrigued her, including a store that sold ice cream and chocolate. But Simon was already retracing his steps, so she hurried to catch up.
He stopped at the back of the Liaison's Office and pointed again. "Those are the back entrances for Howling Good Reads and A Little Bite. Tess is providing the midday meal as part of your pay, so you can go in through that door when you take your meal break."
Her head was spinning. So many images in such a short time. So many things to remember! But she recognized the back stairs they had come down a few minutes ago, and felt easier for it. Now if she could just figure out why he was annoyed with her. It wasn't like she had asked for a tour. He was the one who had kept them out in the cold, despite sniffing frequently as if he had a runny nose.
"The fourth key on the ring opens the back door," Simon said, sounding even less friendly than he had a moment ago.
Meg felt him bristling, taking up too much space and air as she fumbled to get the keys out of her coat pocket.
"Whatever you did to your hair, don't do it again," he growled.
His face was suddenly so close to hers, she dropped the keys. The area in front of the door had been shoveled, but she still had to use a glove to wipe off the keys after picking them up.
"What's wrong with my hair?" she said, hating that her voice sounded small and defensive.
"It stinks." Nothing small or defensive about his voice.
"I used the shampoo that was in the apartment. It's all I had." And even more than hating the way her voice sounded defensive, she hated the thought that she might have to act submissive to someone else who assumed he had the right to control her life.
"And it's all you will use. The terra indigene make those products and sell them at our stores because they don't stink up the air. But I wasn't talking about the soap or shampoo. Whatever you did to make your hair look like old blood and orange peels also makes it stink, and you're not going to do it again!"
Oh, gods. She'd been in a hurry to disguise herself in some way, so she must have done something wrong when she'd used that bottle of red dye on her hair. I guess the change in color that I saw this morning wasn't bad lighting in the apartment's bathroom.
"Get this into your head, Meg Corbyn. We don't let humans live in our part of the world because we like you. We let you live here because you can be useful, and you've invented things that we like having. If it wasn't for that, you'd all be nothing but meat. Which is something you should remember."
"Being mad about my hair isn't fair," she muttered, trying to hide that she was starting to shiver. She didn't think shivering would be a good idea right now.
"I don't have to be fair," he snapped. "You're in the Courtyard. Whatever rules humans have for employers aren't my rules unless I say they're my rules. So I can hire you even though you don't have any idea what you're doing, and I can fire you for having stinky hair!"
"Unless you want me to cut it all off, there's nothing I can do about the hair!" she snapped back. And then she felt terrified that he might want her to do exactly that.
Growl. Roar. Shout. She couldn't begin to describe the sound that came out of him.
She shook. She couldn't help it. He still looked human, but he also looked wild and savage.
"Is this a bad time for an introduction?" a voice rumbled.
Big man with a shaggy mane of medium-brown hair that tumbled to his shoulders. Jeans and a flannel shirt, with an open coat, as if the cold didn't bother him.
"You going to keep her shivering in the cold or show her where she works?" he asked, looking at Simon. "Or should I—"
Simon snarled.
The big man just waited.
Pulling a set of keys out of his pocket, Simon opened the door. Then he tipped his head toward her. "She's Meg Corbyn." He gave the man a narrow-eyed stare. "And that's Henry Beargard." Without another word, he shoved her inside and closed the door.
Even through the closed door, Meg heard Henry's booming laugh.
"Pegs on the wall are for coats," Simon said, sounding snappish. "The mats are for wet boots and shoes. Floor can be slippery when it's wet. Our bodywalkers don't know anything about mending actual humans, so if you slip and break a leg, we'll eat you same as we would a deer." He took off his boots and put on a pair of loafers that were on the mat. "Toilet and sink behind that door. Storage area is next to it. The bins that have clothes are for the terra indigene. Don't touch them. Under-the-counter fridge. A wave-cooker and an electric kettle to heat water. Cups, plates, and utensils are stored in the cupboards below. You're responsible for cleaning what you use." He gave her a slashing look. "Well? Are you just going to stand there?"
She took off her coat and boots, put on the shoes she'd brought with her, and remembered to take the keys when he growled at her.
He was not a nice man, and she was going to learn this job as fast as she could so she wouldn't have to deal with him too much.
He opened another wooden door that led into another big room.
"Sorting room," he said as he moved to a panel in the wall and flipped a switch. "This panel unlocks the delivery doors. They stay locked unless you're accepting an approved shipment or handing out mail."
"How will I know if it's appro—"
"The pigeonholes on this wall hold mail for the Market Square stores. The larger partitions hold packages and anything that needs to stay flat. Parcels can also be stored under the sorting table or in those cupboards." Simon gave her a hostile look as he opened another door and pointed to the sign screwed into the wood. "See that? It says PRIVATE . No one who isn't terra indigene comes into the sorting room except you. Is that clear?"
"It's clear but... why?" she asked.
"Because I said so. Because what goes on inside the Courtyard is no one's business except ours." Simon looked at the clock on the wall and growled. "I have other things to take care of, so you'll have to figure out the next steps on your own."
"But—"
"Deliveries are accepted from nine a.m. to noon. Afternoon deliveries usually arrive from two to four in the afternoon. Terra indigene delivery trucks come at other times, but those aren't your concern. There's a list of phone numbers in that drawer. If you have questions, you can call Howling Good Reads or A Little Bite. All those bags of mail and those packages have to be sorted for delivery. We did what we could while we were looking for a Liaison, but we all have our own work and don't have time to do yours."
"But—"
"The door opens at nine," he said as he headed out of the room.
Meg stared at the door leading to the back room, then jumped when the outer door slammed shut.
She held her breath until she was sure she was alone. Then she let it out with a muttered "Bad Wolf," and hoped she could figure out how to start her workday.
Simon wanted to bite someone, but the person leaning against the wall next to HGR's back door was Henry, and a lone Wolf didn't mess with a Grizzly, especially when that Bear acted as the Courtyard's spirit guide and was one of the few beings Simon could talk to without guarding his thoughts or words.
"You sure have your tail in a knot this morning," Henry said easily. "Might not want to scare off our new Liaison before she gets some of that mail sorted for us."
He rammed his key into the lock and turned it, but he didn't open the door. "She doesn't smell like prey. She's rested and fed and not cold. Why doesn't she smell like prey?"
"Not all humans do," Henry replied quietly.
Simon shook his head. "With some, we decide they're not edible because it's smart to have them around. But they still smell like prey, and she doesn't."
"Not all humans do," Henry repeated. "There aren't many that give off that signal, but there have been some." He paused. "Maybe you're not picking up the prey scent because of the stinky hair?"
Simon stared at the Grizzly. "You could smell it from where you were standing?"
"No, the wind wasn't in the right direction for me to smell it, but I could hear you yelling about it. So could everyone else who's aflutter at this time of day."
He rested his forehead against the door. "The lack of prey scent confuses me."
"I can see that. But she's not terra indigene. Of that much I'm sure."
"So am I. She smells human. She just doesn't smell like prey."
"If she's causing this much trouble before most of us have even seen her, maybe you should force her out of the Courtyard."
Simon stepped back from the door and sighed. "I'll let the rest of the Business Association take a look at her before I decide. We need a Liaison. Might as well let her stay for a while."
Henry nodded. "Did you explain what she's supposed to do?"
He snarled, a frustrated sound.
"Then stay away from her for the rest of the morning and let someone else explain it."
"Who?"
"You know who."
Yes, he did know. He also knew that if he argued about it, Henry would swat him into the wall to knock some sense into him. For friendship's sake.
"All right. Let the Coyote deal with her for a couple of hours."
It wasn't until he was inside the bookstore and hanging up his coat that he realized he was still wearing the loafers and his feet were wet. He'd been so annoyed and confused and desperate to get away from Meg before he shifted and bit her just to prove she was prey that he'd forgotten to exchange the loafers for his boots.
Savagely angry now at all humans—and that stinky-haired one in particular—he stomped up to his second-floor office to deal with paperwork before checking out the new stock that had arrived yesterday. The store didn't open for another hour. If everyone was lucky, he'd have himself under control by then and wouldn't eat any of the customers.
The freaking Help Wanted sign was gone.
Asia stared at the glass door, not daring to get closer when the shoveled delivery area was a sign that the Others were up and about.
She wanted that damn job. Really wanted that job. She'd been in Lakeside for months now and hadn't gotten a look at anything in the Courtyard that everyone else hadn't seen. Her backers were getting restless, were starting to hint that they might need someone more professional for this assignment.
Her looks had gotten her out of Podunk and the nothing future she would have had in her hometown. Her looks had carried her all the way to Sparkletown and into a few auditions. But she'd done more acting on the casting couches than she'd done in front of a camera—until she uncovered a tidbit about a Sparkletown bigwig's wife that gave him the leverage he needed to divorce the wife without financial penalties.
Under the guise of developing her for a starring role in a to-be-determined television show, he helped Asia refine her natural intelligence-gathering skills and then sent her off to find some information about a competitor.
She still wasn't sure if that first assignment had been a test, but she was given another assignment and a fat envelope of cash when she returned with the information.
It was like being paid to research a role as an undercover cop or a corporate spy. Yes, that would be the perfect role for her: Asia Crane, Special Investigator. Sometimes she spent time in one of the bigger cities and had fancy clothes and baubles. Other times she spent a few weeks in a town that was a variation of Podunk, playing the role of shy young widow starting a new life, wearing twin sets and pumps while she ferreted out information about the selected target—or helped ruin his business career or political ambitions.
The work was exciting, it was fun, it paid well, and now that Bigwig had brought in a few other interested parties to finance her, she was being given extended assignments with more challenging targets. It wasn't the way most actresses built their careers, but she'd return to Sparkletown in another year or two with enough juice to get any part she wanted.
Infiltrating a Courtyard was her biggest and riskiest assignment to date. She had relocated to Lakeside because it was the only Courtyard in the whole of Thaisia that had any human employees beyond the Liaison. Even Toland on the East Coast and Sparkletown on the West—the financial and entertainment centers of the continent—didn't have Courtyards with as much tolerance for humans. Her task was to get in, observe, and report anything and everything that might help with dealing with the Others or, better yet, breaking their stranglehold on the human cities in Thaisia.
With minimal information to work with, despite having friends who had friends in Lakeside's government, Bigwig had suggested two potential targets as her ticket into the Courtyard: Elliot Wolfgard and Simon Wolfgard. With Elliot, she would have rubbed elbows with government officials and social climbers who might have provided other information of monetary value. But at the last minute, Bigwig discovered that, before relocating to Lakeside, Elliot had once told a society girl who was flirting with him that monkey fucking wasn't any different from barnyard banging, and neither was of interest to him. No one remembered what she said in reply, but a few days later, the society girl was found partially eaten in her own bedroom. So Asia crossed Elliot Wolfgard off the list.
That left Simon, who looked to be in his mid-thirties—young enough to like a frequent rub and old enough that he wouldn't be likely to lose control, leaving a human partner rutting with a Wolf. So she'd chosen a persona and a look that fit in with the other university and tech-college girls who hung around the store. She even signed up for a couple of classes at Lakeside University as a way to fill time. And what had she gotten for her efforts so far? Nothing. No job, no sex, no pillow talk, not even a few minutes in the stockroom for some tongue and tickle. She couldn't even wangle a membership to the fitness center.
She needed to show some progress soon. If she didn't, her backers might end the assignment and send in someone else. And if they did that, Bigwig wouldn't deliver on his promises, and she could end up back in Podunk instead of being the star of her own TV show.
Cawing announced the arrival of a handful of Crows who landed on the shoulder-high brick wall that ran along the left-hand side of the delivery area. One flew down to a flat-topped wooden sculpture positioned in front of one of the Liaison Office's windows. That one watched whatever was going on inside the office. The other four watched her.
Turning as if she had paused momentarily and had no interest in anything that concerned the Courtyard, Asia walked away.
She wasn't getting anywhere with Simon Wolfgard. Maybe she would have better luck with the new Liaison.
Meg opened the door marked PRIVATE, then closed her eyes and pictured the Liaison's Office as if it were drawn on paper. A rectangular building divided into three big rooms. The back room had the washroom, which contained the toilet and sink. It also served as break room and storage, and had a door that led outside and one that accessed the sorting room. The sorting room had a large outside delivery door, an inside delivery door that provided access to the front room, and the door with the PRIVATE sign that was directly behind the three-sided counter area. The front room, where she assumed most deliveries would be made since it had the counter, had the one glass door and two large windows.
She studied the sorting room again and wondered who had designed the Liaison's Office. For a room that was supposed to be private, private, private, the sorting room had an awful lot of doors, not to mention a window that would accommodate illicit access.
Not her problem. As long as she kept the delivery doors locked when they weren't needed, she could avoid being eaten. Maybe. Hopefully. Right now, she had to get ready for business.
Turning on the lights in the front part of the office was easy—the switches were on the wall next to the Private door. Getting to the outside door to open it was a problem because she couldn't figure out how the short left end of the counter opened to let someone into the main part of the room. So she got the stool from the sorting room and used it to climb over the counter. She turned the simple lock to the open position and then realized the simple lock was augmented by a heavy-duty dead bolt that required a key—which might or might not be on the key ring she'd left in the sorting room.
[ Caw caw ]
Three black birds were perched outside on a flat piece of wood, maneuvering to get a better look through one of the windows. She almost dismissed their presence, then wondered if they were terra indigene Crows that had come to take a look at the new Liaison.
Trying for a happy smile, Meg waggled her fingers and mouthed the words Good morning. Then she went back to the counter and tried to boost herself up enough to swing her legs over.
The Walking Names didn't tell the girls anything about themselves, but she had overheard some things. She was twenty-four years old. She was sixty-three inches tall. She had black hair, gray eyes, and fair skin. Her cheeks had a light rosy hue that would show scars to advantage, but her face was still unmarred by the razor. The girls in the compound were kept healthy and were walked daily, but they were not allowed to do things that would give them unnecessary stamina or make them physically strong.
Sometimes determination could make up for stamina and strength. But sometimes it couldn't.
The fourth time she landed back on the wrong side of the counter, a voice quietly said, "While this is highly entertaining, why don't you just use the go-through?"
Meg backed away from the counter as a lean man stepped through the Private doorway. He had light brown eyes and brown hair that was made up of a variety of shades, including gray.
"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to startle you. Name's Jester. Henry thought you could use a little help figuring out what to do, and since Simon's chewing his own tail this morning, and I look after the ponies, I was elected to help." He held up both hands. "No tricks. I promise." Then he gave her a smile that was both friendly and sly. "At least, not today."
"I have to get the door open before the deliveries start arriving," she said, wishing she didn't sound so anxious. "The keys I was given are on that ring in the sorting room, but I'm not even sure there's a key on it for this door."
"There isn't," Jester replied, disappearing into the sorting room. "You have a key to the back door," he continued when he walked into the front room and vaulted over the counter. "I'll show you where the office keys are kept."
He unlocked the dead bolt, studied the Crows for a moment, then grinned as he walked back to the counter. "You've been on the job for less than an hour and you're already the most entertaining Liaison we've had."
"Thanks," she said, trying not to sound sour. She could imagine what Simon Wolfgard would say if he heard about this. "You won't tell anyone about the counter, will you?"
"Me? No. Them?" Jester tipped his head toward the windows. There were Crows vying for a spot on the wooden sculpture, and a couple were standing in front of the door, looking in. "Most of the Courtyard will hear about this within an hour."
She sighed.
"Come on. I'll show you the trick with the go-through." He pointed to the slide bolt that connected the go-through with the long counter.
"I tried that," she said.
"That one keeps it closed during the day when you might be going in and out a lot." He reached under the wide top. A moment later, Meg heard a bolt drawing back, then another. "There are two bigger slide bolts that keep the go-through closed the rest of the time. Those are locked when you leave the office for a meal break or at the end of the day."
Jester pushed the go-through open, then stood aside to let her enter. He followed her in, closed the go-through, and used the visible slide bolt to secure it. After showing her where the other bolts were located, he pointed out the supplies and other items that were on the shelves under the counter.
A clipboard with a pad of paper. A round ceramic holder full of different color pens. Paperclips and rubber bands. A telephone at the other short end of the counter and its directory on the shelf underneath. And catalogs. Lots of merchandise catalogs from various stores, as well as menus from local eateries.
"We have a little bit of most everything in the Market Square, but not a lot of anything," Jester said. "There is a plaza a few blocks from here that serves the humans who live in this part of Lakeside. It has all sorts of stores and more variety in terms of merchandise. A Courtyard bus provides transportation twice a week for anyone who wants to shop there."
"Isn't that dangerous?" she asked, remembering training images of fighting, blood, and slashed bodies.
He gave her an odd look. "It's always dangerous when there are only a few of us among the humans." He waved a hand to indicate the Crows, then touched his fingers to his chest. "Remember this, Meg Corbyn. We're the ones you can see, but we're not the only ones who are here. Which is why we have so many catalogs," he continued in a lighter tone. "Our shops order things directly from manufacturers, just like human stores do. Some of it stays here; some is sent on to our kin who enjoy the things but want no contact with humans. But there are plenty of other bits of shiny that are ordered from a human store and delivered here, which is where you come in."
Meg nodded, not sure what to say. So many warnings layered in his words. So many things to think about.
"Ready to start?" Jester asked.
"Yes."
They went into the sorting room. Jester took the top bag from a pile of bags, opened it, and dumped the contents on the sorting table.
"The mail truck comes in the morning," he said. "Give them back their bags as you empty them. You'll get used to sorting the mail more specifically, but to start, sort by gard or location. Then..."
[ Caw caw ]
Jester smiled. "Sounds like your first delivery."
Meg went out to the front room, closing the door partway. She put the clipboard and pad on the counter, tested a pen to make sure it worked, and carefully noted the date at the top of the page—and hoped the calendar under the counter had the days crossed out accurately.
The Crows scattered, most heading out while a few settled again on the brick wall and the sculpture sticking out of the snow.
As a man got out of the green van and opened its back door, Meg wrote down the time, the color of the truck, and the name Everywhere Delivery.
He was an older man whose face had been lined by weather and years, but his movements looked efficient as well as energetic. He elbowed the van door closed, glancing at the Crows as he pulled the office door open. Balancing four packages, he hesitated at the doorway.
"Good morning," Meg said, hoping she sounded friendly but businesslike.
He relaxed and hurried to the counter. "Good morning. Got some packages for you."
Suddenly remembering that every face could belong to an enemy, she fought to hold on to the businesslike demeanor. "It's my first day. Do you mind if I write down some information?"
He gave her a smile wide enough for her to think his teeth weren't the ones he'd been born with.
"That is a very good idea, Miz..."
"Meg."
"Miz Meg. I'm Harry. That's H-A-double-R-Y. I'm with Everywhere Delivery. Not a fancy name, but a true one. I'm usually here closer to nine on Moonsday and Thaisday, but the plows are still clearing the streets and the driving is slow this morning. Four packages today. Need to have you sign for them."
She wrote down his name, the days and time he usually made deliveries, and the number of packages she signed for.
Harry looked at her clipboard and let out a happy sigh. "Warms the heart to see someone behind the counter doing the job proper. The last one they had here?" He shook his head. "I'm not surprised they gave him the boot. I'm surprised they kept him as long as they did. Couldn't be bothered to care about anything, and that's just not right. No, that's not right. Say, it can get pretty chilly out here with that door opening and closing all the time. You might want to get a pair of those fingerless gloves. The wife wears them around the house and swears they help her stay warm. You should look into getting a pair."
"I'll do that."
"You take care, Miz Meg."
"I will. See you on Moonsday, Harry."
He gave the Crows a friendly wave as he walked to his van.
Meg put the ceramic pen holder on the counter but put the clipboard on a shelf out of sight. Then she returned to the sorting room.
Jester grinned at her. "He's not peculiar, if that's what you were wondering. He's just relieved to be dealing with someone safe. So being concerned about you catching a chill is as much for his sake as yours." He eyed her. "Besides, he's got a point."
"Does he?" She didn't like the way he was eyeing her, especially when he grabbed her arm and gave it a squeeze, letting go before she had a chance to protest.
"You're not fat, but you don't have much muscle. You need to work on that. Run and Thump has treadmills and—"
"I don't like treadmills." She heard panic rising in her voice. Don't think about the compound. Don't think about the Controller or the treadmills or anything else about that place.
"Plenty of places here for you to walk." His voice was mild, but something sharp filled his eyes as he watched her. "But you couldn't get over the counter, so I'd say you could use some exercise to strengthen muscle. And the second floor of Run and Thump has classes for dancing or bending or some such thing."
"I'll think about it."
"Sort by gard, then by individuals," Jester said after an uncomfortable pause. "I'll be back with some of the ponies in a couple of hours."
"Ponies?"
"They act as couriers around the Courtyard when they feel like it."
He left her—and she wondered if she had already said too much.
Jester quietly closed the back door and looked around. The Crows were on the move, spreading out to watch and listen—and to hear what the regular crows had to tell them. The Hawks were soaring high above, also watching.
And inside the Human Liaison's Office?
Secrets. Fear.
He wanted to poke his nose into the reasons for both.
Couldn't talk to Simon. Not today. Henry had already warned him about that. But Tess? Yes, Tess might know how they had acquired their new Liaison. And she kept a supply of long-grass tea for him. A Little Bite wasn't open to human customers yet, so she might have time to gossip—if he phrased his comments and questions in the right way.
He was glad Henry had told him that Meg didn't have the prey scent that was typical of humans. He would have felt a lot more wary of their Liaison if the Grizzly hadn't already known there was something peculiar about her.
He wanted to know how and why Simon hired Meg Corbyn. And, most of all, he wanted to know what it was about her that made him feel she could be a danger to them all. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 4 | Monty paid the cab driver and got out at the corner of Whitetail Road and Chestnut Street. Taking a cab wasn't a luxury he could afford every morning, but he didn't want to be late on his first day. He'd have to check out bus routes and schedules until he had time to consider if he needed to purchase some kind of car.
He looked at his watch and hesitated. The Chestnut Street Police Station was in sight, and he had half an hour before his meeting with Captain Burke. Across the street from the station was a diner, the kind of place that served hearty meat-and-potatoes meals and coffee strong enough to help a man stay upright when he was too tired to stand on his own. In the middle of the block was a small Universal Temple.
Checking his watch once more, Monty crossed the street and walked to the temple. Whether it was true or not, it eased his heart to think there was something beyond the physical plane, something that felt benevolent toward humans, because the gods knew there wasn't much on the physical plane that felt benevolent toward them.
He opened the door to the entranceway, stomped the snow off his boots, then went into the temple itself.
Soft natural light filtered through snow-dusted windows. Vanilla candles delicately scented the air. The random tones of meditation bells drifted through the temple from the hidden sound system. The padded benches could be arranged in various patterns. Today they were scattered to provide seating at each of the alcoves that held representations of guardian spirits.
Mikhos, guardian of police, firefighters, and medical personnel, was in an alcove nearest the door, which made sense with the temple being so close to a police station.
Taking a match from the holder, he lit a candle in front of the alcove, then settled on the bench and practiced the controlled breathing that would clear his mind of busy thoughts in order to hear the quiet voice of wisdom.
It wasn't wisdom but memory that filled his mind.
You shot a human to protect a Wolf.
I shot a pedophile who had a girl imprisoned in his house. He had a knife and threatened to kill her.
You left a wounded human with one of the terra indigene.
I didn't feel a pulse. I didn't realize he was still alive when I went to check out the rest of the house.
He hadn't known the girl was a terra indigene Wolf. He hadn't known the bastard he shot was still technically alive when he called for help and a medical unit and then left the girl so he could quickly check the rest of the house. He hadn't known how much destruction a starving young Wolf could do to a human body in so short a time.
He shouldn't have gone in alone. He shouldn't have left the girl. There were a lot of things he shouldn't have done. Considering what it cost him afterward, he regretted doing the things he shouldn't have done. But shooting the pedophile? He didn't regret that choice, especially after he found the bodies of six other girls.
If the girl he saved had been human, he'd still be living in Toland with his lover Elayne Borden and their daughter, Lizzy. He'd still be reading a bedtime story to his little girl every night instead of living in a one-bedroom apartment a few hundred miles away.
But he had shot a human to protect a Wolf, and no one was going to forget that. The Toland police commissioner had given him a choice: transfer to Lakeside or resign from any kind of police work forever.
Elayne had been furious, appalled, humiliated that he had brought the scandal down on her by association, making her a social pariah, making Lizzy the victim of teasing and taunts and even pushing and slaps from schoolmates who had been friends the week before.
No legal contracts bound them together. Elayne hadn't wanted that much structure—at least until he proved his work could provide her with the social contacts she craved. But she'd been quick enough to call a lawyer and turn his promise of support money for Lizzy into a legal document after she flatly refused to consider coming with him and starting over. Live in Lakeside? Was he insane?
Lizzy. His little Lizzy. Would Elayne allow her to visit him? If he took the train back to Toland for a weekend trip, would Elayne even let him see his daughter?
I didn't see a Wolf, Lizzy. I saw a girl not much older than you, and for a moment, I saw you in the hands of such a man. I don't know if a policeman or a father pulled the trigger. I don't know if you'll ever understand. And I don't know what I'm going to do in this place without you.
Taking a last deep breath of scented air, he left the temple and went to the police station to find out if he had a future.
Captain Douglas Burke was a big man with neatly trimmed dark hair below a bald pate. His blue eyes held a fierce kind of friendliness that could reassure or frighten the person meeting those eyes across a desk.
In the moments before Burke gestured to the seat in front of the desk and opened a file folder, Monty figured his measure had been taken: a dark-skinned man of medium height who stayed trim with effort and tended to bulk up when he ate bread or potatoes for too many meals in a row, and whose curly black hair was already showing some gray despite his being on the short side of forty years old.
"Lieutenant Crispin James Montgomery." Giving Monty a fierce smile, Burke closed the file and folded his hands over it. "Toland is a big city. Only Sparkletown and two other cities on this entire continent match it in population and size. Which means people living there can go their whole lives without knowingly encountering the Others, and that makes it easy to pretend the terra indigene aren't out there watching everything humans do. But Lakeside was built on the shores of Lake Etu, one of the Great Lakes that are the largest source of freshwater in Thaisia—and those lakes belong to the terra indigene. We have a few farming communities and hamlets that are within thirty minutes of the city boundaries. There is a community of Simple Life folk who farm on Great Island. And there is the town of Talulah Falls up the road a piece. Beyond that, the nearest human towns or cities are two hours by train in any direction. All roads travel through the woods. Lakeside is a small city, which means we're not big enough to forget what's out there."
"Yes, sir," Monty said. That had been one of Elayne's objections to moving to Lakeside: there was no way to believe social connections meant anything when you couldn't forget you were nothing more than clever meat.
"This Chestnut Street station covers the district that includes the Lakeside Courtyard," Burke said. "You have the assignment of being the intermediary between the police and the Others."
"Sir..." Monty started to protest.
"You'll have three officers answering to you directly. Officer Kowalski will be your driver and partner; Officers MacDonald and Debany will take the second-shift patrol but will report any incidents to you day or night. Elliot Wolfgard is the consul who talks to the mayor and shakes hands with other government officials, but you'd be better off becoming acquainted with Simon Wolfgard. For one thing, he manages a terra indigene store that has human employees and tolerates human customers. For another, I believe he has a lot more influence in the Courtyard than our governing body thinks he does."
"Yes, sir." Deal directly with the Others? Maybe it wasn't too late to go back to Toland and find some other kind of work. Even if Elayne wouldn't take him back, he'd still be closer to Lizzy.
Burke stood and came around his desk, gesturing for Monty to remain seated. After a long look, he said, "Do you know about the Drowned City?"
Monty nodded. "It's an urban legend."
"No. It's not." Burke picked up a letter opener from his desk, turned it over and over, then set it back down. "My grandfather was in one of the rescue teams that went to find the survivors. He never spoke of it until the day I graduated from the police academy. Then he sat me down and told me what happened.
"From what was pieced together afterward, three young men, all full of loud talk, decided getting rid of the Others would put humans in control, would be the first step in our dominating this continent. So they dumped fifty-gallon drums of poison into the creek that supplied the water for that Courtyard.
"The Others caught the men on land that was under human control, so they called the police. The men were taken to the station, and their punishment should have been handled by human law and in human courts."
Burke's expression turned grimmer. "Turned out that one of those young men was the nephew of some bigwig. So it was argued that while those boys were standing next to the drums, no one saw them dump the poison into the creek. They were released, and the city government was foolish enough to let them publicly declare their 'actions without consequences' as a victory for humankind. And the terra indigene watched and listened.
"Late that night, it started to rain. The skies opened up and the water came down so hard and so fast, the underpasses were flooded and the creeks and streams had overflowed their banks before anyone realized there was trouble. Precise lightning strikes knocked out electric power all over the city. Phone lines went down about the same time. Middle of the night. No way to see in the dark, no way to call for help. And it kept raining.
"Sinkholes big enough to swallow tractor trailers cut off every road leading out of the city. Bridge supports that had held for a hundred years were torn out of the ground. Localized earthquakes shook buildings into pieces, while sinkholes swallowed others. And it kept raining.
"People drowned in their own cars trying to escape—or in their own homes when they couldn't even try to get away.
"The rain stopped falling at dawn. Truckers coming into the city for early-morning deliveries were the first ones to realize something had happened and called for help. They found cars packed with women and children floating in fields on either side of the road."
Burke cleared his throat. "Somehow cars that just had women and children got out. And most men who were around the same age as the ones who had poisoned the Others' water supply didn't die of drowning."
Monty watched Burke's face and said nothing. This was nothing like the version of the Drowned City he'd heard.
"As the water began to recede, rescue teams in boats went in to find survivors. They weren't many beyond the ones who had been washed out of the city. There wasn't a government building or a police station still standing. My grandfather's rescue team got close to the Courtyard and saw what watched them. That was their first—and only—look at the truth about the Courtyards and the terra indigene."
Burke took a breath and blew it out slowly as he returned to his chair behind the desk and sat down. "The Others, like the shape-shifters and bloodsuckers? The ones who venture out to shop in human stores and interact with humans? They're the buffer, Lieutenant. As lethal as they are, they are the least of what lives in a Courtyard. What lives unseen... My grandfather said the term used in confidential reports was Elementals. He wouldn't explain what they were, but a lifetime after he saw them, his hands still shook when he said the word."
Monty shivered.
Burke linked his fingers and pressed his fisted hands on the desk. "I don't want Lakeside to become another Drowned City, and I expect you to help me make sure that doesn't happen. We've already got one black mark. We can't afford another. We clear on that, Lieutenant?"
"We're clear, sir," Monty replied. He wanted to ask about that black mark, but he had enough to think about today.
"Stop by your desk to pick up your cards and mobile phone. Officer Kowalski will be waiting for you there."
He stood up, since it was clear that Burke was done with him. With a nod to his captain, Monty turned to leave.
"Do you know the joke about what happened to the dinosaurs?" Burke asked as Monty opened the office door.
He turned back, offering the other man a hesitant smile. "No, sir. What happened to the dinosaurs?"
Burke didn't smile. "The Others is what happened to the dinosaurs."
Officer Karl Kowalski was a personable, good-looking man in his late twenties who knew how to handle a car on Lakeside's snowy streets.
"Hope the salt trucks and sanders make a pass pretty soon," Kowalski said as they watched the car in front of them slide through a traffic light. "Otherwise, we're going to spend the day dealing with fender benders and cars that spun out and are stuck."
"Is that what we're checking out?" Monty asked, opening the small notebook he carried everywhere.
"Hope so."
An odd answer, since their first call was to check out a car abandoned on Parkside Avenue.
Monty checked the notes he'd made. "A plow spotted the car late last night but it wasn't reported to us until this morning? Why the delay?"
"Car could have slid off the road and gotten stuck," Kowalski replied. "Owner could have called a friend and gotten a ride home, intending to deal with the car in the morning. Or he could have called a towing service and found shelter somewhere, since every towing business would have lists of calls in weather like this, and it could have taken the truck hours to get to the owner of this car."
"But the car is still there."
"Yes, sir. The car is still there, so now it's time for us to take a look." Kowalski pulled up behind the abandoned car and turned on the patrol car's flashing lights. He looked toward the bushes that provided a privacy screen behind a long stretch of fence. "Ah, sh— Sorry, Lieutenant."
Monty looked at what might have been a trail from the car to the fence. "What is it?"
"Nothing good," Kowalski replied grimly as he got out of the patrol car.
Monty got out, testing the ground beneath the snow to make sure he wasn't going to tumble into a ditch. Reassured, he plowed through the snow next to the indentation that might have been another person's footprints.
[ Caw caw ]
He glanced to his right at the handful of birds perched in the nearby trees.
The chest-high fence didn't have those decorative spikes to deter someone from scrambling over. The bushes wouldn't be much of a wall, especially if someone hopped the fence to look for help. Noticing the broken tops of two bushes, Monty reached over the fence and parted them.
[ Caw caw ]
"Oh, gods, there's a lot of blood," Monty said, catching sight of the trampled snow beyond the bushes. "Give me a boost. Someone's hurt and needs help."
"Lieutenant." Kowalski grabbed Monty's arm and hauled him back a couple of steps before saying in a low voice, "That's the Courtyard. Believe me, there is no one wounded on the other side of that fence."
Hearing fear beneath the conviction in Kowalski's voice, Monty looked around. The handful of Crows had swelled to over a dozen, and more were flying toward them. A Hawk perched on top of the streetlight and another soared overhead. And all of them were watching him and Kowalski.
Then Monty heard the howling.
"We need to go back to the car now," Kowalski said.
Nodding, Monty led the way back to the car. As soon as they were inside, Kowalski locked the doors and started the engine, turning the heater up all the way.
"I thought the barrier between humans and Others would be more... substantial," Monty said, shaken. "That's really the Courtyard?"
"That's it," Kowalski said, studying Monty. "You didn't work near the Courtyard in Toland?"
Monty shook his head. "Never got near it." He noticed that Kowalski's hands hadn't stopped shaking. "You sure there's nobody hurt on the other side of that fence?"
"I'm sure." Kowalski tipped his head to indicate the open land on the other side of the four-lane avenue. "Once the tow truck arrives, we can check the cairn to find out who went over the fence."
"I don't understand."
"Every Courtyard has its own policy when it comes to dealing with humans. The Wolfgard have been running this one for the past few years, and their rules are clear. Kids who hop the fence to look around on a dare get tossed back over the fence and sat on until we pick them up and arrest them for trespassing. Teenagers will get roughed up, maybe get a bad bite or a broken bone before they're tossed back over the fence. But any adult who goes in without an invitation doesn't come back out. And if any human—kid, teen, or adult—hops that fence and is carrying a weapon..." Kowalski shook his head. "The Others will leave wallets, keys, and other belongings at the cairn so we know that person isn't coming back. We fill out a DLU form. You know about those?"
Monty shook his head.
"DLU. Deceased, Location Unknown. A family needs one of those to get the death certificates when a body can't be produced."
Monty stared at the bushes and thought about the trampled snow and the blood.
Kowalski nodded. "Yeah. With a DLU, we all try hard not to think about what happened to the body, because thinking about it doesn't do anybody any good."
How many people in Toland who had been listed as missing were actually DLU? "What's so special about the cairn?"
Kowalski checked the trees and streetlight. Monty didn't think there had been any change in the number of Others watching them, but his partner would have a better sense of that.
"Two years ago, Daphne Wolfgard and her young son were out running. Right around here, in fact. She was shot and killed by one man. The other man shot at her son but missed. They drove away before the Wolves reached her or had a chance to go after the men. But the Wolves found the spot in the park where the men had waited to take a shot at whatever might get within range. They followed the men's scent, but lost the trail where a getaway vehicle must have been parked.
"That spring the Others planted all those junipers to limit the line of sight, and our mayor and Lakeside's governing body changed the parkland directly across from the Courtyard to a wildlife sanctuary that is off-limits to people, except for guided walks and restricted hunting. Anyone caught in the park at night is arrested and fined. Anyone caught with a weapon at any time goes to jail unless it's deer season and every person in that party has a permit for bow hunting.
"Captain Burke pushed hard to find the men who killed Daphne Wolfgard, but it looks like they left Lakeside right after that. Speculation was they weren't from Lakeside to begin with—just came in for a trophy kill and then disappeared. It's still an open case."
"Why keep it open?"
Kowalski's smile was grim. "Did you wonder about the water tax, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, I wondered." He'd been shocked when his landlady explained her strict rules about water usage. Other tenants in his building told him about using the water in the rain barrels for washing cars and watering the little kitchen garden. It had struck him as odd that no one wanted to tell him why there was a tax on water when they lived right next to the lake that supplied it.
"The Others control all the fresh water. Rates for water and the lease for the farmland that supplies most of the food for Lakeside are negotiated with this Courtyard. The year Daphne Wolfgard died, a water tax was added to the standard rates. Nothing was said then, and nothing has been said since, but the captain keeps the case open because what also isn't said is that if the men responsible for the murder are caught and punished, that tax will go away."
Monty drew in a breath. "Is that why you took this assignment? For the hazard pay?"
Kowalski nodded. "I'm getting married in six months. That extra check each month will help us pay the bills. You take a risk every time you encounter one of the Others, because you never know if they're going to look at you and see a meal. They're dangerous, and that's the truth of it, but a person can deal with them if he's careful."
"The fence is the boundary?" he asked.
"Nah, their land comes right up to the road. The fence is more a warning than a barricade. In between the road and fence is considered an access corridor for utilities and city workers."
"Who are watched," Monty said, looking at the Hawk who stared right back at him.
"Always. And they watch a lot more than the Courtyard and the park." Kowalski checked his mirror. "There's the tow truck and another patrol car. If that team can stay with the truck, we can leave."
As Kowalski opened his door to go talk to the other officers, Monty thought of what would happen after they checked the cairn. "When there's a DLU, who informs the families?" Please don't let it be me.
Kowalski paused with the door open. "There are a special team of investigators and a grief counselor who take care of that." He closed the door.
Monty blew out a sigh of relief.
We are the tenants, not the landlords, a temple priest once said at a weekly gathering. We only borrow the air we breathe and the food we eat and the water we drink.
That was easy enough to forget in Toland. He suspected the water tax helped everyone in Lakeside remember the truth of it.
Kowalski returned and drove up to the traffic light, then back around the wide median, pulling up almost directly across from where they had been parked a minute ago.
Even with all the snow that had fallen yesterday, the pile of stones and the discarded personal effects weren't hard to find.
Three wallets with ID and credit cards. Three sets of keys.
"There's some cash here," Kowalski said. "Probably not all the cash that was in the wallets to start with, but the Others never take all of it."
Not kids, Monty thought as he looked at the IDs. Young, sure, but old enough to have known better—which wasn't going to help their families face the loss. "I would have thought young men would carry more in their pockets."
"Probably did. The wallets and keys are usually all that's left here. Jewelry, weapons, trinkets, stuff like that will end up in one of the Others' stores here, in another Courtyard in the Northeast Region, or somewhere else on the continent. Even the weapons will get sold, although not back to any of us. The Others won't kill to steal, but once the meat is dead, they make use of everything they can."
A sick feeling churned in Monty. "Is that how you think of your own kind? As meat?"
"No, Lieutenant, I don't. But the terra indigene do, and I've seen the results when humans—police officers or otherwise—forget that."
Better not start wondering if you should have used one more bullet after you saw that young Wolf turn back into the girl you rescued. Better not start wondering. Not here. Not now.
"Let's get these items back to the station," Monty said. "Families may be starting to wonder why their boys didn't come home last night."
"Then what?" Kowalski asked.
"Then I think I should introduce myself to Simon Wolfgard."
Boxes and packages piled up on two handcarts as delivery trucks arrived in a flurry, their drivers nervously glancing at the Crows perched on the wall outside and visibly relaxing when they noticed the short human behind the counter. They were all quick to point out the name of their company as well as their own name, spelling out both for her as she wrote them down on her pad. Identification. Validation. Some of them had to make two trips to bring in all the deliveries, and Meg wondered whether they had avoided this stop for as many days as possible.
That first hour, the door opened and closed so often, she decided to look for those fingerless gloves Harry had mentioned and find some kind of insulated vest to wear over the turtleneck and sweater.
Wanting a little more warmth and to show some progress before Jester returned, she went into the sorting room to work on the mail.
Sorting mail turned out to be a challenge. Some was addressed to a person, some was addressed to a group, some had a street—maybe it was a street—and some had a designation she didn't understand at all. The only thing the mail and packages she'd signed for had in common was they all said Lakeside Courtyard.
"No wonder they have a hard time getting their mail," she muttered.
She managed to rough sort the first bag of mail and take two more deliveries before Jester returned.
"Not bad," he said as he began shifting a few pieces of mail from one stack to another. "Corvine goes with Crowgard. It's what they call the complex where most of them live. The Chambers goes with the Sanguinati. The numbers indicate a particular part of the Chambers. The Green Complex is the only residence that isn't species specific. It's located closest to the Market Square, and the members of the Business Association live there."
"Is there any kind of map or list that would tell me who goes with what?" Meg asked.
Jester's face went blank for a moment. Then he said, "I'll inquire. Now come meet your helpers." He walked over to the panel in the wall and unlocked the sorting room's outside door.
Meg thought about dashing into the back room to grab her coat. Then she saw her helpers and forgot about the coat.
"This is Thunder, Lightning, Tornado, Earthshaker, and Fog," Jester said. "They were the only ponies willing to make deliveries today."
They were tall enough to look her in the eyes. Meg wasn't sure if that meant they were typical pony size in terms of height, but what she saw were furry barrels with chubby legs and grumpy faces. Thunder was black, Lightning was white, Tornado and Earthshaker were brown, and Fog was a spotted gray.
"Hello," Meg said.
No change on the grumpy faces.
"Each of them has delivery baskets," Jester said, going back to the table for two handfuls of mail. "The baskets have the Courtyard sections written on them—see? So, for instance, the mail going to Corvine or anyone named Crowgard would go in Thunder's baskets." He put smaller mail in four compartments of one basket and then added the larger envelopes and catalogs to the basket on the other side. He looked at Thunder. "You go to the Crows today."
The pony bobbed his head and moved out of the way.
Lightning was given the mail for the Wolfgard complex, Tornado went to the Hawks, Earthshaker to the Owls and the Pony Barn, and Fog to the Sanguinati.
"What happens when they get to the complexes?" Meg asked.
"Oh, there is always someone about who will empty the baskets and distribute the mail to the individuals," Jester replied as he closed and locked the outer door. "Hmm. No one to take the mail to the Green Complex or the lake. Guess those will have to wait until tomorrow." He tipped his head and smiled at her. "Did Simon give you your pass?"
She shook her head.
The smile gained a sharp amusement. "Well, he's been a bit preoccupied today. Basically, once you step out the back door of this office, you need a pass to visit the Market Square or the Green Complex, which is the only residential area that isn't completely off-limits to human visitors. The pass is something you should always carry with you to avoid misunderstandings."
"Where do I get one?"
"From the consul's office, which is the other building that uses the same street entrance as this office. I'll pick that up for you and drop it off."
"What do I do with the handcarts in the front room that are full of packages?"
Jester opened the interior delivery door and pulled the handcarts into the sorting room. "That depends," he said as he secured the door. "If a package can fit in the basket, a pony can take it with the rest of the mail. Or you can deliver it in the BOW. We haven't encouraged our previous Liaisons to make deliveries in the Courtyard, but it is loosely within the parameters of your job if you choose to include it."
Was making deliveries really part of her job, or was Jester trying to get her into trouble for some reason? "Bow?" she asked.
"Box on Wheels. A small vehicle we use within the Courtyard. It runs on electricity, so remember to charge your BOW if you don't want to be stranded. The one for the Liaison is in the garage directly behind the office. Can't miss it."
"I have a car," Meg said, pleased.
"You have a Box on Wheels," Jester corrected. "Not a vehicle you want to take out on the city streets."
Leaving the Courtyard wasn't something she planned to do.
"Do you want to take a break?" he asked.
She looked at the clock on the wall and shook her head. "I'm supposed to be available for deliveries until noon, so I'll keep sorting the mail."
"Suit yourself. I'll get that pass for you." Jester went out the Private door and vaulted over the counter. He returned a few minutes later. He didn't have her pass, but he laid something else on the sorting-room table.
"This is a map of the Courtyard," Jester said quietly. "It shows the driving roads and where each gard lives."
My Controller would have paid a fortune for this, Meg thought as she studied the map. He would have killed without a second thought to get this much information about the interior of a Courtyard.
Wolfgard. Crowgard. Hawkgard. Owlgard. Sanguinati. Green Complex. Girls' Lake. Ash Grove. Utilities Complex. Lakes. Creek. Water reservoir.
"I suggest you tuck this in a drawer when you're not using it," Jester said. "The last two Liaisons weren't trusted with this at all and, like I said, we didn't encourage them to explore. You should be careful about who knows you have this, Meg Corbyn."
"Does Mr. Wolfgard know I have a map of the Courtyard?"
"Simon gave it to me to give to you."
A test, Meg thought. Simon Wolfgard was giving her a test to see if he could trust her. Which meant she shouldn't count on the map being accurate. If he thought she was some kind of spy trying to gain access to the Courtyard, providing an enemy with false information was almost as good as providing no information at all.
Then Jester grinned, an expression that was at odds with his sober tone of a moment ago. "I'll get you that pass now." And he was gone again.
When a half hour went by without a delivery or any sign of Jester, Meg checked out the music disc player. No discs, which was a disappointment, but as she fiddled with the buttons, she found the one that changed the player from discs to radio and connected her with Lakeside's radio stations. She spent a few minutes turning the dial as she tried to tune in a station that had approved music. Then it struck her. She didn't need anyone's permission or approval. She could try a different kind of music every day and decide for herself what she liked.
Excited, she tuned in a station and got back to work.
"Run and Thump?" Monty asked as he read the sign over one of the terra indigene storefronts.
"Fitness center," Kowalski replied. He turned into the parking lot that had a third less space for cars because the slots near the lot's back wall were taken up by mountains of snow on either side of a wooden door. "Treadmills for running, and the thumpy sound of weight machines. Not sure what they do on the second floor. Not sure why the Others would want such a place when they can run around in more than three hundred acres."
Maybe even they were bothered by the smell of wet fur and preferred to run indoors in inclement weather. "What about the storefront that doesn't have a sign?"
"Social center. This Courtyard does employ some humans and occasionally lets some of them live in the apartments above the seamstress/tailor's shop. But entertaining outsiders in an apartment that can access the Courtyard?" Kowalski shook his head. "You gather with friends at the social center. And you gather there if you want to socialize with an acquaintance who is terra indigene."
"And if you want a more private kind of date?" Monty studied the younger man.
"The rooms above the social center can be used for that kind of date."
"Is this street talk or personal knowledge?"
"Am I ever going to introduce you to my mother?"
Monty hid a smile, but it took effort. "Probably."
Kowalski blew out a breath. "I really don't have that much personal knowledge. I've heard that if you use one of those rooms, you're responsible for putting fresh linen on the bed and tossing the used sheets in the laundry cart that's left at the end of the hall. There's a jar next to the laundry cart. Five dollars for the use of the sheets and the room."
"And if the money in the jar doesn't match the number of sheets that were used?"
"The next time there aren't any clean sheets—and girls get pretty insulted if they're asked to cuddle on seconds because you were too cheap to put five dollars in the jar the last time."
Now Monty didn't try to hide the smile. "You are a font of information, Officer Kowalski."
Kowalski slanted a look at him.
Laughing, Monty got out of the car. Despite the wind, which was still cold enough to cut to the bone, he left his topcoat open so that his holstered gun showed. Then he pulled out his leather ID holder so it would be in his hand when he walked into Howling Good Reads.
"After the shooting two years ago, all the windows in these stores were refitted with bulletproof glass," Kowalski said.
"A gunman could walk into the store and start shooting," Monty countered.
"He could walk in, but he wouldn't get out alive." Kowalski tipped his head slightly as he pulled the door open.
Monty looked in that direction as he walked into the store—and froze.
Amber eyes stared at him. Lips lifted off the teeth in a silent snarl as the creature lying in front of a bookcase rose to its feet. The damn thing was big. Its shoulder would be even with his hip if they were standing side by side, and he was sure it outweighed him.
The girl he'd rescued had looked like a rough version of the wolf puppies he'd seen in documentaries. But there was no mistaking this for the animal. There was something more primal about its body than the animals that lived in the world now. The first humans to set foot on this continent must have used the word wolf as a way to lessen their fear of what stared at them from the edge of the woods—or hunted them in the dark—and not because it was an accurate description.
Kowalski quietly cleared his throat.
Aware of how everyone was standing still—and trembling while they did it—he held up the leather holder that contained his ID and walked over to the counter.
At first glance, he thought the man behind the counter was human. The dark hair was a little mussed but professionally cut. The shirt and pullover sweater were workplace casual and equal in quality to things he'd seen in the better shops in Toland. And the wire-rimmed glasses gave the handsome face an academic quality.
Then the man looked at him with eyes that were the same amber color as the Wolf's.
How could anyone look into those eyes and not understand that a predator was looking back at you? Monty thought as he took the last steps to the counter . How could you not know that there was nothing human behind those eyes?
"Mr. Simon Wolfgard?" Monty asked, still holding up his ID.
"I'm Wolfgard," he replied in a baritone that was pleasing if you couldn't hear the growl under the words.
Pretending he didn't hear the growl, Monty continued. "I'm Lieutenant Crispin James Montgomery. My officers and I have been assigned as your police contacts, so I wanted to take this opportunity to introduce myself."
"Why do we need police contacts?" Simon asked. "We handle things on our own in the Courtyard."
The Wolf snarled behind him.
Several girls who had been hanging out at the front of the store squealed and headed farther back where they could hide behind the shelves and peek out to watch the drama.
"Yes, sir. I'm aware of that," Monty replied, lacing his voice with quiet but firm courtesy. "But if you know we will respond to any call for assistance, I'm hoping that you won't feel you always have to handle things on your own. Take shoplifting, for example."
Simon shrugged. "Steal from us, we eat a hand. But just one if it's a first offense."
Nervous titters from behind the nearest shelves.
"What if it's a second offense?" Kowalski asked, moving closer to the counter while keeping an eye on the Wolf that was in Wolf form.
The predatory look in Simon's eyes sharpened, just like the smile sharpened. "For a second offense, we don't bother with a hand."
Threat understood.
He could see the effort it was taking for Wolfgard to assume the mask and body language of human shopkeeper—which he assumed was the purpose of the glasses and clothing.
Not quite pulling it off today. Not quite able to hide the predator.
Or maybe this was as much as it was ever hidden.
"Why don't we go next door for a cup of coffee," Simon said, making the words less a question and more of a command. "Police officers like coffee. Don't they?"
"Yes, sir, we do," Monty replied.
Simon wagged a finger at a black-haired, black-eyed girl who hadn't bolted to the back of the store with the others—had, in fact, been eyeing them all with a bright intensity that made Monty want to buy her some popcorn to eat while she watched the show.
"Jenni," Simon said when she hopped onto the counter and then over it. "Can you watch the register for a few minutes?"
The smile she gave Simon had Monty reaching for his wallet to make sure it was still there.
"If someone wants to buy something, they will give you money and you will give them change," Simon said.
"But not the shiny," Jenni said, cocking her head. "We keep the shiny."
Simon looked like he wanted to bite someone, but all he said was, "Yeah, okay, you don't have to give anyone the shiny." Then he looked at the Wolf, who came over and sat in front of the register—a large, furry deterrent to anyone who wanted to check out before Wolfgard returned.
He led them to the adjoining store.
Not a lot of customers, Monty thought as he looked around. A couple of people were working on portable computers while sipping from large mugs, but that was all.
"Tess?" Simon called to the brown-haired woman behind the counter. "Three coffees here."
They sat at a table. Monty tucked his ID in his pocket when Tess set three mugs and a plate containing slices of some kind of cake on the table. When she returned with the pot of coffee, napkins, and a little pitcher of cream, Simon introduced Monty and then waited for Monty to introduce his partner.
Simon studied Kowalski. "Have I smelled you before?"
Kowalski turned bright red and almost dropped the mug. "No, I don't think so."
"You carrying another scent on you?"
A head shake. Then Kowalski paled and whispered, "My fiancée."
"She likes books?"
"Yes." Kowalski took a sip of coffee. His hands shook when he set the mug down. "We both do. We read a lot."
Simon continued to study the officer in a way that made Monty want to knock over the table or start shouting just to break that focus.
"Polite," Simon finally said. "Smells good. Doesn't screech when she talks. Asked about books she couldn't find in a human store. Should have that shipment tomorrow. She can pick up the ones that are available." A teeth-baring smile. "Or you can."
Kowalski looked Simon in the eyes. "I'm sure she would rather pick up her order personally to make sure the books are what she wanted."
"Books weren't the only thing your fiancée was interested in, but HGR doesn't sell music discs, and the music store isn't open to anyone but Courtyard residents." Simon smiled at Monty. "But we could arrange a tour of our Market Square for our new friends in the police department. You could each bring a guest, even do some shopping."
"As long as we don't expect the merchants to give us the shiny?" Monty asked, struggling to remain calm and polite—and hoping Kowalski would do the same.
Tess, who had been about to top off their mugs, jerked back. "Ah, Simon. You didn't let one of the Crows watch the register, did you?"
"It will be fine," he said tightly.
"Say that when you're trying to balance the cash drawer tonight." Shaking her head, she walked back to the counter.
Monty looked away before anyone noticed him staring. Her hair had been brown and straight when they walked in. Now it looked like she'd poured green food coloring over strands of it and used one of those curling irons. But she hadn't left the room. He knew she hadn't left the room.
"Since I'm closing up tonight, maybe I should take over the register now," a man said as he approached their table.
Black hair, dark eyes, black sweater and jeans. More olive-skinned than fair, and dangerously good-looking.
"This is Vladimir Sanguinati, the comanager of Howling Good Reads," Simon said.
Kowalski bobbled the mug and sloshed coffee on the table.
"Sorry," he muttered, grabbing the napkins Tess had put on the table.
"This is Lieutenant Crispin James Montgomery and Officer Karl Kowalski, our new police contacts," Simon said.
"How intriguing," Vladimir replied.
Monty didn't know why it was intriguing, or why Kowalski reacted to the name like that, but he did know there were things he wanted to think and say, and it wasn't safe to think or say them while he was in that store.
"I won't take up any more of your time, Mr. Wolfgard," Monty said quietly as he pushed his chair back and stood up. He pulled one of the new business cards out of his pocket and handed it to Simon. "My number at the station and my mobile phone number. If you need assistance—or just want it for any reason—please call me."
Rising, Simon slipped the card into his trouser pocket without looking at it.
"Since we're all friends now, you should come in for coffee again," Tess said.
"Thank you, ma'am. We'll do that," Monty said. He buttoned his coat as he and Kowalski walked to the outside door. "Wait until we're in the car," he added to his partner, feeling the Others' eyes watch them as they walked past the store windows to the parking lot.
When they got in the car, Kowalski blew out a breath and said, "Where to, Lieutenant?"
"Nowhere yet. Just start the car so we don't freeze out here." Monty stared straight ahead, letting thoughts solidify into words. But he wasn't quite ready to say what he suddenly understood, so he asked a question. "Sanguinati. You jumped like you were poked with a needle when you heard that name. Why?"
"Doesn't mean anything to you?" Kowalski waited a moment. "Are you familiar with the term vampire?"
Monty turned his head and stared at the other man. "That was one of the bloodsuckers?"
Kowalski nodded. "As in drain their prey of blood. In popular fiction they're called vampires, but that species of terra indigene call themselves Sanguinati. No one really knows much about them except that they drink blood, don't seem to have anything else in common with the fictional version, and they're just as dangerous as the shape-shifters. And there's been some... evidence... that they have another way of extracting blood besides biting you."
Glad he hadn't drunk much coffee, Monty swallowed to push down his churning stomach. "Do you think they're using those stores as easy places to hunt?"
Kowalski tipped his head back. Finally he said, "Can't say for certain about the Sanguinati, but the shifters aren't using the stores that way. Wolfgard wasn't kidding about them eating a shoplifter's hand, but we've never filled out a DLU because someone went into one of those stores." He turned his head and looked at Monty. "What's on your mind, Lieutenant?"
"I've been thinking that most of what you know about the terra indigene you learned because you've been brushing against them all your life. You probably grew up in a neighborhood that's close enough to the Courtyard that you know the rules for the social center."
"I'm not the only cop in Lakeside who's brushed up against the Others at a social occasion. The terra indigene control most of the world. It's foolish not to take an opportunity to figure out more about them. And, for the record, before I met Ruthie, I did some necking and petting with a girl who worked in the Courtyard, but we parted company after a few dates and I never used one of the rooms above the social center for a romp between the sheets."
A silence filled the car. Monty ended it before it became a wedge between him and the younger man. " Terra indigene. Earth native. At the academy, no one ever explains exactly what that means. Maybe command doesn't know exactly what it means or is afraid the truth would scare too many of us, and frightened men with guns would get us all killed."
"What's scarier than knowing you're always surrounded by creatures who think you're edible?"
"They really aren't human, Karl," Monty said. "Intellectually, I knew that. Now I know that with body as well as brain. The terra indigene aren't animals who turn into humans or humans who turn into animals. They really are something unknown that learned how to change into a human shape because it suited them. They gained something from the human form, whether it was standing upright or having the convenience of fingers and thumbs, just like they gained something from the animal forms they absorbed."
"You support the first-form theory?" Kowalski asked.
"That wasn't taught at the academy," Monty replied with a forced smile.
"Something Ruthie found in some moldy old history book a while back. There was a theory that the Others have had a lot of forms, changing their shapes as the world and the creatures around them changed so that they remained the dominant predators. But the first form, whatever it might be, is the evolutionary ancestor of all the terra indigene and is the reason they can change shapes. The theory also says they take on some of the traits of the forms they use—like that girl Crow attracted to something shiny."
"That's close enough to what I was thinking," Monty said. "They have learned a human shape, but there is no humanity in them, nothing that recognizes us as more than meat. More clever than deer or cattle, but still meat. And yet, when they couldn't find the men who killed one of their own, they understood how to punish everyone in the city by tacking on a tax to the water rates. Which means they do have feelings about their own kind."
"Okay. But what does that have to do with Wolfgard offering to let us see something that's usually off-limits or making sure I knew they recognized Ruthie? You were polite and got back threats."
"I don't think it was a threat. I think Simon Wolfgard was trying to be friendly. But the terra indigene line he comes from has absorbed the wolf for thousands of years and the human side for a few centuries at best, so he sounds threatening even when he isn't trying to be. He has his own motives for opening those stores to human customers and inviting us to see a market I'm guessing has been seen by very few visitors."
"So?"
"So we're going to take him up on his offer," Monty said. "We're going to tour the market. Ruthie too, if you're comfortable asking her to join us. We're going to stop in and have a cup of coffee on a regular basis. We're going to be faces the Others recognize. We're going to try to change the dynamic, Karl. They aren't human, will never be human. But we're going to try to get them to see at least some of us as more than useful or clever meat. Then maybe— maybe —the next time adult men act like fools and enter the Courtyard uninvited, we'll get a call instead of having to fill out a DLU form."
"I'm not sure anyone ever tried to change the dynamics between us and the Others," Kowalski said cautiously.
"Then maybe it's time someone did." Monty sighed. "All right. One more stop, then I'd like to drive around for a bit to get the feel of the area."
"Where to?"
"To introduce ourselves to the person who could be our best ally—the Human Liaison."
They pulled out of the parking lot and turned left at the intersection of Crowfield Avenue and Main Street. They passed one storefront before turning into the delivery area for the Liaison's Office and the consulate.
"That store is called Earth Native," Kowalski said. "Terra indigene sculpture, pottery, paintings, and weavings that are pricey but available for sale to humans. A sculptor who works in wood makes something called garden totems from the trunks of downed trees. Big things that can weigh a couple hundred pounds, or pieces small enough to be used as an accent table. Ruthie wants to buy a piece for our new apartment."
Monty filed all that information away as they pulled in and parked.
Kowalski pointed to their right. "That building is the consulate. Elliot Wolfgard has an office there, and the meeting rooms are usually as close as any city official gets to being inside the Courtyard."
"Stay here," Monty said. The moment he stepped out of the car, half the Crows perched on the shoulder-high wall took off and the other half began cawing at him. Someone on the other side of the wall had been working with some kind of hammer, and the rhythmic sound stopped.
Monty walked to the office door and pulled it open, pretending he didn't see the Crows—pretending there was nothing ominous in the silence coming from the other side of the wall.
As he walked up to the counter, the first thing he noticed was the woman's hair. It made him think of one of Lizzy's dolls whose hair was made of orange yarn. Then he noticed how her smile slipped when she looked past him and saw the police car.
"Good morning, ma'am," he said, pulling out his ID. "I'm Lieutenant Crispin James Montgomery."
"I'm Meg Corbyn," she replied. There were nerves—maybe even fear—in her gray eyes, and her hands trembled just enough to be noticed. "Is there something I can do for you?"
He'd seen the sign over the door. He knew what HLDNA meant. In his experience, women usually weren't afraid without a reason. "No, ma'am. I'm the police contact for the Courtyard, and I just wanted to introduce myself." He pulled out a business card and set it on the counter. When she didn't reach for it, he gentled his voice more than usual. "Ms. Corbyn, are you here by your own choice? I can't help noticing that you seem nervous."
She gave him a wobbly smile. "Oh. It's my first day. I want to do a good job, and there's quite a bit to learn."
Monty returned the smile. "I know what you mean. It's my first day on the job too."
Her smile firmed up and warmed, and she picked up the business card. Then her forehead puckered in a little frown. "But, Lieutenant, human law doesn't apply in the Courtyard."
"I know that, ma'am. Even so, if you need my help, you just call."
Meg hesitated, then said, "Do you know anything about ponies?"
Monty blinked. "Ponies? Not particularly. But I rode horses when I was young. Used to bring chunks of carrot or apple with me. The horses weren't much interested in being saddled, but they would come up to the fence for the carrots."
"Maybe that will help," Meg muttered.
"Well, then. I have been of service today."
She laughed as if she didn't quite know how, as if it wasn't a familiar sound. It bothered him that laughter was an unfamiliar sound.
That wasn't the only thing about her that bothered him.
He wished her luck on getting through the rest of her first day, and she wished him the same. Satisfied, he walked out of the office—and noticed Kowalski's tight face and unwavering attention. Looking toward the left corner of the building, he saw the big man dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, holding a chisel and mallet. Must be the sculptor.
"Good morning," Monty said, continuing to the car.
The man didn't reply. Just watched him.
"Sir?" Kowalski said as soon as Monty got in the car.
"We've met enough residents of the Courtyard for one day," Monty replied. "Give me a tour of the district."
"Glad to."
"What qualities do you think a Liaison normally has?" he asked when they drove away from the Courtyard.
"Moxie. Savvy," Kowalski replied without hesitation.
"Innocence?"
Kowalski gave Monty a startled look before turning his attention back to the road. "That's not a label I would give to anyone who works for the Others."
"I got the impression Ms. Corbyn lacks the maturity of her physical age. If I hadn't seen her, I would have placed her at half her age."
Kowalski gave him another look. "The Simple Life folk sometimes give that impression because they live without most of the technology that the rest of us use. You think she left the community on Great Island and took the job here?"
He'd never met any of the Simple Life folk, so he couldn't offer an opinion, but he said, "It's worth checking out."
"Thing is, Lieutenant, the Others control everything on that island except the land they leased to the Simple Life community and a couple dozen families who live along the southern shore and make a living fishing, running the ferry, or working in the stores and shops that supply goods and services. A girl from that community would be used to seeing Others and might find it less scary to deal with them than be alone in the big city."
The explanation might be as simple as that, Monty thought. But he still wondered if being in the Courtyard was the reason Meg Corbyn was so nervous, or if she had another reason to be afraid.
Asia swore under her breath. The damn Crows were paying too much attention to the Liaison's Office, and if she kept driving past, one of them was going to realize they kept seeing the same car. Seeing the police car in the parking lot earlier had been reason enough to go on by. Her looks were memorable, and she didn't want cops taking any notice of her. But she did want to get a look at the new liaison Simon had hired instead of her. By the time she had done the slide and spin on some of the side streets—where were the freaking plows?—and gotten back to the street entrance, the damn cops were pulled up in front of the Liaison's Office!
She thought her luck had changed when she saw them drive away, but the earth native who sold sculptures and other artsy crap was going into the office, and there was something about him besides his size that made her uneasy.
Try again tomorrow, she thought.
As she flicked off the blinker, she realized the white van in front of her had done the same thing moments before.
"I guess I'm not the only one who is curious," she muttered to herself. She smiled as she followed the van long enough to memorize the license plate. Then she pulled in to the first cleared parking area and wrote down the numbers. This was something she could tell Bigwig. He kept saying information was a valuable commodity. Knowing that someone was interested in the new Liaison was the kind of information he and the other backers might find profitable. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 5 | The experiment with the coffeemaker was an unqualified disaster, so Meg settled for a bowl of cereal and an apple—and promised herself a ten-minute break to run over to A Little Bite and get a large cup of coffee as soon as the shop opened.
Wearing the blue sweater and jeans again so the black outfit would still be clean, she made a second promise to stop at the clothing store in the Market Square and buy enough clothes to get her through the work days, or as many clothes as she could afford right now. How did the Others do laundry? Simon Wolfgard's clothes hadn't smelled, so the Others must have a way to wash clothes. She just had to find out where and how.
So many things to learn. So many things she knew only as images or snips of action. How was she going to find out what she needed to know without revealing how little she knew?
Those were thoughts for later. Now she had to finish getting ready for work.
Taking three carrots out of the refrigerator, she washed them, patted them dry, and set them on the cutting board. She pushed up the sleeves of her turtleneck and sweater, then pulled the large knife out of the cutting block.
Flesh and steel. Such an intimate dance.
Every cut brings you closer to the cut that kills you, Jean had said. If you keep using the razor once you're free of this place, then you become your own killer.
The knife clattered on the counter. Meg stepped back, staring at the shiny blade as she rubbed her left forearm to relieve the pins-and-needles feeling under her skin. She got that feeling sometimes just before it was time for the next cut. If the cut was delayed, the sensation got so bad it felt like buzzing or, even worse, like something trying to chew its way out of her skin.
Just a small cut, she thought as she pulled the folding razor out of the pocket of her jeans. Just a small cut to see if the carrots will work, if the ponies will like me.
She tried to convince herself that nothing terrible would happen if this gesture of friendship didn't work, and using up flesh for something insignificant was foolish. And how would the Others react to a fresh cut and the scent of blood? She hadn't considered that when she took the job.
But she was pulling a couple of paper towels off the roll and making a pad on the counter next to the sink. She opened the razor, lined up the back edge with the first knuckle of her left index finger, then turned the razor so the honed edge rested against skin. She took a slow breath and pressed the razor against her finger, making a cut deep enough to scar.
Pain flooded her, a remembered agony from the times she'd been punished for lies or defiance. She saw the ponies and...
The pain was washed away by an orgasmic euphoria. This was the ecstasy the girls craved, the ecstasy that only came from the razor kissing skin. This...
Meg blinked. Swayed. Stared at the blood on the paper towels.
Something about the ponies.
In order to remember what you see, you have to swallow the words along with the pain, Jean had said. If you speak, what you saw will fade like a dream. You might remember wisps, but not enough to be useful to you.
She must have spoken, must have described what she had seen. But there was no one to hear the words, so the prophecy and whatever she might have learned about the ponies was lost.
She looked at the razor and considered making another cut. Then she looked at the clock. She'd lost too much time already.
Hurrying into the bathroom, Meg washed the cut, then found a partially used box of bandages and tape in the medicine chest above the sink. After tending to the cut, she hurried back to the kitchen, cleaned the razor, and slipped it in her jeans pocket. Then she grabbed the kitchen knife and cut up the carrots. If anyone noticed the bandage or smelled the blood, she could explain it. Accidents happened in kitchens all the time. A cut on her finger wouldn't be unusual, wouldn't give anyone a reason to wonder about her.
She put the carrot chunks in a bowl with a locking lid, tidied up the kitchen, then put on her outer gear and gathered the rest of her things. As she left the building and hurried down the back stairs, she was glad she didn't have to walk far to get to work.
It was still lung-biting cold, but far more peaceful than the previous morning. Or it was more peaceful until she reached the bottom of the stairs and spotted Simon Wolfgard coming out of A Little Bite with one of those big covered mugs she had seen yesterday when she stopped in the Market Square grocery store to buy apples and carrots.
He jerked to a stop when he saw her. Then he sniffed the air.
Hoping her hair still smelled enough to discourage him from coming closer, she said, "Good morning, Mr. Wolfgard."
"Ms. Corbyn."
When he said nothing more, she hurried to the Liaison's Office, aware of him watching her until she unlocked the back door and stepped inside. Hopefully now he would just go on about his own business and let her get on with hers.
She hung up her coat and swapped boots for shoes. After a debate with herself that consumed five minutes, she decided carrots at room temperature were probably better for pony tummies and left the container on the counter. Wishing she had something warm to drink, she checked the cupboards in the small kitchen area. The last person to work as the Liaison had been a slob, and she wasn't putting anything she wanted to eat on those shelves until she cleaned them. Which meant actually learning how to clean.
At least she had music this morning. She had stopped at Music and Movies yesterday and taken five music discs out on loan. She would get a notebook and keep track of the music she liked and didn't like, and the food she liked and didn't like and... everything else.
She put the first disc in the player, then set about opening the office. She put a fresh sheet of paper on the clipboard to take notes about the deliveries. Retrieving the keys from the drawer in the sorting room, she breathed a sigh of relief when she fiddled the slide locks open on the go-through and managed to unlock the front door.
The birds were back—three on the wall and one on the wood sculpture. Since she wasn't sure if they were crows or Others, she stuck her head out the door and said, "Good morning."
A startled silence. As she pulled her head back inside, a couple of them cawed. It sounded more mellow than other caws, so she decided to take it as a return greeting.
She barely had time to take the map out of the drawer and drag one of the mailbags over to the table before the first delivery truck pulled in.
Don't need a bell on the door when there were Crows on watch, she thought as she dated the page and made her notes about the truck.
Same wariness as yesterday when the delivery people opened the door. Same relief when they saw her and realized they didn't have to deal with one of the Others. Same helpful information about who they were and what days they usually made deliveries.
She found it interesting that two or three trucks arrived at almost the same time, which made her wonder if the drivers had some agreement among themselves about delivering at a specific time so they wouldn't be in the Courtyard alone—especially since most of them greeted one another by name.
When the first flurry of deliveries was done, she opened the door into the sorting room and pushed one of the handcarts inside. She didn't like treadmills—too many memories of being exercised in the compound—but maybe she should go over to Run & Thump and see what she could do to gain some muscle. Not being able to lift packages or mailbags wasn't going to win her any gold stars from Simon Wolfgard.
She turned on the disc player and started sorting mail, her hips following the beat of the music.
"Courtyard Business Association," Meg muttered as she read the name on the envelope. "They have a business association? Where?" She put the envelope on the ask-Jester stack.
There were several envelopes for the Chambers that had a red FINAL NOTICE stamped on them. She had a feeling she would find earlier warnings in the mailbags at the bottom of the pile.
Was there some kind of rule that Others couldn't sort mail, or did they expect that everything would go on as it was until they got someone to do it? Or were they really all so busy doing Other things that they didn't have time to take care of mail and packages?
She was still pondering that when the front door opened. Meg set down the stack of envelopes and went to the counter, closing the Private door partway.
The woman approaching the counter had sleek, shoulder-length blond hair, brown eyes, and a carefully made-up face that Meg decided matched the "beautiful" training images. The woman's parka was unzipped, revealing a curvy body in snug jeans and sweater.
Having no yardstick for the outside world, Meg couldn't decide if a woman dressed like that in the daytime indicated a movie star or a prostitute.
"I'm looking for the new Liaison," the woman said.
"I'm the Liaison," Meg replied.
"Really?" Anger flashed in the woman's eyes at the same time she gave Meg a wide smile. "Why, you're almost a pocket pet."
Anger and a smile were conflicting images, but a conflict she had seen often enough on the faces of the Walking Names, especially when Jean had caused trouble and stirred up some of the other girls.
Unsure of how to respond, Meg took a step back. If she needed help, there was a phone in the sorting room as well as on the counter here, and the Private door had a lock.
The woman studied her, then said, "Oh, honey, you don't have to be scared. I'm annoyed with Simon for hiring someone else after he all but promised me this job, but I'm not upset with you."
"Excuse me?"
The woman waved a hand. "Water under the bridge, as they say." A friendly smile now. "I'm Asia Crane. I'm a student at Lakeside University. Howling Good Reads is sort of my home away from home, so I expect we'll see a lot of each other."
Not likely, since she didn't intend to spend much time at the bookstore—at least, not when Simon Wolfgard was around to glare at her or take offense at her hair. "I'm Meg Corbyn."
Asia clapped her hands. "Crane. Corbyn. Our names are so similar, we could be sisters!"
"Except we don't look anything alike," Meg pointed out. Was Asia's behavior typical of the way people responded to meeting a stranger?
"Oh, poo. Don't go spoiling things with details! And please don't be insulted about the pet remark. It's a phrase I must have picked up from the romance novels I've been reading for fun."
Meg couldn't picture Simon stocking romances. Maybe someone else had a say in ordering books for the store?
"It was nice to meet you, Asia, but I have to get back to work," Meg said.
"Doing what?" Asia leaned on the counter and wrinkled her nose as she looked around. "It doesn't look like there's much to do here to keep from dying of boredom. Maybe I'm glad I didn't get this job after all."
"There's more to do than watch the counter and sign for packages," Meg said defensively.
"Like what?"
She hesitated, but answering the question didn't seem like a terrible thing to do, especially since Simon had all but promised the job to Asia.
But if he promised the job to her, why did he hire me? "I sort the mail for the Courtyard," she said, trying to ignore the prickling that suddenly filled her right arm.
Asia's eyes widened. "For the whole Courtyard? Not just the stores, but the whole thing? By yourself?"
Meg nodded.
"Oh, honey, if that's the case, I'm not sure that man can pay anyone enough to do that much tedious work."
"It's not tedious, and it's not that much work—or it won't be after I take care of the backlog." The prickling in her arm got worse, and she began to feel uneasy. She shouldn't have that sensation so soon after a cut. Was it a sign that there was something wrong with her? The Walking Names always told the girls they couldn't survive long outside the compound because they would be overwhelmed by the world. Jean said that was a lie, but it had been a long time since Jean had lived on the outside, so maybe she didn't remember things correctly anymore.
"Well, why don't you bring some of that mail out here so we can get acquainted? I could even give you a hand," Asia said.
Meg shook her head and shuffled her feet back another half step toward the Private door. "It's nice of you to offer, but the mail has to stay in the sorting room, and no one else is allowed in there without Mr. Wolfgard's permission."
"Well, Simon isn't going to mind me helping out." Asia braced her hands on the counter. A little jump and turn had her sitting on top and swinging her legs over.
That was when the Private door opened all the way and Simon lunged out of the sorting room, knocking Meg aside. As he made a grab for Asia, she squealed, swung her legs back over the counter, and scrambled out of reach.
"Simon does mind," he snarled. "And the next time you swing a leg over a counter and try to put it where it doesn't belong, you're going back over the counter minus a leg!"
Asia bolted out the door and ran until she reached the sidewalk. Then she turned and stared at them before hurrying down the street.
Meg pressed herself against the wall, wanting to get farther away but not daring to move. "M-Mr. Wolfgard, I told her she wasn't allowed, but it sounded like—"
"I heard what it sounded like," he snarled. "I don't pay you to yak with other monkeys when there's work to be done. And if you want this job, there's still plenty of work in there."
"I—I know."
"Why are you stuttering? Are you cold?"
Not daring to speak, she shook her head.
His next snarl sounded as full of frustration as anger. After one more menacing glance outside, he walked back into the sorting room.
Moments later, Meg heard the back door slam.
Shaking and still too scared to move, she began to cry.
Simon stormed through the back door of Howling Good Reads, stripped off his clothes, and shifted to Wolf, unable to stand being in that human shape a moment longer. Then he howled, letting all his fury ride in the sound.
He didn't know why he was so angry. He just knew that something about the tone of Meg's voice when she was trying to defend her territory—and being so damned inadequate about it!—had tripped something inside his brain.
John was the first to reach the stockroom, but one look at Simon had him backing away. Tess came next, her hair streaked green and red.
"Simon?" Tess said. "What's wrong?"
Before he could answer, the back door opened again, almost smacking his hindquarters. He whirled and snapped at Jenni, who had shifted from Crow and now was a naked, shivering human.
She ignored the cold and she ignored him, which was beyond insulting since he was the leader of this Courtyard. Instead, she focused on Tess.
"Simon was being mean. He made the Meg cry. I'm going over to the store to see if I can find a sparkly that will make her smile again. The Meg smiles a lot—when the Wolf isn't snarling at her."
Jenni stepped back outside, shifted into a Crow, and flew off to Sparkles and Junk.
<Didn't snarl at Meg,> Simon growled.
Swinging around him and following Jenni out of the door, Tess said over her shoulder, "I'll talk to Meg and see if I can repair the damage."
He wasn't sure she intended for him to hear the muttered, "Idiot."
He looked at John, who was now crouched to bring his head lower than Simon's.
<Bring clothes,> Simon ordered. Then he bounded up the stairs to the store's office.
John brought his clothes up, set them on the nearest chair, and hurried back downstairs.
Simon prowled the office, then howled again.
He hadn't snarled at Meg. Not exactly. But he doubted there was a female in the Courtyard who was going to see it his way today.
Shifting back to human, he got dressed. Then he went to the window facing Crowfield Avenue and stared out. The streets were in decent shape. Not down to pavement yet, but passable.
Turning away from the window, he looked at the stacks of paperwork waiting for him because he had encouraged more contact with humans as a way of keeping better track of them.
"It was easier when all we wanted to do was eat them and take their stuff," he grumbled.
And it had been easier when he hadn't cared if he made any of them cry.
Asia shook so hard she couldn't get the keys in the ignition to start her car.
Bigwig had told her dealing with the Others was a risky assignment, which was why he and the other backers had been willing to let her take her time infiltrating the Courtyard. In the months she'd been living in Lakeside and hanging around HGR, she hadn't seen more than posturing and snarls from the Wolves and not even that much menace from the rest of the Others. Now she realized Bigwig had paid her so much up front because he had known that risky could mean deadly.
Pulling the flask out of the glove box, she took a long swallow of whiskey to steady her nerves. Then she took another to dim the image of her legs being torn off by a Wolf.
"Freaking Wolf," she said after the third swallow. "Damn freaking Wolf should have been in his own store instead of sniffing around a no-looks female." And he hadn't just hired a female with no looks and no sense of fashion to represent the Courtyard; he had hired a feeb!
She had expected a man, had dressed to introduce herself to a man, had figured the reason Wolfgard hadn't chosen her was because Liaisons were usually men and a man had applied for the job. Instead, Wolfgard had hired a feeble-minded, weird-haired girl who thought sorting mail was interesting.
Asia took another sip, then put the flask back in the glove box.
If Meg wasn't a feeb, what kind of person would want the Liaison's job for its own sake? Someone who had a reason to hide—that's who. From what? From whom? The driver of that white van was keeping tabs on something or someone in the Courtyard, and Meg Corbyn was the only new employee.
She had a name and description to give Bigwig when she reported in tonight. That might help him figure out who would be interested in someone like Meg. Until he got back to her with whatever information he could gather at his end, she was going to be Meg Corbyn's new best friend and use that friendship to learn whatever she could about the Courtyard. And that meant dealing with Simon Wolfgard.
Suicide by Wolf. She'd heard the phrase plenty of times. Now she understood what it meant. But if she didn't push Simon now, she'd never get another shot at Meg.
She debated for a moment, then decided whiskey breath would suit this little drama. After all, no human in the bookstore would expect someone to start a confrontation with a Wolf unless that person was a little drunk. And she thought Asia Crane, SI, would be the kind of investigator who would have a checkered past and the need to have a daytime drink once in a while.
She needed to write these ideas down for the day when she met with Bigwig to discuss her TV show.
She got out of her car and strode to Howling Good Reads. As soon as she walked into the store, she balled her hands into fists and shouted, "Simon Wolfgard! You get your butt over here! I have words to say to you!"
Several people dropped books. Then an awful silence filled the bookstore when Simon appeared. Asia hoped the lenses of his glasses were picking up some kind of light that made his eyes look glowing—and red.
Before he got too close, she launched her verbal attack. "Simon Wolfgard, you are meaner than a rabid skunk!"
"You were where you didn't belong!" he roared.
"Well, pardon me for trying to be friendly! I just dropped by to introduce myself and give your new employee a bit of a welcome. I didn't realize she was forbidden to have a simple conversation with another human. It's plain as plain that poor girl has some challenges." Asia tapped her temple. It didn't matter if Simon understood the gesture; all the humans in the store would recognize it and assume he had hired a feeb. "And then when someone takes an interest in her, all you do is make threats. It wouldn't surprise me one bit if she slips away some night and doesn't come back because of the way you treated her. Do you know what you are, Simon?"
"No," he growled. "What am I?"
"You're nothing but a bully with fangs! A human would have to be desperate to work for someone like you!"
"You were willing to work for me—and do more."
Her face heated, but she lifted her chin. "That was before I realized you Others mimic humans to get what you want, but you don't know anything about what's inside a human."
Simon bared his teeth. "We know what's inside a human. Tasty bits. Especially the heart and liver."
Her knees weakened and her heart pounded. Her voice quavered, but she shifted to quiet and dignified when she said, "I have nothing more to say to you."
She walked out of the store. When she reached the parking lot, she bolted to her car, braced a hand on the hood, and threw up.
Fear and whiskey aren't a good mix, she thought as she drove to her apartment. She would take a hot shower, put on some comfy clothes, and indulge herself by watching her favorite movies for the rest of the day.
In a couple of days, she'd go back to Howling Good Reads and see if she had a shot at spending time with the new Liaison.
At least she accomplished one thing. If Meg Corbyn disappeared one night, for whatever reason, everyone would figure she was running away from Simon Wolfgard and no one would make much effort to find her.
Meg sniffled and sorted mail. She didn't have enough money left to run again, so she had to hang on to this job long enough to get paid.
She glanced up when the door to the back room opened but didn't say anything until Tess stood on the other side of the table.
"Mr. Wolfgard left his coffee." She glanced at Tess, then focused on the mail. She remembered seeing green in Tess's hair yesterday, but not the red. Was changing hair color some kind of hobby? And if it was, why was Simon snapping about her hair?
Tess pursed her lips as she studied the insulated, covered mug. "Actually, he brought that for you."
Startled, Meg looked up.
Tess nodded. Then she said gently, "What happened, Meg? You've been crying, Simon's riled up, and the Crows just told me that Asia bolted out of here like the whole pack was on her heels."
"I was starting to sort the mail when she came in and introduced herself. She said Mr. Wolfgard had promised she could have this job, but he hired me instead. So she was curious about what I did besides sign for packages."
"Did you tell her?"
"I said I sorted the mail for the Courtyard."
"Did you tell her anything about who is in the Courtyard? Mention any names?"
Meg shook her head. "I guess it's natural for people to be curious about this place, but offering to help me sort the mail seemed too forward. But some people are like that," she added defensively. "Outgoing and chatty. Harry from Everywhere Delivery is chatty too, but Jester didn't say talking to Harry was wrong, and I did tell Asia I needed to get back to work. She shouldn't have sat on the counter or swung her legs over, but people do that when they want to chat. They sit on a piece of furniture and swing their legs."
Now that she wasn't as scared, Meg started to get mad. "Then Mr. Wolfgard showed up and threatened to bite Asia's leg. So she ran off, and she'll probably never come back."
"Do you want her to come back?" Tess asked.
"I have questions," Meg countered. "Things I can't ask him."
Tess raised her eyebrows. "He's a Mr. Wolfgard and a him?" She sighed. "What kind of questions?"
"I didn't see a place in the Market Square to wash clothes. Am I supposed to wash them in the bathroom sink or..." Going to a laundry beyond the Courtyard wasn't something she wanted to consider.
Looking thoughtful in a scary kind of way, Tess picked up the insulated mug and handed it to Meg. "It won't be hot, but it should still be warm. By the way, that mug isn't something you should put in the wave-cooker."
"Okay." Meg took the mug, removed the lid, and obediently took a sip of coffee.
"As for doing laundry, we send out some things to a laundry service—like bedspreads, curtains, and... other things we don't want to handle. There is also a coin-operated washing machine and dryer in the social center that employees are allowed to use. And each residential complex has a laundry room."
"Are there instructions for using the coin-operated machines?"
Training image. A commercial laundry, its walls spattered with blood, and two people dead on the floor.
Meg shivered.
"Tell you what," Tess said. "I'll come by around four thirty. That's long enough past the office's usual closing for any delivery trucks that are still slowed down by the snow. We'll go to the clothing store and pick up whatever you need to get you through a few more days. Then I'll take you over to the laundry room at the Green Complex. Did anyone give you your Market Square card?"
"Jester dropped it off with my pass, but he didn't explain what it did."
"Typical," Tess muttered. "Do just enough to stir things up. It goes like this. Everyone who works at any of our stores is paid in human currency and also receives credit that can be used at any store in the Courtyard. So while your pay may not seem like much in terms of the money you get, you're also getting double that amount credited on your card each week. At the end of each month, you can stop in at our bank and receive a slip telling you what you have left on the card."
Since she didn't have to pay for her apartment, the wages were more generous than she'd thought.
"I don't pretend to understand humans," Tess said. "Giving both sides a chance to understand each other is the reason the Business Association decided to open up some of the stores to human customers. So I'll talk to Simon about letting Asia Crane drop by to chat—as long as you and she understand that Simon will kill her if he catches her scent where it doesn't belong. But if you have questions about being in the Courtyard, you can ask me. All right?"
"Yes. Thank you."
Tess smiled and glanced at the clock on the wall. "Then I'll let you get back to work. The ponies will be coming soon. Don't forget to come by on your lunch break. A Little Bite is providing the midday meal."
"I'll remember."
She waited until Tess left, then put the Back in Five Minutes sign on the counter, locked the Private door, and went into the bathroom to wash her face. Nothing she could do about the puffy eyes, but dust could cause puffy eyes too, couldn't it? And that corner that held the older mailbags and packages was dusty.
She unlocked the Private door and tucked the sign under the counter just in time for another delivery truck to drive up.
It looked like she'd get to try out the dust excuse and see if anyone actually believed it.
"SIMON!"
Hearing Tess's voice, Simon vaulted over the checkout counter, an instinctive response to some knowledge embedded into the essence of his kind. When she strode from the back of the store, he knew why he wanted to give himself room to fight.
Her hair was completely red and coiling as she walked toward him.
Not black. Not the death color. But close enough.
Tess looked around. Her voice thundered through HGR. "Howling Good Reads is closed for the day. Anyone who is still in the store sixty seconds from now will never be seen again."
Others and humans ran for the nearest door, whether it was HGR's street door or the archway to A Little Bite.
"Tess?" Julia Hawkgard called from the archway. "Are we closing too?"
"Customers go. You and Merri Lee stay to close up."
When Simon turned toward the street door to lock it and flip the sign to CLOSED, Tess snarled, "Not you, Wolfgard."
He walked up to her. "I'm the leader of this Courtyard. You live here because of my invitation. Remember that."
Threads of black appeared in her red hair.
"If I have to make friends with a monkey in order to clean up your mess, you're going to make some concessions," she said.
"You don't have to make friends with anyone." He wasn't sure she was capable of making friends. And despite the efforts he and Henry had made over the years, they still didn't know what kind of terra indigene Tess was. But they knew she could kill. They did know that.
"Well, I have. For the sake of the Courtyard, I have made friends with our Human Liaison. Now it's your turn."
"What do you expect me to do? Asia Crane would have pushed where she didn't belong, and she'll keep pushing."
Tess tipped her head. "Even now?"
"Even now. And Meg isn't strong enough to hold her ground." But she had been strong enough to run from something—or someone—and had enough spine to ask him for a job.
"You've turned Asia into forbidden fruit," Tess said.
"What?"
"You've read enough human stories to know the lure of forbidden fruit."
Yes, he had. And if Meg smelled like prey the way she was supposed to, he wouldn't have responded in a way that was closer to protecting one of his own. Oh, he still would have forced Asia to back down, but he would have done it the same way he dealt with a customer in the store who wanted access to places that were private.
So it was Meg's fault that he hadn't behaved correctly.
"Simon?"
He heard the warning note in Tess's voice. "I won't forbid Asia from visiting with Meg, as long as she stays on her side of the counter."
"And I'll talk to my employees about helping me befriend the Liaison," Tess said.
"And keep a sharper eye on Asia?"
"That too."
Her hair was still red, but the black threads were gone and the coils were relaxing.
Since it wouldn't be viewed as a retreat now, Simon took a step back and looked around. "I don't feel like opening up again."
"No one will come in today anyway," Tess said. "But tomorrow the fear will have faded just enough." She smiled. "I heard John mention you received a shipment of terror books."
"Horror books." Now he smiled. "Including a couple of boxes of terra indigene authors I don't usually put out for human customers."
"Maybe you should make a display of them and put them on sale tomorrow. I expect we'll be busy."
"We could have tripled sales if we'd eaten one of the customers before they'd all gotten out."
Tess laughed. "Maybe we can do that next time."
Simon sighed. "I need a day out of this skin."
"And I need a few hours of solitude. See you tomorrow, Wolfgard."
"Tomorrow." He tipped his head toward A Little Bite. "What about your shop?"
"Julia and Merri Lee will clean up and close up. I'll tell them to take something over to Meg before they leave."
Choosing to be satisfied with that, Simon pulled out his keys and secured the dead bolt on HGR's street door. He checked the office, and stopped long enough to call Vlad and tell him the store was closed and also mention doing a display of horror books by terra indigene authors. Then he turned off lights as he went through the building, put on his winter coat when he reached the stockroom, and left, locking the back door.
He didn't want to be in this skin. He wanted to wear the body of a Wolf. But he had to stay in human form until he got Daphne's son, Sam, outside for a few minutes of fresh air—which was all the pup could tolerate since the night Daphne was shot. Once he got the youngster settled inside again, he could shift and run alone for a few hours.
So he set off for the Green Complex, hoping a walk on a cold day would frost some of his anger and frustration—and wishing again that he could find something that would break the fear that kept Sam locked in a single form.
Meg had her coat on and the bowl of carrot chunks on the sorting table with the mail when the ponies neighed. She opened the sorting room's outer door and smiled at their grumpy faces.
"Good morning," she said, hoping they couldn't recognize forced cheer. "I brought a treat for all of us, since we're all working hard to get the mail to everyone in the Courtyard. So let me get the baskets filled, and then I'll show you what I brought."
Maybe they aren't grumpy, Meg thought as she filled the slots in Thunder's baskets. Maybe that's just what pony faces look like.
When Thunder moved away, she wanted to remind him she had a treat for all of them, and felt disappointed that he was leaving without giving her a chance to make friends. But he simply circled around until he was behind Fog and would be first in line again.
She brought the bowl with her when she picked up the last stack of mail for the Green Complex—Fog's destination today.
Apparently, ponies did have more than one expression. When she offered two carrot chunks to Thunder, he took the first warily and the second eagerly. Bobbing his head, he trotted off while the others jostled one another to reach the bowl.
"Wait your turn," Meg said. "I brought plenty for all of us."
They settled down and waited for their treats, looking as interested in her as they were in the carrots. When Fog trotted off, Meg closed the door and felt that something had finally gone right that day. Setting the bowl on the table so that she could munch on the rest of the carrots while she worked, she went into the bathroom to wash carrot flecks and pony spit off her hands—and put a clean bandage on her finger.
As Kowalski drove down Crowfield Avenue, Monty noticed the Closed sign on Howling Good Reads' door and said, "Pull over." He studied the sign, then looked at the Closed sign at A Little Bite. "Is it usual for them to be closed when most other places are open?"
"No, it's not," Kowalski replied. "The Others can be whimsical about business hours, and sometimes the stores are closed to humans so that the terra indigene can shop without being around us. But when that happens, there is usually a Residents Only sign tacked on the door, the lights will be on, and you'll see people in the stores."
"So whatever caused this can't be good."
"No, sir, it can't be good."
Monty opened his door. "I see some movement in A Little Bite. Wait here."
Getting out of the car, he went up to the door and knocked loudly enough to ensure that the two women in the shop wouldn't ignore him.
The dark-haired one hurried to the door and pointed to the sign. He responded by holding up his ID.
She flipped the lock, pulled the door open, and said, "We're closed."
"Is there something I can do to help?" Monty asked, his voice quiet and courteous.
She shook her head and started to close the door when the other woman called out, "Let him in, Merri Lee. He can take some of this coffee and food. He is police. Tess said we should be polite to him."
Merri Lee pulled the door open enough for him to slip inside, then locked it again.
"Sorry," she said, keeping her voice low. "There was an... upset... earlier, and it's better for humans not to be around here today."
"What about you?" he asked.
"Julia is a Hawkgard, so I'm okay." She raised her voice to a normal volume and addressed the woman pouring coffee into two large travel mugs. "I'm supposed to bring some of the food to Meg."
"Already have everything set aside for her," Julia replied. "For you too. And me. You have a carry sack?"
It took Monty a moment to realize the question was aimed at him. "No, ma'am, I don't."
"We usually sell them, but you are the police, so I'll give you one," Julia said.
The heavy fabric sack had two sleeves with stiff bottoms that were sized for the insulated travel mugs, plus a zippered compartment that could hold sandwiches or containers of food. There was even a section to hold cutlery.
He watched her fill up the sack with sandwiches and pastries. It looked like they were cleaning out anything that was intended for sale that day and wouldn't be held over for tomorrow.
"What happened here?" he asked.
"Jenni said Simon upset the Meg and made her cry," Julia replied. "Then that Asia came into Howling Good Reads and yelled at Simon, and then Tess and Simon yelled at each other over what happened with the Meg. That's when they closed the stores. It's not safe when Simon and Tess yell at each other."
"Is Ms. Corbyn all right?"
Merri Lee nodded. "Just upset." She watched Julia zip up the sack and added, "You should go now."
Concern mixed with a warning. Whatever had happened today had happened before. The humans—and the Others—knew how to ride it out.
And hoped they lived through it?
Nothing he could do, so he accepted the carry sack and food with warm thanks, and slipped one of his cards to Merri Lee when she let him out of the shop.
"Lieutenant?" Kowalski asked when Monty got in the car.
"Pull into their parking lot. I'd like a few minutes to think while we have something to eat."
Once Kowalski parked the car, Monty handed out coffee and food.
Merri Lee, being human, might not say anything about him being in the shop, but Julia Hawkgard would report his presence to somebody. So he couldn't stop by and talk to Meg Corbyn and reassure himself that she was just upset, but there were other ways of checking on things that weren't officially his concern.
Telling himself to be satisfied with that, he enjoyed the unexpected meal.
Someone knocked loudly on the office's back door, then knocked again before Meg could reach it.
"Hi," the woman said when Meg opened the door. "I'm Merri Lee. Can I come in far enough so you don't lose all the heat?"
Still feeling raw about Simon's reaction to Asia—and feeling a touch defiant because this woman was holding up a pass that said she was allowed to be in this part of the Courtyard—Meg stepped aside.
"I brought your midday meal," Merri Lee said as she came in. "Things are churned up today, so... Wow." Her eyes widened as she looked around. "Is the other room any cleaner?"
"A little. Not much." Meg looked around too. "It is pretty dirty, isn't it?" She thought it was, but she hadn't been sure other humans would see it that way.
"Here." Merri Lee handed her the carry sack. "Look. No one but the Liaison and the terra indigene are supposed to be in this office, but I wouldn't want to work here until it's clean."
"There's a lot of mail that needs to be sorted," Meg said.
"And you have to do that," Merri Lee agreed. "But A Little Bite is closed today, so I could put in my work hours by helping you clean this room at least."
"If you're not allowed to be here, you'll get in trouble." There was a natural warmth to Merri Lee's friendliness, so Meg didn't want her to get hurt.
"Not if I get permission from a member of the Business Association." Merri Lee looked nervous. "Can't ask Simon or Tess, and I'd rather not ask Vlad or Nyx." Her face cleared. "But if Henry is working in his studio, I can ask him. Are there any cleaning supplies here?"
"Not that I found."
"Not even for the toilet?"
Meg shook her head.
"Oh, gods. Well, I'll pick up some supplies after I talk to Henry." She glanced at Meg's hands. "What did you do to your finger?"
"I was cutting up carrots for the ponies," Meg replied. "Got a little careless. It's not a deep slice."
Merri Lee nodded. "I'll get some cleaning gloves to protect your hands. The cleansers will sting if they get in that cut." She held out another carry sack. "That's my food. Could you stash it someplace until I get back?" Giving Meg a smile and wave, she darted out.
Meg put the carry sacks on the sorting table. It felt uncomfortable to lie to someone who was being kind. She hadn't known a lie could have a physical weight. But she wasn't going to tell anyone the truth about the cutting and the prophecies until she had no other choice.
Having decided that much, she unzipped the compartment that held her food. Before she could remove a sandwich, something small and brown ran across the floor and darted into the pile of packages that still needed sorting.
When Merri Lee returned a few minutes later with Henry Beargard and two females, Meg was kneeling on top of the sorting table, staring at that corner of the room.
Merri Lee stopped in the doorway and looked ready to run. Henry and the females stepped into the sorting room.
Meg pointed a shaking finger. "Something is hiding in that corner."
Henry moved silently to that corner and sniffed. "Mouse."
"Oh, gods," Merri Lee said.
"They're easier to catch if you leave food in the middle of the floor," the brown-haired woman said.
"Why would you do that?" Meg asked.
"Fresh snack," the black-haired woman replied brightly.
Merri Lee said, "Oh, gods" again before clamping a hand over her mouth. Meg just stared.
Henry studied Merri Lee, then Meg. "Humans don't like mice?"
"Not in the building!" Meg said.
"And not around food," Merri Lee added.
The three terra indigene looked baffled.
"But it's fresh meat," the brown-haired woman finally said.
"Humans don't eat mice," Merri Lee said. "Or rats. We just don't."
Silence.
Finally, Henry sighed—a big, gusty sound. "We will put aside other work today and make this place human-clean for the Liaison." He pointed at Merri Lee. "You will show us how this is done."
"I'll go to the Market Square and pick up the supplies we'll need to put some shine on these rooms," Merri Lee said.
The black-haired woman cawed. "You can make things shiny?"
"In a way."
So the Crow went with Merri Lee while Henry began excavating the mailbags and boxes piled in the corner of the sorting room.
The brown-haired woman was an Owl named Allison. She was quite pleased to catch two mice—and less pleased when Henry made her go outside to eat them.
When five people cleaned three rooms—and one of them was a man as strong as a bear—the work went quickly, even with Allison taking two more breaks to devour mouse snacks. Some of the packages in that corner had been nibbled; others were smashed. Meg noticed how many of them were addressed to people living in the Chambers, which made her wonder who the Sanguinati were that the previous Liaisons wouldn't deliver packages to them.
On the other hand, Jester had said the previous Liaisons hadn't been encouraged to make deliveries to anyone in the Courtyard. But something should have been done to get the packages to the people waiting for them.
She had made excuses for not eating while they were working—especially when there was still the possibility of finding another mouse. Since Merri Lee was also making excuses, despite a growling stomach, the Others accepted the strange behavior.
Finally, all the old packages were neatly stacked on one of the hand carts; the counters, tables, cupboards, and floors were washed; the wave-cooker and fridge were clean; and the bathroom didn't make her shudder when she used the toilet. Allison went back to the Owlgard Complex to report this peculiar aversion humans had to mice. Crystal Crowgard ran off to Sparkles and Junk with rags and the spray bottle of cleaner that would make all their display counters shiny.
Henry pointed at Meg. "The rooms are clean. Now you will eat." He pointed at Merri Lee. "You may sit with her in the back room and visit."
Meg looked at the clock on the sorting-room wall. "It's almost two o'clock. I need to take deliveries."
"You will eat," Henry said. "I will watch the counter until you are done."
Meg went to the back room and frowned at the small round table and two chairs. "Those weren't here this morning."
"No, they weren't," Merri Lee replied, pulling food out of the fridge. "But I mentioned to Henry that it would nicer if you had a place to eat when you didn't want to go out during your break, and he got these from somewhere." She looked around the room and nodded. "This is much better."
"Definitely better," Meg agreed. "Thank you."
They didn't talk much. Maybe they were both too hungry to focus on anything but food. Maybe they had learned enough about each other for the moment. Whatever the reason, Merri Lee left as soon as she had enough to eat.
Meg stored the rest of the food, then went out to the front room in time to greet the two deliverymen who had taken one look at Henry and were backing away.
When the men gave her the packages and drove off, Henry nodded as if he was pleased about something.
"I don't answer the telephone when I'm working with the wood," he said. "But if you need me, you tell the Crows and I'll come."
"Thank you for all the help today," Meg said.
He left, saying nothing more.
Meg went back to sorting mail for the remaining time in her workday, but she kept glancing at those old packages. She would do something about them tomorrow.
She was about to close up for the day when a patrol car pulled into the delivery area.
He found me, she thought, her heart jumping. The Controller has found me. That's why the police are here.
She hadn't seen these men before, but they seemed to know something about the Others because they both got out, removed their hats, and looked straight at the Crows before entering the office.
"Ma'am," one of them said when they reached the counter. "I'm Officer Michael Debany. This is my partner, Lawrence MacDonald. We work with Lieutenant Montgomery and just wanted to introduce ourselves and let you know we're available if you need any assistance."
As they chatted and Officer Debany mentioned again that they would provide help if it was needed, Meg realized the men were fishing for information about what happened this morning to close Howling Good Reads and A Little Bite, but mostly they were trying to find out if she had been hurt but was afraid to leave.
She wouldn't have gone with them even if she did need help, but it made her feel better that help was available for the other humans who worked for the terra indigene.
When the police officers left, she locked up the front room and continued sorting mail until Tess arrived to help her with clothes shopping and laundry. That turned out to be a more pleasant experience than she'd expected.
The only thing that marred the evening was when she looked out her apartment window before going to bed and spotted a man standing across the street, watching her. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 6 | Eight ponies showed up the following day, looking for mail and carrots. Meg filled their baskets, handed out treats, and breathed a sigh of relief that she had just enough carrot chunks to go around. She wasn't sure they could count and would know if the last pony only got one chunk instead of two, but it wasn't a chance she wanted to take.
She waved when they trotted away, then closed the door, washed her hands, and got back to sorting. Apparently, Watersday was a light day for deliveries from human businesses, but the number of trucks with the earth native symbol on the cab more than made up for it. They didn't stop at her office, though; they continued up the access way between the Liaison's Office and the consulate to the delivery area for the Market Square.
According to Merri Lee, the Lakeside Courtyard served as a way station for terra indigene who wanted to enjoy human goods without having to deal directly with humans. Meat, dairy, and produce came in to the Courtyard from the farms run by the Others; clothes, books, movies, and incidental products that appealed to them went out.
Meg looked at some of the old packages. The labels said IN CARE OF THE LAKESIDE COURTYARD. Should those be going out to terra indigene settlements with the other merchandise? She didn't want to bother Henry, who usually didn't answer the telephone anyway. And she certainly didn't want to call the big, bad Wolf . But she had to ask someone, so she called the bookstore and listened to the phone ring.
"Maybe he got run over by a tree," she muttered as she imagined a log rolling down a hill and flattening a certain Wolf. It happened in some of the videos she had watched, so it could happen. Couldn't it? The thought cheered her up, so she pictured it again, changing the log to a rolling pin that rolled out the Wolf like a furry piecrust.
"Howling Good Reads," said a male voice that wasn't his.
It took her a moment to realign her thoughts. "This is Meg Corbyn."
"Do you want to talk to Simon?"
"No."
"Oh."
She tried to think of a question that anyone at the store could answer so she could hang up before someone told him that she had called. Then she looked at the packages.
Rememory. A woman locked in a box—a surprise to be delivered as a special gift. Except no one had known what was in the box, and no one had recognized the urgency of finding it when the box hadn't been delivered as promised.
The girls might not remember a prophecy at the time they spoke the words, but the images weren't lost. They were absorbed like the training images, connecting something remembered with something present. Jean called those images rememories because they were more than training images but less than personal memories.
There wasn't a woman in any of the packages that had been left in the sorting room, and a life wasn't lost in any of those small boxes. But each of those packages was stained by disappointment.
"Could someone tell me if any of the packages I have at the office should be going out on the earth native trucks with the other deliveries?"
A pause. "Someone who isn't Simon?" the voice asked cautiously.
"Yes."
Voices were muffled by a hand over the receiver, but Meg could still hear the emotion in those voices and wondered how much of a problem she was causing for whoever was working at HGR today.
The silence that followed was so full she thought she'd been disconnected. Then the voice came back and said, "Vlad will come over and look."
"Thank you."
She hung up and went back to sorting. She wasn't sure Vlad would be any better than him, but at least Vlad hadn't yelled at her. Yet.
Vlad leaned against the office doorway and gave Simon a smile that made the Wolf's canines lengthen and his fingernails change into hard claws.
"I'm going to the Liaison's Office," Vlad said pleasantly.
"Why?" Simon snarled.
"Because it seems Meg is good at holding a grudge and doesn't want to talk to you. And you must feel she has a reason for that grudge. You wouldn't have spent all morning doing paperwork you don't like if you didn't have to make up for something."
"I don't have to make up for anything!"
"You stirred things up plenty yesterday."
"She stirred things up."
"You can tell the story any way you like," Vlad said, pushing off from the doorway. "That's not going to change what is."
"Bite me."
"You're too sour today. I'd rather..."
Simon shot to his feet.
Vlad stared at Simon, then held up his hands. "I'm going over there at her request to answer her questions—nothing more. You have my word on that, Wolfgard."
It was foolish to fight with a friend when he knew Vlad was pulling his tail because of his behavior yesterday, and it was worse than foolish to fight with one of the Sanguinati. But it took more effort than it should have to accept Vlad's word.
Forcing himself to shift all the way back to human, Simon sat down and picked up a pen as if everything was settled. "If you have to sample someone, do us all a favor and bite Asia Crane."
Vlad laughed. "Now you're just being mean."
Based on the pictures she had studied as part of her identification training, Vlad would have been labeled the tall, dark stranger, the dangerous thrill.
He scared her. His movements were more sinuous than the other earth natives she'd seen. They practically shouted they were predators. With Vlad, she didn't think humans realized the danger until it was too late.
And yet he was courteous and didn't crowd her while he checked the labels on the boxes she had set aside, and agreed that they should go on the trucks delivering supplies to other terra indigene.
He called Jester and asked for a pony and sled to transport the packages, explaining while they waited that the drivers would know better which packages should go in which truck.
Jester arrived with a pony named Twister, and he and Vlad loaded the packages into the small sled. Then Twister pulled the sled to the area where the trucks were parked.
"If there is nothing else, I must get back to the store," Vlad said with a smile. "Simon is doing paperwork today, so it's better for the customers if someone else deals with them." As he walked away, he added, "But I expect the Wolfgard will be ready for a break and some fresh air around lunchtime."
Which meant the Wolf might poke his nose around the office and find something else she had done wrong—at least according to the whims of Simon Wolfgard.
"What are you going to do with these packages?" Jester asked, looking at the ones still on the handcart. "Do you want me to send Twister back for them?"
"No," Meg said quickly. "I thought I would take out the BOW and deliver these in person. You did say I could do that as part of my duties."
"Yes, I did." The laughter in his eyes told her plainly enough he knew why she didn't want to be around during the lunch break. "Have you unhooked the BOW from its energy cord yet?"
She shook her head. That was just one of the things she hadn't tried to do yet.
"Then I'll do that and bring it around for you this time."
"Would it be all right if I take the map with me until I learn my way around?"
No laughter now. "It's not something you want to misplace."
Or give to anyone else. "I'll be careful with it."
A different kind of laughter filled his eyes now. Sharp, almost predatory. "Why don't I get another copy for you at the Three Ps? It's just across the way. Lorne is a human, but he's dependable despite that." Jester's smile told Meg plainly enough that not all humans who had worked for the Others had been dependable. "Three Ps stands for Postage, Printing, and Paper. Lorne sells different kinds of stationery, as well as the stamps needed to mail things outside the Courtyard. And he prints the Courtyard's weekly newsletter."
"You have a newsletter?" Surprise made her blurt out the words.
"Of course we have a newsletter. How else would we know which movies are being shown at the social room in each residential complex? How else would everyone know about the new books that arrived and are available in our library?" Jester pressed one hand to his chest. "How else would we learn from Ms. Know-It-All's column, 'Others Etiquette'?"
"An advice column?" Meg stared at him. "You're kidding."
"We don't kid about Ms. Know-It-All," he replied. Then he snatched up the map and left.
Meg stood where she was, trying to sort out the words and the change in Jester's attitude when she asked if she could take the map. He'd brought her the map in the first place and warned her to be careful. Now he was telling her where to make copies and that she could buy stamps to mail letters to people outside the Courtyard. Was he trying to get her into trouble?
A test, she thought. Maybe lots of other people had seen the map. Maybe it wasn't as big a secret as she had been led to believe. Maybe this was a way for the Others to decide if they could trust a human. And maybe any human who fails this test is never seen again. I'm going to die in this Courtyard. I know that. Is it because of the map or because I fail some other kind of test?
A couple minutes later, she heard the beep beep of the BOW's horn. Pushing aside all thoughts of tests, she put her coat on, opened the sorting room's delivery door, and began loading the back of the vehicle.
The BOW really was a box on wheels. It had two seats in the front. The rest of it—what there was of it—was a cargo area.
Plenty of room for a Wolf in the back, Jester told her after he dropped the copy of the map on the passenger's seat and returned the original to the sorting room. Like she wanted a Wolf breathing down her neck while she was driving—or doing anything else.
Did they all think if they kept mentioning Simon she would forget how scary he had been yesterday? Maybe fear wasn't something the Others retained, but humans certainly did.
Even humans like her.
It was a little before noon when she locked up the office and got in the BOW, making sure she had her pass in the side pocket of her new purse, where it would be easy to reach.
When Jester tapped on the window, she rolled it down.
"You all set?" he asked.
"All set." She hoped she sounded confident. She really wanted him to go away before she put the BOW in gear.
"I'll tell Tess you'll be by later for your meal."
She wondered what else he was going to tell Tess, but she smiled and said, "Thanks."
The laughter was back in his eyes when she made no move to shift the gear to drive. Then he walked away.
Recalling training images of car interiors, she found the lights and the windshield wipers. She found the dial that controlled the heater. Shakily confident that she would be fine—as long as she didn't have to do anything but go forward—she headed out to make her first deliveries.
After a couple of minutes of white-knuckle driving on a road that had been plowed, more or less, Meg began wondering if the pony and sled wouldn't have been a better idea. The pony wouldn't be inclined to slide off the road. Not that the BOW wasn't a game little vehicle. It growled its way up an incline, struggling to find the traction it needed to get to the next piece of level ground.
From what she could tell from the map, she was on the main road that circled the entire Courtyard, so it should be sufficiently cleared all the way around. As long as she didn't stray off it, she should be fine. Besides, the thought of going back and running into Simon was reason enough to keep going forward. That and not knowing how to drive backward.
It wasn't her fault she'd never driven in snow—or in anything else. A sterile, restricted life meant the girls had no other stimulation except the images, sounds, and other visuals in the lessons, and what was used as reference for the prophecies could be verified because it was assumed all of the girls saw and heard the same thing. And it had been proven by the Walking Names that that kind of life made the girls more accepting of any kind of actual stimulation because they were starved for sensation.
Would the cutting be as compelling if there were other ways to feel pleasure, other sensations?
But that sterile life was her past. Now she was gaining the experience of driving in snow, and as long as she didn't run into another vehicle or end up in a ditch, the Wolf had no reason to criticize.
The road forked. The left fork curved toward the Owlgard Complex and the Pony Barn. The right fork was the main road and had a sign that read, TRESPASSERS WILL BE EATEN.
Meg swallowed hard and continued on the main road, passing the Green Complex. Then she passed the Ash Grove and the Utilities Complex. Finally she reached the ornate black fences that marked the Chambers, the part of the Courtyard claimed by the Sanguinati.
She tried to pull up some memory about that name, was sure she knew something about them even though the girls had been taught very little about the Others. But Jester's warning when she was packing up the BOW was clear enough.
The fences around the Chambers aren't decorative, Meg. They're boundaries. You never push open a gate and step onto the Sanguinati's land for any reason. Anyone who enters without their consent doesn't leave—and I've never known them to give their consent.
What unnerved her about the words was the certainty that they applied to the rest of the terra indigene as well as humans.
But she didn't have to break the rules to deliver the packages. When she pulled up to the first white marble building positioned in the center of its fenced-in land, she saw nine metal boxes outside the fence, painted black and secured to a stone foundation. They didn't have individual numbers, so they must be used by everyone who lived in the... Was that a mausoleum? It seemed small if the handful of names with this particular address actually lived inside.
She opened the door of the first box. Roomy enough for magazines and other mail of similar size. Another box was wider and the packages she had fit well enough. She put packages in three more boxes, then got back into the BOW and went on to the next building.
Four packages for the residents of this part of the Chambers. This time, as she closed the door of the last box, she noticed the soot around the mausoleum. Or was that smoke? Was something on fire inside?
She leaned into the BOW and fumbled for the mobile phone Tess had arranged for her to have. She had dutifully put in the contact numbers for Simon, Tess, and the consulate. But whom should she call to report a fire? How did the Courtyard handle emergencies?
Then the smoke drifted away from the structure with a deliberate change of direction—toward her.
She stopped fumbling for the phone, got into the BOW, and headed for the next fenced area.
This mausoleum didn't look any different from the other two, except there was a smaller one built close to the fence separating the two structures. The walkway from the gate to the elaborately carved wooden door was clear of snow, as was the marble stoop.
Smoke drifted close to the fences.
Jester didn't say she wouldn't be harmed if she was on this side of the fence. He just said being harmed was a certainty if she went inside the fenced area.
Maybe they would appreciate someone finally delivering their packages?
Tucking her pass inside the coat pocket, she got out of the BOW, raised the back door, pulled out the packages, and filled several of the boxes.
Then she pulled out a package for Mr. Erebus Sanguinati. It was one of the packages shoved farthest back in that corner of the sorting room, so it had been there for weeks, maybe even months.
It wasn't a heavy package, but it was square rather than a rectangle, making it too high to fit into the metal boxes. She chewed on her lower lip, wondering what she should do.
"Something wrong?"
She stumbled back a step. She hadn't seen anyone approach, hadn't heard anyone, but a beautiful woman with dark eyes and black hair that flowed to the waist of her black velvet gown now stood near the fence that separated the two mausoleums.
"I have a package for Mr. Erebus Sanguinati, but it won't fit into the boxes."
"You're the new Liaison?"
"Yes. I'm Meg Corbyn."
The woman didn't offer her name. Instead, she looked toward the larger mausoleum—whose door was now open just enough for someone to peek out.
"You could leave a form saying there is a package being held at the Liaison's Office," the woman said.
"It's been at the office for a while," Meg replied. "That's why I thought I should deliver it in person."
The woman's smile was more lethal than encouraging. "You could leave it in the snow. The previous Liaisons would have—if they had been brave enough to come at all."
Meg shook her head. "Whatever is inside might get damaged if it got wet."
A sound like dry leaves skittering over a sidewalk came from the larger mausoleum.
The woman looked startled, then studied Meg with unnerving interest. "Grandfather Erebus says you may enter the Chambers and set the package before the door. Stay on the walkway, and you will come to no harm."
"I was told I wasn't allowed to enter the Chambers," Meg said.
The woman's smile sharpened. "Even the Wolfgard accommodates the Grandfather."
Which meant Mr. Erebus was a very important person in the Courtyard.
Smoke flowed swiftly over the snow, gathering to one side of the gate. Part of it condensed, becoming an arm and a hand that pulled open the gate before changing back to smoke that moved away.
Something about smoke and the name Sanguinati that she needed to remember.
Pushing open the gate a little more, Meg walked up to the mausoleum. A hand curled around the edge of the door—an old hand with knobby joints, big veins, and yellowed, horny fingernails. A dark eye in a lined face peered out at her.
Not quite looking him in the eye, in case that was offensive to him, Meg carefully set the package down on the dry marble stoop.
"I'm sorry it took so long for you to receive your package, Mr. Erebus. I'll watch for them from now on and get them to you as soon as I can."
"Sweet child," he whispered in that dry-leaves voice. "So considerate of an old man."
"I hope nothing spoiled," Meg said, stepping back. "Good day, sir." She turned and walked back to the BOW, aware of all the smoke gathering just inside the fences. The gate closed behind her. The woman continued to watch her as she got into the BOW and drove off.
She had another set of packages for another address in the Chambers, but she was feeling shaky and wanted to get away from that part of the Courtyard. She continued driving until she passed the last of those ornate black fences and was heading for the Hawkgard Complex.
Then she remembered. Smoke. Sanguinati.
She hit the brakes and almost slid into a snowbank. She managed to put the BOW in park and crank up the heater before she started shaking.
Vampire. In one of their hurried, forbidden conversations, Jean had told her vampire was the street name for the Sanguinati. Smoke was another form they could take when they were hunting.
And when they are killing?
Now she understood why it was so dangerous to set foot on their land—and why no one who did left the Sanguinati's piece of the Courtyard.
But an old, powerful vampire had given permission for her to enter the Chambers and deliver a package.
"Oh, I feel woozy." She leaned back and closed her eyes. A moment later, she opened them, too uneasy about not being able to see what might be approaching.
How many of them had been out there, watching her?
That didn't make her feel any less woozy, so she put the BOW in gear and trundled the rest of the way to the Hawkgard Complex, which consisted of three U-shape buildings, two stories tall, that were separated by driveways that led to garages and a parking area.
Every apartment had a patio or balcony with its own entrance. What she didn't see were mailboxes or the nest of large boxes for packages. Which meant there had to be a room somewhere for those things.
Pulling up in front of the middle building, Meg got out of the BOW.
"What do you want?"
She squeaked and grabbed for the door handle before she regained control enough to look over her shoulder. The brown-haired, brown-eyed man who stared at her didn't look the least bit friendly.
"Hello," she said, trying out a smile. "I'm Meg, the new Liaison. I have some packages for the Hawkgard Complex, but I don't know where I should leave them. Can you help me?"
He didn't answer for so long, she didn't know what to do. Finally, he pointed to the center room on the ground floor. "There."
"Does each building have a mail room?" she asked, wondering how she could figure out what package went to which building.
He huffed. She could have sworn his hair rose like feathers being fluffed in annoyance.
"There." He went to the back of the BOW and opened the door. He sniffed, then began rummaging happily through her ordered stacks.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Mouse," he replied, picking up each package and sniffing it.
"There aren't any mice in the packages." At least, she hoped there weren't. "But there were mice around where the packages were stored."
He stopped rummaging, apparently losing all interest. But he did help her carry the packages to the mail room. Judging by the cubbyholes built into one wall and the large table at a right angle to them, this was where all the mail for the Hawkgard Complex was delivered. The cubbyholes had numbers but no names, and most of the packages were addressed as Hawkgard with a number.
Come to think of it, a lot of the mail she had sorted for all the complexes was the same way. The gard and maybe an initial was the most identification shown. Hard to know how many of each race was living in a Courtyard if only a few, like Erebus Sanguinati and Simon Wolfgard, provided a full name.
Were they that uncaring about such things or that cautious about how much humans knew about them?
What did that say about Erebus that he used his full name? Was it a way of indicating his lack of concern about who knew he was residing at the Lakeside Courtyard or was it a warning?
She thanked the Hawk for his help, and had the impression he had to dig into his knowledge of humans for the "You are welcome" reply.
When she reached the bridge that spanned Courtyard Creek, she pulled over and studied the map. If she kept going straight, she would be at the Wolfgard area of the Courtyard, and she didn't want to go there and take the chance of running into him. Besides, she needed to head back to the office. But she had time to look at one place that made her curious. So she drove over the bridge and turned left on the road that ran along the small lake.
When she spotted the girl skating on the lake, she stopped the BOW and got out. The air was so clean and cold it hurt to breathe it in, and yet the girl, wearing a white, calf-length dress with short sleeves, didn't seem to notice.
Meg made her way to the edge of the ice and waited. The girl looked at her, circled away, then skated over to where she stood.
A girl in shape, but not human. The face, especially the eyes, passed for human only from a distance.
"I'm Meg," she said quietly, not sure why she thought this girl was more of a threat than the Sanguinati.
"You stopped," the girl said. "Why?"
"I wanted to introduce myself." She hesitated. "Are you alone here? Where are your parents?"
The girl laughed. "The Mother is everywhere. The Father doesn't spurt his seed in this season." She laughed again. "You don't like the spurting? Never mind. My sisters and cousins are with me, and that is enough. Our homes are over there." She pointed to a cluster of small buildings that were made of stone and wood.
"I'm glad you're not alone."
An odd look. "That matters to you?"
"I know how it feels to be alone." She shook her head, determined to shake off the memories of being isolated in a cell—or watching a movie clip in a room full of girls and feeling even more alone. "Anyway, I'm planning to make regular deliveries from now on, so I wondered if there was anything you wanted from the Market Square. It's a long walk for you and your sisters. I could give one or two of you a ride up to the shops."
"Kindness. How unexpected," the girl murmured. "There is a Courtyard bus that comes through twice a day that any terra indigene can take up to the shops, and the ponies are always willing to give me a ride. But..."
"But...?"
The girl shrugged. "I put in a request for some books from our library. They weren't dropped off."
"Wait a moment." Meg went back to the BOW, retrieved the notepad and pen from her purse, and retraced her steps back to the lake. She held them out. "If you write down the titles, I'll go to the library after work and see if any of them are available."
The girl took the pad and pen, wrote several titles, then handed the pad and pen back to Meg.
"If your sisters are out when I return, whom should I ask for?"
Another odd look that was frightening because there was amusement in it.
"My sisters mostly sleep in this season, so only my cousins might be around," the girl replied. Then she added, "I am Winter."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Winter," Meg said. Her teeth began to chatter.
Winter laughed. "Yes. But you've had enough pleasure, I think."
"I guess so. I'll look for those books." She hurried back to the BOW, but once inside with the heater doing its best to thaw her out, she waved to the girl.
The girl waved back, then turned to stare at the Crows and Hawks gathered in trees on the other side of the lake. They all took off in a flurry of wings, as if they were nervous about drawing the girl's attention.
But Meg noticed at least some of them followed her all the way back to the office.
She and the BOW crawled into the garage, one turn of the wheels at a time. The opening was almost twice as wide as the vehicle, but Meg's nerves still danced until she got the BOW inside and turned off.
Her nerves did more than dance when she got out of the BOW and saw the man standing there. Dressed in a mechanic's blue jumpsuit, his only concession to the biting cold was a thin turtleneck sweater under the jumpsuit. He had brown hair, the amber eyes of a Wolf, and an annoyed expression that said plainly enough she had already messed with his day and he didn't like it.
"I'm Meg, the new Liaison," she said.
"The Wolfgard says I'm to take care of charging up the BOW for you this time."
"Oh." She looked at the cord and buttons on the garage's back wall. "I suppose I should learn how to do that."
"The Wolfgard said I'm to take care of it. You're supposed to get food and open the office before the deliveries start arriving. The fools won't get out of their trucks if they see a Wolf instead of you, and I'm waiting for parts." He ran a possessive hand over the BOW's hood. "Wouldn't have been up this close to the monkeys if I wasn't waiting for parts that are supposed to come today."
"Then I'd better get my lunch and open up the office," Meg said brightly as she edged away from him. This one seemed wilder than Simon in a way she couldn't explain, and she wasn't sure "think before you bite" was a concept he understood. "Thank you for taking care of the BOW."
"Just because he slams your tail in the door, the rest of us have to be polite," he grumbled. Then he sniffed the air, sniffed again as his head turned in her direction. "What did you roll in to make your fur smell that stinky?"
Irritation wiped out caution. Were they all obsessed with smell? "I didn't roll in anything. And my hair stinks less than it did."
"So does a skunk."
Since that seemed to be his final opinion, she marched over to the back door of A Little Bite.
Tess took one look at her face and grinned. "I see you've met Blair."
"Maybe," Meg muttered. "Does he like any humans?"
"Sure," Tess replied cheerfully. "Although he's pretty opinionated about the lack of lean meat on most of them."
"I don't think I want lunch."
"Yes, you do. Vegetable soup and a turkey sandwich. I'll pack it up for you."
Meg followed Tess back to the counter. "So, who is he?"
"Third Wolf, after Simon and Elliot. Those two deal with humans and the world outside the Courtyard. Blair takes care of the inside of the Courtyard. He keeps track of the game on our land, leads the hunt when the butcher puts in a request for venison, and is the primary enforcer. He's also the one here at Lakeside who is most intrigued by mechanical things and energy sources, so he oversees the terra indigene who care for the windmills and solar panels we use to power most of the buildings outside the business district." Tess smiled as she handed Meg the carry sack. "Keeps him busy and limits his contact with humans—which is the way he and Simon like it."
"He's waiting for a package. If it arrives, whom should I call?" Meg asked. Tess looked at her until she sighed. "I should call Simon."
The BOW's garage door was closed by the time she reached the back door of the office, and she didn't spot a Wolf lurking nearby. But when she unlocked the front door, she did see three trucks idling while the drivers waited for her—and she saw the black sedan stuck behind them, unable to enter until at least one truck departed.
It looked like the kind of car she imagined a consul would drive—or would he have a driver?—so she signed for packages as quickly as possible, making hasty notes so that she wouldn't be the one causing a delay. It seemed the delivery people shared that feeling. Within a couple of minutes, they were gone and the sedan pulled up in front of the consulate door.
The man who got out had a slim build and receding hair. He stared in her direction, then went inside.
"If that's Elliot Wolfgard, I guess I won't be getting any gold stars from him," she muttered.
She could live without gold stars. Today she would be happy if she got through the rest of the day without being eaten.
She put the turkey sandwich and soup in the fridge, too unsettled to consider food. After a peaceful hour of sorting mail and packages, she called Howling Good Reads and left the message that there were a couple of items for B. Wolfgard, as well as other packages simply addressed to the Utility Complex, and was informed that Blair would pick up all of them after the office closed.
Maybe there was an advantage to having stinky hair if it encouraged the Wolves to keep their distance.
Cheered by that thought, she warmed up the turkey sandwich and enjoyed a late lunch.
Looking out the back window of HGR's office, Simon watched Blair come out of the Liaison's Office with a package and load it into the BOW assigned to the Utility Complex. The Wolf had waited only long enough to be sure Meg had left for the day before going in to retrieve the bits and pieces for whatever he was currently tinkering with.
She had headed for the Market Square, which meant she would be coming back this way when she went to her apartment. Better for both of them if they didn't see each other. Better for him, anyway. Henry would smack him if an encounter with him upset Meg today—and getting smacked by a Grizzly wasn't fun, even for a Wolf.
He put on his coat and stopped at the counter long enough to tell Heather, one of his human employees, that she was supposed to inform Vlad if Asia Crane entered the store. Then he went out the back door and walked over to the Liaison's Office.
"You got your parts?" Simon asked when Blair came out with another package that he tucked in the BOW.
Blair nodded as he closed the vehicle's back door. Then he locked the door of the Liaison's Office. "You need a ride?"
He didn't need a ride, but maybe he could coax Sam to spend a little more time outside if he got home while it was still light. And if Blair was unhappy with Meg for some reason, it was better to know before blood was spilled. "Thanks."
Neither spoke until they were headed for the Green Complex. Then Blair said casually, "The Liaison. Think we could wash her in the same solution we use for youngsters who get skunked?"
Simon barked out a laugh. Then he considered the appeal of doing just that—and the consequences—and reluctantly shook his head.
Blair sighed. "Didn't think so." A pause. "Elliot might want to have words with you. The delivery trucks backed up for a couple of minutes while the drivers waited for her to return, and his shiny black car couldn't get around them."
"He doesn't care about the shiny black car."
"No, but he does care about maintaining status in a way the monkeys understand, and I don't think having to wait for your human to open the door for afternoon deliveries is going to encourage him to tolerate her."
"She's doing her job."
"And causing trouble."
Simon growled—and noticed the way the other Wolf's lips twitched in amusement.
Blair didn't say another thing until he pulled up at the Green Complex. Then he looked straight ahead. "It's still deer season, so there will be some bow hunters in the park for a couple more weeks."
"So?" Simon opened the passenger's door and got out.
"If she doesn't wear a hat, the Liaison won't need the orange vest hunters use to keep from shooting each other."
Simon closed the BOW's door a little harder than necessary, but he still heard Blair laughing as the Wolf drove away.
Fishing out his keys, Simon walked to his apartment. The Green Complex apartments were a mix of sizes that shared common walls and accommodated the different species of terra indigene who chose to live there. Some were more like two-story town houses, while smaller apartments were contained on a single floor. Like the other residential complexes, the Green was U-shaped, with the connecting section containing the mail room, laundry area, and a social room on the second floor where movies were played on the big-screen television and a couple of tables provided an area to play board games the Others had converted from the human versions of those games.
The moment his key slid into the front door lock, he heard the squeaky-door sound that was Sam's howl.
His big living room had a carpet and a sofa, a couple of lamps, a television and movie disc player, a low table with storage baskets, and the cage where Sam lived.
Sam was all wagging tail and happy-puppy greeting—until Simon opened the cage door. Then the youngster huddled in the back of the cage, whimpering.
Simon held out his hand. "Come on, Sam. It's still light outside. We'll be safe. Come outside for a pee and a poop."
When the pup continued to shake and whimper, Simon reached in and hauled him out, ignoring Sam's attempts to bite him and escape. They did this several times a day—had been doing it since Daphne was killed and Simon became Sam's guardian. Sam was terrified of outside because outside was where his mother had died right in front of him.
Sam had stopped growing that night, hadn't continued his development the way pups should. They had no way of knowing what had happened to his human form because he hadn't shifted in two years.
Simon couldn't imagine being stuck in one skin his whole life, unable to shift. And he didn't want to imagine what it felt like to be so afraid that he could no longer make that choice.
He took the struggling pup outside and firmly closed the apartment door.
"A pee and a poop," he said, walking over to a potted tree that was part of a central garden area. He put Sam down and placed himself between the pup and the apartment. They weren't going in until Sam obeyed, but it broke his heart a little more every time they did this, and the fangs of his hatred for the men responsible grew a little longer.
Someday, he promised himself as Sam took care of business.
Sam was trembling and on the verge of panic from being outside for so long when the shiny black sedan pulled up in front of the complex. The back door opened and Elliot Wolfgard stepped out. Like Daphne and Sam, Elliot had gray eyes instead of amber, but it was a cold gray that suited the stern expression that was usually worn on the human face.
Now the stern expression shifted into a warm smile as Elliot came forward with open arms. "Hello, Sam." He crouched in the snow to rub the pup's ears and ruffle his fur. "How's our boy?" He looked up at Simon when he asked the question.
Simon shrugged to say same as always.
Elliot's smile dimmed as he rose. "You should tell the Liaison to wear a watch if she can't get back to work on time without one."
"Actually, she was making deliveries in the Courtyard, not dawdling for her own amusement," Simon replied with just enough tooth to remind Elliot who was dominant.
"I stand corrected," Elliot said after a moment. "I should have known that she was attending to her duties. The Crows are such gossips and find her entertaining, if the number of them gathering to watch the office is any indication. I prefer not to deal with them, but my staff would have heard if we had cause to complain about her."
"She doesn't like mice for snacks. That makes her peculiar—at least according to the Owls."
"All right, Simon, you made your point," Elliot said. "If we finally have a Liaison who will do the work we pay for, I'll try to show more tolerance."
"Appreciate it."
"Has Blair met her yet?"
Simon nodded. "And didn't bite her."
"That's something. I'll be out tonight for a dinner—a guest of the mayor. I'll have my mobile phone if you need me."
"Enjoy your evening."
"That will depend on the menu. If it's beef, it will be a tolerable meal. If it's chicken..." Elliot shuddered. "What is the point of chicken?"
"Eggs?"
Elliot waved a hand dismissively. "I'll see you tomorrow."
As soon as Elliot drove away, Sam began pawing at Simon's leg, trying to jump into his arms.
"You need to work your legs," Simon told the pup, making him walk back to the apartment. But he picked up Sam before opening the door, grabbed a towel from the basket in the entryway, and dried off feet and fur.
As soon as he was free, Sam raced to the safety of his cage.
Determined not to let his disappointment show, Simon went into the kitchen, hung up the towel on a peg near the back door, and made dinner for himself and Sam. Then he turned on one of the movies Sam used to love watching, settled in the living room with food and a book, and gave his nephew as much comfort and company as the pup would accept.
Meg opened the journal she had found at the General Store. She labeled the first page Books, skipped a page, then labeled the next one Music. She skipped another page, put the date at the top of the page, and stopped.
What was she supposed to write? Dear Diary, I didn't get eaten today. That was true, but it didn't really say much. Or maybe it said everything that needed to be said.
She still wasn't sure if humans didn't stay long in jobs at the Courtyard because they quit or because they didn't survive dealing with the Others. Except for Lorne, who ran the Three Ps, and Elizabeth Bennefeld, the therapist who was available at the Good Hands Massage Parlor a couple afternoons each week, Merri Lee was the longest-employed human in the Courtyard, and she had been working at A Little Bite for just over a year. Sure, employees were considered not edible, but that didn't mean anything if the person did something the Others considered a betrayal.
What would the Others consider a betrayal? Certainly a physical act against them would count, but what about a lie that didn't have anything to do with them? Would that be seen as betrayal?
In the end, afraid that privacy was still an illusion, she avoided mentioning names or what parts of the Courtyard she had visited while making deliveries, but she did mention attending the Quiet Mind exercise class, which was held on the second floor of Run & Thump, and visiting the Courtyard library.
She had found three of the books Winter had requested and two for herself before running into Merri Lee, who had talked her into trying the Quiet Mind class, then went with her to a couple of stores to select an exercise mat and workout clothes.
She was making friends, developing a routine that could become a satisfying life for however long it lasted. If she just remembered to stop at the grocery store to pick up food for the evening meals, she would be all set. As it was, she scrounged what was left of the food Tess had brought, too tired to go back out once she staggered up to her apartment.
Now, muscles loosened from a hot shower and adequately fed, she tucked herself into bed with one of the books, content to read while cars rolled by and people's voices carried in the still air as they headed home.
She heard Wolves howling, but she wasn't sure how close they were to this part of the Courtyard. How far did the sound travel? The library had computers that could access information through the telephone lines. Maybe she could find information about the animal wolf that would help her understand the terra indigene Wolf.
She tensed when she heard a heavy footfall near her door, but she let out a sigh of relief when that was followed by the rattle of keys in the door across from hers. She had passed Henry in the Market Square that afternoon, and he had mentioned that he would be staying in one of the other efficiency apartments tonight because he wanted to remain close to his studio.
Picking up her journal, she made a note to herself to look up sculpture and totems when she had a chance to use the computer at the library.
Henry's door opened and closed. Cars crunched by. Meg got up to make a cup of chamomile tea, then went back to bed and kept reading, slightly scandalized by the story—and more scandalized by the fact that no one had stopped her from taking out the book.
Then there were no sounds of cars, no people heading home.
Meg looked at the clock and reluctantly closed the book. She got up long enough to put her mug in the sink and go to the bathroom. Tomorrow was a rest day, and the Liaison's Office and most of the Courtyard stores were closed. Hopefully that didn't include the grocery store. Apples for the ponies on Moonsday? She would need to cut them just before the ponies arrived. Otherwise the chunks would turn brown from the air. She knew that from training images. The girls had spent an entire week one year looking at captioned pictures of different kinds of fruit, from fresh to rotted. In a prophecy, seeing fruit that had been rotting for a specific number of days could indicate the time a person had been missing... or dead.
Meg let out a gusty sigh. Maybe her kind always saw the world as images that could be recalled to create a whole picture for someone else. Or maybe it was the way she had been trained to think and learn. Jean hadn't used the standard images all the time, but she had been unusual, difficult. Different.
You'll have a chance to escape this life, Meg. You'll have a chance to be someone for yourself. When the chance comes, take it and run—and don't come back. Don't ever let them bring you back here.
What about you?
The Walking Names made sure I can't run, but I'll be free someday. I saw that too.
The prickling under Meg's skin started in her feet and ran up both legs. She stifled a cry, not wanting Henry to hear her and come pounding on the door, demanding an explanation.
She walked toward the bathroom, hoping to find something in the medicine chest that would ease the feeling.
She knew what would make the prickling go away, but it was too soon to cut again. Besides, she also knew how much it hurt to hold in a prophecy, and speaking without a listener would relieve the pressure but it wouldn't do her any good otherwise.
As she tried to talk herself out of making another cut, the prickling faded on its own.
Meg splashed some water on her face, then returned to the living area of her apartment, determined to focus on the present and not the past because, most likely, her present could be measured in days or weeks.
The Moonsday treat. How many apples for how many ponies? She'd better bring extra in case more ponies showed up. How many lived in the Courtyard anyway? She'd have to ask Jester, since he was the one who looked after them.
Her mind on ponies and apples and what she might do on her day off, Meg pulled aside the drape and looked down at the street—and forgot all about sleeping.
The man was there again. She couldn't make out his features, but he was wearing the same dark coat and watch cap as the man she'd seen the other night. She was sure of it.
As she watched, he crossed Crowfield Avenue, heading straight for the glass door that provided street access to the apartments. But that door was locked. She was still safe because that door was locked.
Training image. Hands manipulating slim metal instruments to open a lock.
A locked door wouldn't keep her safe. Panic held her frozen at the window. Then the prickling returned in her legs as she heard a sound she couldn't identify. Her hands and arms began to tingle as she remembered the last time she and Jean had spoken.
Don't ever let them bring you back here.
Meg bolted across the room, certain now that the man had been sent by the Controller.
Couldn't get out. Locked in, just like before when she lived in the compound! No, not like before. Now she had the keys. The dead bolt just needed a key.
She scrambled for the keys in her purse, panting as her shaking hands tried to fit the key in the lock.
Was the man coming up the stairs? Creeping down the hallway? If she opened the door, would he be right there, waiting to grab her?
The tingling in her hands became a buzz that was so painful she dropped the keys. Unable to escape, she pounded on the door and screamed, "Henry! Henry!" Could he hear her? Please, gods, let him hear me!
She felt as well as heard the roar that filled the hallway, followed by a startled cry and the clatter of boots.
Racing to the window, Meg saw the man running across the street, angling for the corner and disappearing from sight. Retracing her steps, she picked up the keys with shaking hands and finally managed to open the door.
Henry stood at the end of the hallway, looking down the stairs. She couldn't see his expression—the lights from his apartment and hers didn't reach that far, and he hadn't turned on the hallway light—but she had the impression he was very angry.
"Henry?" she said hesitantly. "Should I call someone?"
"Who would you call?" he asked, sounding more curious than angry.
"I don't know. The police? Or someone in the Courtyard?"
He walked back to her door and studied her. Then he shook his head. "No need to call anyone. I'll take a look around now and talk to Simon in the morning. Keep your door locked, Meg, and you'll be all right."
No, she wouldn't be all right. She couldn't explain that to Henry, so she closed the door and turned the key in the lock. Then she pressed her ear against the door, listening as she counted slowly.
She reached one hundred before Henry walked back down the hallway to the stairs. As soon as she was sure he wouldn't hear her, she moved with controlled desperation, changing into jeans and a sweater, packing up a small bag of toiletries, tucking her book, a jar candle, and box of matches into one of the zippered carry bags. She rolled her pillow into the spare blanket from the chest at the end of her bed. Then she put her coat and boots on and held her breath while she turned the key, listening as hard as she could for Henry's footsteps.
She slipped out of her apartment and locked up, then fled to the back entrance and down the stairs. She hurried to the Liaison's Office, fumbled to get the door open, and let out a sob of relief when she was inside.
Just as exposed here as in her apartment. Just as alone, since the shops and the consulate wouldn't be open tomorrow. But no one knew she was here. The low light in the front part of the office was always on and wouldn't attract attention. Light from the candle would be visible only from the window in the sorting room, and that window looked out on the yard and sculpture garden behind Henry's studio.
She would be safe here tonight—or as safe as she could be.
Unwilling to turn on the overhead lights, she slipped off her boots, then padded her way to the sorting room, dropping the pillow and blanket on the table before going to the counter that ran under the window. Retrieving the candle and matches from her carry bag, she lit the candle. She didn't need to cut her skin to figure out the Controller had found her. It was just a matter of time before his man found a way to reclaim her.
Just a matter of time.
Spreading the blanket out on the sorting table, Meg climbed up and got as comfortable as she could on her hard, makeshift bed.
In the western part of the continent, where the terra indigene Grizzlies ruled as many Courtyards as the Wolves, some humans called his first form spirit bear.
Spirit bear moved through the world unseen, but some could sense his passing. Some would know he was there before he took on the tangible shape that had teeth and claws.
Now Henry followed the stranger's trail until it ended farther up the street where the man's vehicle had been parked.
Turning back to the Courtyard, he went to the glass door and studied the broken lock as he considered what it meant.
So much fear behind Meg's door, so much desperation when she screamed his name.
If he hadn't wanted to be close to the wood tonight, would she have disappeared, leaving them to think she was just another human who had used them for a few days' shelter? Or would the broken lock on the door and the scent of a stranger stir up Simon and the rest of the terra indigene who lived here?
Turning away from the door, Henry walked up to the corner and turned left, following the boundary of the Courtyard, not sure what he was looking for but letting instinct guide him.
He prowled the delivery area, taking in the scents around the front of the Liaison's Office and the consulate. The stranger's scent wasn't there, but moving closer to the sorting-room delivery doors, he picked up another scent that was fresher than it should be.
Moving around the office to the yard behind his studio, he saw the flicker of light in the sorting room. Taking up the full Grizzly form, Henry braced a paw on the wall and looked in the window.
Meg, sleeping on the sorting table.
Meg, who wasn't in the apartment where someone would expect to find her at this time of night.
Moving away from the window, Henry called, <Owls!>
Five of them answered his call, landing on the wall that separated his studio from the delivery area.
<Why do you want us?> Allison asked.
<Intruder,> he said. <Keep watch here. Meg is inside the office.>
Two of the owls flew off, taking up position on the roof of the consulate. Another flew up to the roof of his studio. Allison and a juvenile male remained on the wall.
Satisfied that he would have plenty of warning if the stranger returned, Henry ambled back to the efficiency apartment, changed to human form, and retrieved his clothes where he had left them in the stairwell. He made himself a cup of strong black tea generously laced with honey, then settled into the rocking chair near the window that gave him a view of the Liaison's Office. As he drank his tea, he wondered about the female who had suddenly come into their lives.
Throughout the rest of the night, he wondered a lot.
And he wondered what Simon was going to say in the morning. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 7 | Simon got out of the shower and rubbed the towel briskly over his skin. He didn't like conforming to the way humans chopped up days into little boxes. The sun and moon and change of seasons should be enough for anyone. But if he had to conform in order to run a human-type business, he shouldn't have to think about it on the one day each week when he could live as Wolf from one sunrise to the next.
Earthday was the day of rest, the day the Courtyard was closed to humans so that the terra indigene could run and play and be what they were: earth natives. It was the one day he didn't have to shift into the skin that was useful but never felt like home.
Because he dealt with humans so much, he needed a day with the Wolfgard, needed his own kind. That was the trap for Others who had excessive contact with humans—if you adapted too much in order to deal with them, you ran the risk of forgetting who you were and you could end up being neither and nothing. That was why even Sam's distress at seeing him as a Wolf wasn't enough for him to give up what he needed for himself.
But Henry's message on the answering machine this morning had him breaking his own rule, since the Beargard had made it clear that it was the Wolfgard in human form that was needed at the studio.
He got dressed, then stopped in the living room to make sure Sam had food and water—and hadn't messed in the cage. Since he was in this form anyway, he'd take the pup out before shifting to fur and meeting Blair and some others for a run.
After considering the benefits of walking from the Green Complex to the studio in order to give the human form exercise, he went around to the garage and got one of the BOWs. He made sure this form got plenty of exercise. Today, the sooner he could shed this skin, the happier he would be.
A couple more inches of snow had fallen overnight. Combined with what was still on the Courtyard roads, it added a little sliding excitement to an ordinary drive—and reminded him to talk to the terra indigene who worked at the Utilities Complex and also handled clearing the Courtyard's roads. If Meg was going to be out making deliveries tomorrow, he'd have Jester explain about sticking to the main roads to avoid getting stuck. The BOWs could handle the snow just fine—as long as the driver wasn't stupid.
When he reached the Courtyard's business district, he parked the BOW in the employee parking lot, which put him in between the Market Square and the other shops, including Henry's studio. Getting out of the BOW, he stopped and listened to the rhythmic sound of someone using a snow shovel.
Leaving the parking lot, Simon walked around the garages, then stopped when he saw the footprints outside the Liaison's Office. There were no deliveries on Earthday, so there shouldn't be fresh footprints coming out of the office this morning.
He walked up to Henry, who was shoveling the area between the back doors of the shops and the Liaison's Office. Removing the snow. Eliminating the footprints.
"Hard not to leave a trail when there's fresh snow," Henry said. The look in the Grizzly's eyes made Simon wary, especially after Henry added, "We had a visitor last night."
Simon looked at the office's back door. "An intruder?"
"Not there," Henry said, tipping his head toward the office. Then he wagged his thumb toward the stairs leading up to the efficiency apartments.
For a moment, Simon just stared at Henry. Then he absorbed the meaning of the words and snarled as his canines lengthened, his nails changed, and fur sprang out on his chest and back.
"I told Meg we had rules about visitors. I told her..." He choked on the fury rising inside him—fury that wanted to rip and tear and destroy this strange and awful feeling of betrayal and the person who had caused it.
"Simon."
He'd thought she was different from the other damn monkeys. He'd thought there was finally one of them the terra indigene might be able to work with, despite the way she made him half crazy with the not prey confusion. He'd consented to let her have a map of the Courtyard because she seemed to want to do her job. If he'd wanted a liar as their Liaison, he would have hired that Asia Crane!
"Simon."
Hearing the warning in Henry's voice, he made an effort to stuff himself back into the human skin.
"If you want to sneak a visitor past us, you don't have him break the lock on the street door. And you don't call attention to someone's presence by yelling loud enough to be heard by the Grizzly staying in the apartment across the hall."
"She didn't know you'd be there," Simon said, choking on the effort to get his teeth back to human size.
"Yes, she did. I saw her in the Market Square yesterday and told her I would be there so she wouldn't be frightened if she heard me."
Frightened. The word cleared away his fury and let him think again.
Meg was hiding from something or someone. He'd realized that when he hired her, but he'd been chasing his tail so much because of her—or dodging to avoid having it stomped on by someone else—he'd forgotten she had run away from something or someone.
He looked at the footprints coming out of the office.
"After the intruder ran off, she slipped out and spent the night on the sorting table," Henry said.
Too afraid to stay in her own den? Unacceptable!
It took effort to shape words. "Did you see the intruder?"
"Not well enough. But I got the scent of him, and I'll recognize it again if he comes around."
If this stranger was hunting Meg, he would come around again. "Can't get that lock fixed until tomorrow." A Wolf and a Hawk were learning how to change and fix locks. They might be able to replace that broken one, but the Courtyard had an understanding with a lock company, and being willing to teach Others this skill was the reason Simon did business with Chris at Fallacaro Lock & Key.
"The Owls who kept watch last night will keep watch again," Henry said. "I've already talked to a couple of Hawks and some of the Crows about keeping watch on this part of the Courtyard today. And I'll be staying at the efficiency apartment again tonight."
"What about today? With the stores closed, she'll be alone up there during the day." Not likely that someone would come in daylight, but imagining Meg by herself all day felt too much like watching a deer that was the perfect prey because it was separated from the rest of the herd.
And that reminded him too much of Daphne and Sam running alone that terrible night, thinking they were safe.
"Should we call the police?" Henry asked.
"And tell them what? That someone broke a lock? Nothing was taken. We aren't sure the intruder was after Meg. We've had people try to sneak in and use the apartments. Could have been someone who just wanted to get out of the cold for a night and thought they could slip away before we noticed."
"That's called trespassing," Henry pointed out. "Humans have a law against it too."
"We'll deal with it our own way," Simon said. "I'll get another shovel and help you clear the snow." And erase the footprints that might tell a different kind of predator where to find his prey.
"What about Meg?"
She hadn't asked for his help. It bothered him that she hadn't asked for his help. He was the Courtyard's leader, after all. "We'll keep watch today. Tomorrow we'll consider what else might be needed."
Like getting some answers about who she was running from—and why someone would want her back.
Meg heard the howling as soon as she turned off the shower. Sounded like a whole pack of them was right under her windows. Drying off as quickly as she could, she wrapped the towel around her head, pulled on a bathrobe, and went to the windows to look out.
No sign of them, but judging by the way a car skidded as it came abreast of the Courtyard's parking lot and the driver tried to accelerate to get away from whatever he saw, they weren't far away.
There had been no sign of Henry when she hurried back to her apartment. Did he work in his studio on Earthday, or was she alone in this part of the Courtyard? Merri Lee had told her none of the shops were officially open on Earthday, but the library was never locked, and in the morning a couple of the Others served leftovers at the Market Square's restaurant, Meat-n-Greens. So she could walk over to the restaurant for a meal and then spend some time browsing through the library's books.
Another howl, easily heard despite the closed windows.
We are here.
Above her, somewhere on the roof, she heard several Crows cawing.
We are here.
Something that had been wound tight inside Meg since last night began to relax. There weren't any humans around this part of the Courtyard today, but she wasn't alone. She could spend the afternoon reading or napping, maybe even do some chores now that she'd learned how to clean. Not all human stores were closed on Earthday, so there were cars going by—including, she noted before stepping away from the window, a police car. She would be safe enough while there was daylight.
She could decide later about where she would hide after dark.
That afternoon, Asia Crane slowly drove past the entrance to the Liaison's Office and the consulate. As usual on Earthday, a chain stretched across the street entrance, a metal Closed sign hanging from the center. It was a simple but efficient way to keep people from using the delivery area as a parking lot for the restaurants and other businesses across the street from the Courtyard.
Bigwig hadn't been able to give her any information about the white van or the driver who seemed to be casing the Courtyard. Probably nothing more than a disgruntled husband or boyfriend looking for an opportunity to haul his dumb-ass woman back home. Although why anyone would go to that much trouble for no-looks Meg was a mystery.
She didn't care about the who, how, or why as long as Meg no longer filled the Liaison's job, leaving it open for her to have another shot at access to the Courtyard.
Damn it! There wasn't anything that looked like the Help Wanted sign taped to the office door. That meant White Van Man hadn't taken care of business yet. Well, she might be able to help with that.
Tomorrow she would make a two-prong attack. She would test her welcome at Howling Good Reads, and she would make an effort to befriend Meg.
Her next step would depend on her reception, but one way or another, Simon Wolfgard was going to pay for her backers becoming impatient with her lack of progress. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 8 | Simon flipped the lock on Howling Good Reads' front door, flipped the sign to Open, put on the wire-rimmed glasses, and started the rest of the routine for opening the store.
A minute after he opened HGR, Asia Crane strutted through the door. She was a determined bitch, so he wasn't surprised that even a bad scare hadn't kept her away for long. If he'd liked her at all, he might have admired her determination to lure him into having sex.
And if he ever found out she was sniffing around the Courtyard—and him—for something more than a walk on the wild side, he would kill her.
Asia gave him a slashing look as she opened her parka and walked toward the display of new books, every bump of her hips a sharp movement in the skintight jeans.
He watched the shallow way her chest rose and fell under the short, tight sweater, watched the way her encased hips kept moving even though she was picking up books and looking at the back copy—almost like she didn't dare stop moving because there was a good chance she wouldn't be able to start up again. When he saw her little, self-satisfied smile, he realized she was watching him watch her. Why would she be satisfied? Considering the way she struggled to expand her chest, she didn't even look bitable this morning.
Or maybe he was still full from the deer they'd brought down yesterday and wasn't interested in another weak animal.
"Mr. Wolfgard?"
He focused his amber eyes and most of his attention on Heather, one of his human employees.
"If you're going to man the register, do you want me to stock the shelves?" She gave him a hesitant smile and suddenly smelled nervous.
"You are a sensible female," he said, raising his voice so Asia would stay at the new books display and not feel the need to slink over to hear what he was saying.
"Thanks," Heather said. "Um... why? I haven't done anything yet."
He waved a hand at her. "Your clothes don't lock up your body. You can take a full breath. If you were being chased, you wouldn't fall down after a few steps from lack of air." He was thinking of her escaping a human pursuer. A Wolf would run her down in seconds whether she could breathe or not.
Heather stared at him.
He continued to study her, understanding by the fear scent that he had taken a misstep somewhere in the past minute. He'd been indicating approval, because it was now clear to him that Asia did those exaggerated hip movements to hide the fact that she couldn't walk quickly without being out of breath. He didn't know what he'd said that had frightened Heather, but the look in her eyes made him think of a bunny just before it tries to run.
Even when he wasn't hungry, he liked chasing bunnies.
"I'll go stock some of the shelves," Heather said, backing away from him.
"All right." He tried to sound agreeable so that she wouldn't quit. Vlad hated doing the paperwork as much as he did when a human employee quit, which was why they'd both made a promise not to eat quitters just to avoid the paperwork. As Tess had pointed out, eating the staff was bad for morale and made it so much harder to find new employees.
When Heather came out of the back room with a cart of books—instead of running out the back door after leaving the words I quit on a note taped to the wall, like a couple of previous employees had done—he turned his attention to Asia.
She must have been waiting for that moment. Her cheeks were a blaze of color and she looked ready to spit stone. She slammed a book back down on the display and raised her chin.
"I guess there isn't anything of interest here this morning," she said coldly.
"Then you should go," he replied. "Although..." He vaulted over the counter, went to the other side of the display, picked up a book, and held it out. "You might find this one interesting."
It was one of the horror books written by a terra indigene. The cover was black with the open mouth of a Wolf just before it took a bite out of its enemy. Or maybe it was the second bite, since there was a little blood on the teeth.
Asia forgot everything she knew about Wolves and bolted out the door.
He watched her run toward the parking lot and decided two things: one, she couldn't run worth a damn in those clothes, and two, on her, he found the fear scent agreeable.
Monty adjusted the collar of his overcoat with one hand while he knocked on his captain's doorway.
"Come in, Lieutenant," Captain Burke said, waving him in while most of his attention remained on the sheet of paper he was studying. "Are you getting settled in all right?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you for asking."
Yesterday he'd gone to the temple near his apartment building and had found some peace and fellowship there. Then he called Elayne in the hope of talking to Lizzy, and got stonewalled. Lizzy had never been allowed to go over to a friend's house before the midday meal on the day of rest and meditation. He didn't think Elayne would change that rule, but if she had, it was only to deny him some time to talk to his little girl. Until that phone call he'd still thought of himself as Elayne's lover, despite the current estrangement, but she made it clear she was looking for someone whose social standing would erase the "stain" he'd put on all their lives.
And that told him plainly enough that his chances of talking to Lizzy, let alone having her come to visit during her summer vacation, had gone from slim to none.
"A couple of calls about Wolf sightings yesterday," Burke said. "You can hear them howling for miles, so people are used to that, but having Wolves gather in the Courtyard parking lot during the day is unusual."
"I'll check it out," Monty said.
Burke nodded, then turned the paper he'd been studying so Monty could see it. "Your priority is the Courtyard, but keep your eyes open for this individual while you're on patrol. Somebody wants this thief caught and the stolen items returned in a hurry, and has the clout to pull strings with the Northeast Region governor. And the governor pulled our mayor's strings, and you know how it tumbles down from there."
Monty stared at the Most Wanted poster and felt the blood drain from his head.
May all the gods above and below have mercy on us.
"I'm going to get copies of this made and distributed, and—"
"You can't."
Burke folded his hands and gave Monty a smile that was full of friendly menace. "You're telling your captain what he can or can't do?"
Monty pointed to the face on the poster, noting the way his hand trembled. He was sure Burke noticed that too. "That's the new Liaison at the Lakeside Courtyard. I met her the other day." Being wanted for the theft of something that would have somebody leaning on the governor for its return could explain why Meg Corbyn had been so nervous when he'd met her. She hadn't been worried about working with the Wolves; she'd been worried about being recognized by him.
"Are you sure, Lieutenant?" Burke asked quietly.
Monty nodded. "The hair looks darker here..." A bad dye job would explain the weird orange color. "But that's her."
"You've met Simon Wolfgard. Do you think he'd hand her over to you?"
Human law didn't apply in the Courtyards—or anywhere beyond the land the humans had been allowed to lease from the terra indigene in order to have farms and cities—and it never applied to the Others. But Simon Wolfgard ran a business and had no tolerance for thieves. Would that make a difference?
"I can stall putting out copies of this poster," Burke said, "but I'm sure every police station received it and every other captain is going to be handing out copies to his men. So if I'm going to be the only captain defying a direct order from the mayor to apprehend this woman, you'd better give me a reason I can take to His Honor."
"I'd like to make a copy of this and take it to Mr. Wolfgard," Monty said. "I'll show it to him and let him decide."
"Just remember, that woman is the only one who knows where the stolen property is hidden. We need a live person, not a DLU. Make sure he understands that."
"Yes, sir."
"Get your copy made and keep me informed."
Monty took the poster, made his copy, and returned the original to Burke. When he finished, he found Kowalski leaning a hip against his desk.
"We're going to the bookstore," Monty said.
"Going to ask about the Wolf sightings?" Kowalski asked.
Monty carefully folded the Most Wanted poster into quarters and tucked it in the pocket of his sports jacket. "Something like that."
As they drove to Howling Good Reads, Monty considered various ways to approach Simon Wolfgard with this information. He didn't know if there was a way to get the result the mayor and governor wanted, but he did know one thing: if the Others chose not to cooperate, that Most Wanted poster could be as dangerous to the humans in Lakeside as barrels of poison were to another city a couple generations ago.
Simon pulled all the slips of paper out of the envelope and arranged them on the counter according to gard . Most were book orders from the terra indigene settlements that were serviced by the Lakeside Courtyard. A few were orders that he'd pass along to other stores in the Market Square.
Like telephones, electronic mail through the computers was a useful way to communicate when information had to travel from one Courtyard to another quickly or when dealing with humans. But terra indigene who didn't have to deal with the monkeys had only a passing interest in electrical things, so a territory that covered three times the area of the city of Lakeside might have a dozen buildings that had phone lines and the electricity for computers. Except in emergencies, most Others still used paper when sending an order or request to a Courtyard.
A Little Bite always did a brisk business on Moonsday mornings, but HGR was usually quiet until lunchtime, which was why he set aside this time for filling orders. Retrieving a cart from the back room—and taking a moment to make sure Heather was actually working and not curled up somewhere in an effort to hide from him—Simon returned to the front of the store. After a quick scan of titles, he rolled the cart to the new-books display and filled the top shelf with a handful of each book. Then he rolled the cart back to the counter, picked up the first slip of paper, and began filling the order.
"Rubber bands," he muttered. Rubber bands were small, useful items and were a perk that came with placing an order. Even if only one book was ordered, he sent it out with a rubber band around it.
Before he could vault back over the counter to get the bag of rubber bands, the door opened and Lieutenant Montgomery walked in.
The lieutenant and his men had been very much in sight since that first meeting last Thaisday. Not a dominance challenge or anything foolish like that. More like a quiet version of a Wolf howl—a way to say we are here. Kowalski had come in and bought a couple of the horror books the day after the arguments had closed HGR and A Little Bite.
Simon wasn't sure Kowalski or his female was interested in those kinds of books or if it had been an excuse to look around. He had a feeling the police officer had been as relieved not to see any fresh bloodstains as the other customers were disappointed by that lack of excitement.
The lieutenant approached the counter. "Mr. Wolfgard."
"Lieutenant Montgomery." Simon absorbed the look on the face, the expression in the dark eyes, and the smell of nerves that wasn't quite fear. "You aren't here to buy a book."
"No, sir, I'm not." Montgomery pulled a piece of paper out of his sports coat pocket, unfolded it, and set it on the counter between them. "I came to show you this."
His mind took in the words most wanted and grand theft, but what he saw was the picture of Meg.
He didn't realize he was snarling until Montgomery eased away from him, a hand brushing the overcoat and sports jacket out of the way in order to reach the gun. Knowing what he would do if the hand touched the gun, he stared hard into Montgomery's eyes. The man instinctively froze, not even daring to breathe.
Satisfied that Montgomery wouldn't do anything foolish—at least not right now—Simon looked at the poster again.
"It's not a fuzzy picture," he said after a moment. "So why is there no name?"
Montgomery shook his head. "I don't understand."
"I watch your news shows sometimes. When you catch a picture of someone stealing in a store or bank and don't know them, the picture is fuzzy. When you have a picture like that"—he pointed at the poster—"the police always know the name of their prey."
He'd known she was running from someone. He'd known Meg Corbyn wasn't her name. He should have let her freeze in the snow instead of taking her in. But now that she was in, what happened to her was his decision.
"Why is there no name?" Simon asked again.
He watched Montgomery study the poster and smelled the man's uneasiness.
"Looks like an ID photo, doesn't it?" Montgomery said softly. "Like a driver's license photo or..." He reached into a pocket, pulled out the leather holder, and flipped it open to show his own ID. Then he put the holder back in his pocket. "If someone could supply that kind of photo, why wouldn't they be able to supply the name?"
Simon was going to get an answer to that question. He'd decide later if that answer was something he would share with humans.
Taking the poster, he refolded it and slipped it into his trouser pocket. "I'll talk to the members of our Business Association. If we have any information about this person, we'll let you know."
"I must emphasize that we're looking to apprehend and question this person about the theft."
Simon smiled, deliberately showing his teeth—especially the canines that he hadn't been able to get all the way back to human size. "I understand. Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Lieutenant Montgomery. We'll be in touch."
Dismay. Worry. But Montgomery had sense enough to walk out of the store without further argument. There was nothing the police could do about whatever happened in the Courtyard.
He waited a few moments, then called Vlad.
"Simon," Vlad said. "Nyx and I need to talk to you."
"Later," Simon replied, trying not to snap. "The Business Association has something to discuss. I need you to call them. I want everyone who's available in the meeting room in an hour. And call Blair and Jester. I want them there too. And a representative from the Owlgard, Hawkgard, and Crowgard."
"Anyone else?" Vlad asked quietly.
He knew why Vlad asked the question, just like he knew which group of terra indigene was being left out of this discussion. But they were never interested in such things.
"No, that should be sufficient," Simon said.
"In an hour, then. But, Simon, we still need to talk. It's important."
Simon hung up. Then he shouted for Heather, passing her on his way to the stockroom. "Man the register and work on filling the orders. Call John. Tell him to come in."
He put on his coat and boots for the walk to the Liaison's Office. That was acting civilized and controlled. If he didn't stay in control...
She lied to him.
... he was going to shift to Wolf, and they would never be able to clean up the blood well enough to hire someone else after he tore her throat out so she couldn't lie to him anymore.
The office's back door wasn't locked, so he slipped inside, removed his boots, and padded across the back room in his socks. He could hear low music even through the closed door that connected to the sorting room. As he entered the room, he saw Meg take a CD out of the player and say, "I don't like that music."
"Then why listen to it?" he asked.
She whirled around, wobbling to keep her balance. She put the CD back in its case and made a notation on a notebook sitting next to the player before answering him. "I'm listening to a variety of music to discover what I like."
Why don't you know what you like?
"Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Wolfgard? Today's mailbag hasn't arrived yet, but there are a few pieces of old mail. I put them in HGR's spot." She indicated the cubbyholes in the sorting room's back wall. "Also, I'm still not clear if the ponies deliver mail to the Market Square businesses or if someone from the businesses is supposed to stop in for that mail."
Right now he didn't care about the mail or packages or any other damn monkey thing.
He took the poster out of his pocket, opened it, and set it on the table. "No more lies," he said, his voice a growl of restrained menace. "What happens next will depend on whether you answer two questions honestly."
She stared at the poster. Her face paled. She swayed, and he told himself to let the bitch fall if she fainted.
"He found me," she whispered. "I wondered after the other night, but I thought... hoped..." She swallowed, then looked at him. "What do you want to know?"
The bleakness in her eyes made him just as angry as her lies.
"What was your name, and what did you steal?" Couldn't have been a small thing. They wouldn't be hunting for her like this if it was a small thing.
"My name is Meg Corbyn."
"That's the name you took when you came here," he snapped. "What was it before?"
Her expression was an odd blend of anger and pride. It made him wary because it reminded him that she was inexplicably not prey.
"My designation was cs759," she said.
"That's not a name!"
"No, it isn't. But it's all they gave me. All they gave any of us. A designation. People give names to their pets, but property isn't deserving of a name. If you give them designations instead of names, then you don't have to think about what you're doing to them, don't have to consider if property has feelings when you..."
Her eyes stayed locked on his, despite her sudden effort to breathe.
Simon stayed perfectly still. If he moved, fangs and fury would break loose. What did they do to you, Meg?
"As for what I stole, I took this." She pulled something out of her pocket and set it on the wanted poster.
He picked it up. Silver. One side was decorated with pretty leaves and flowers. The other side had cs759 engraved into it in plain lettering. He found the spot that accommodated a fingernail and opened the thing to reveal the shining blade of a thin razor.
He had seen one of these twenty years ago. Seeing another one now made him shiver.
"It's pretty, but it can't be worth all that much." His voice sounded rough, uncertain. He felt as if he'd been chasing a rabbit that suddenly turned into a Grizzly. Something wasn't right about this. So many things weren't right about this.
"By itself, it probably isn't worth much," Meg replied. "The second thing I stole is this." She pulled off her sweater and tossed it aside. She pushed up the left sleeve of the turtleneck until it was above her elbow. Then she held out her arm.
He stared at the evenly spaced scars.
An old woman, her bare arms browned by the sun so the thin scars showed white, sitting behind a little table where she set out cards and told fortunes to earn the money that paid for her room and board. A little community of humans who eked out a living at the edge of an earth-native settlement that amused itself by taking tourists into the wilds for pictures and stories and sometimes even movies that would be shown in theaters. Some taught the Others basic skills like weaving or carpentry. Some assisted with the tours. And there were always a few who were looking for an excuse to die and were just biding their time, knowing the Wolves and Grizzlies would oblige them eventually.
She sat there in the baking sun, her head covered by a straw hat, smiling at the youngsters, human and Other, who laughed at her as they went by in their various groups.
But he hadn't laughed, hadn't walked by. The scars intrigued him, bothered him. The look in her eyes unnerved him. And then...
"Not much good skin left, but this was meant for you..."
The silver razor flashed in the sun as she took it from the pocket of her dress. A precise cut on her cheek, its distance from an existing scar the width of the blade.
What he saw that day, what she said that day, had shaped his life.
"Blood prophet," Simon whispered as he continued to stare at Meg. "You're a cassandra sangue."
"Yes," she replied, lowering her arm and pushing down her sleeve.
"But... why did you run? Your kind live in special places. You're pampered, given the best of..."
"Whether you're beaten or pampered, fed the best foods or starved, kept in filth or kept clean, a cage is still a cage," Meg said with fierce passion. "We are taught what the Walking Names want us to know because what good is a prophet if she can't describe what she sees? We sit in classrooms, day after day, looking at pictures that describe things that exist in the world, but we're never allowed to know one another, never allowed to have friends, never allowed to speak unless it's part of an exercise. We are told when to eat, when to sleep, when to walk on the treadmill for exercise. They even schedule when we take a shit! We are alive, but we're never allowed to live. How long would you last if you were kept like that?"
She was shaking. He couldn't tell if she was cold or upset, even when she retrieved the sweater and put it on.
"Why don't more of you run away?" he asked.
"I guess living in a cage and not having a name doesn't bother most of them. Besides, where would they go?" She wouldn't meet his eyes. "Will you let me stay until dark? I might be able to slip past whoever the Controller sent after me if I can stay here until dark."
Simon tipped his head, struggling to understand her. "You're going to run again?"
Now she looked at him. "I would rather die than go back there."
A quiet statement. The honesty scared him because there was a little too much Wolf in her voice when she said those words. She wasn't terra indigene, but she also wasn't human like other humans. She was a confusion, and until he understood more, all he had to work with was instinct.
A few days ago, she came looking for a job because she wanted to live. If that wasn't true, she would have gone to sleep in a snowbank somewhere. Now she was willing to die?
He didn't like that. He didn't like that at all.
He pocketed the silver razor and the wanted poster.
"The razor is mine," she protested.
"Then you'll have to stay until I give it back."
"Mr. Wolfgard..."
"You're staying, Meg," he snarled. "Until I say different, you're staying." He heard a truck pull in, then another. "You've got work."
As he passed through the back room, he grabbed his boots but didn't stop to put them on. Instead, he ran back to HGR.
Cs759. The meaning of the letters was clear enough. He didn't want to think about the significance of the number.
That Controller was trying to set the police on her trail. Were other kinds of hunters searching for Meg? Was it a hired predator who had tried to break in the other night?
After telling John and Heather he was back, he went up to his office and put on dry socks. While he waited for the members of the Business Association to arrive for the meeting, he stared out the window that gave him a view of the Liaison's Office.
Power. When the terra indigene dealt with humans, it always came down to power and potential conflict.
He was the leader of the Lakeside Courtyard and what he wanted would carry weight, but this choice was too big for him to make alone.
Meg turned off the CD player. There was no point in playing music to learn what she liked. Instead, she pulled mail out of the last old sack and tried to keep her mind on sorting it, on finishing something before she herself was finished.
A white room and one of those awful beds. And Simon Wolfgard. She had seen those things in the prophecy that had revealed her own future.
Was he going to hand her over to the Controller, maybe even barter for some prophecies? Or now that he knew what she was, would he do the same thing the Controller had done? Would he know how? Was that why she'd seen the bed that was used when the girls were bound for the most intimate kinds of cuts?
She focused so hard on not thinking about what Simon would decide, she jolted when she heard the neighing outside the sorting room's outside door.
"Oh, gods," she muttered, glancing at the clock. She'd meant to run over to the grocery store for carrots or apples. No time to do that now. "Just a minute," she yelled when the neighing became a chorus. She could imagine what Elliot Wolfgard would say about the noise if the workers at the consulate were disturbed.
Rushing into the back room for her coat, she looked around for something that would serve as a treat. She didn't want to think about the reaction the ponies would have if she didn't have something for them.
The only things in the kitchen area besides a jar of instant coffee and bags of herbal tea were a box of sugar lumps, a box of crackers, and a storage tin that held an open package of chocolate cookies.
She shrugged into her coat, grabbed the box of sugar lumps, then rushed to open the door, because the next chorus of neighs was now accompanied by the cawing of the Crows.
"I'm here, I'm here," she panted as she got the door open, set the box on the sorting table, grabbed the first stack of mail, and began filling the baskets.
The ponies shifted, jostled, nipped at her coat in a way that made her think of a child tugging on an adult's sleeve in a bid for attention.
She didn't have enough mail sorted to fill the baskets for the eight ponies who had shown up, but she made sure they all had something to carry. Then she opened the box of sugar lumps.
"A special Moonsday treat," she said, holding out two lumps to Thunder. He took them happily. They all did. So happily, in fact, they all tried to get in line again for another serving.
When she closed the box and waved bye-bye, they all stared at her—and the box—for a long moment before trotting off to deliver the mail.
Sighing and shivering, Meg closed the door, returned the sugar to the cupboard in the back room, and continued with her work.
The Business Association's meeting room had a ring of wooden chairs set around a low, round sectional table. It also had a secretary desk and filing cabinets, as well as a computer on another desk that could be used for e-mail or placing orders with human companies.
Since the Business Association's office filled the other half of HGR's second floor, Simon was the first to arrive. He chose a seat and waited through the usual shuffling for position that took place because the bird gards wouldn't willingly sit next to one another and none of them wanted to sit next to the Sanguinati.
Vlad and Nyx arrived a minute after he did. Everyone else came in a moment later, leaving their outer garments on the coatrack in the small waiting room and delaying their entrance long enough for the Sanguinati to choose their seats.
Vlad sat next to him and Nyx sat on Vlad's right. From there, the chairs around the table filled in—Jester, Blair, Jenni Crowgard, Tess, Julia Hawkgard, and Henry. Allison Owlgard took the last chair.
Jenni was part of the Business Association, but Julia and Allison weren't. Which meant the leaders of their gards had probably chosen them as representatives because they did work around or in the businesses that had contact with humans.
"We're all here, Simon," Henry said in a quiet rumble.
"Lieutenant Montgomery came to see me this morning," Simon said.
"We stayed on our own land yesterday," Blair growled. "Or on the sidewalks that butt up against it, which are considered public property. The humans have no cause for complaint about that."
"I heard some youngsters had fun digging in the compost pile," Jester said. "Could someone have reported that?"
Blair shook his head. "That's technically our land, but we let the Lakeside parks and utilities people use it too. Both sides add to the compost piles and can make use of the material. The park and utility workers don't mind us digging. Saves them some work turning the piles. Besides, the youngsters didn't have that much fun with it. The stuff is frozen just like everything else right now."
"He wasn't here about our being seen or about the compost," Simon said. Shifting his hip, he pulled out the paper and razor from a pocket. He opened the paper and set it in the center of the round table.
"Oh," Jenni said, sounding pleased. "The Meg looks more like a Crow in that picture."
Jester sat back, as if he wanted distance from the poster. Vlad shifted uneasily, and Nyx was unnervingly still. Tess's hair turned green and began curling wildly.
Blair's eyes were filled with hot anger, but his voice was quiet when he asked, "What did she steal?"
"This." Simon set the silver razor, designation side up, on the poster.
"Shiny!"
Jenni made a grab for the razor, then jerked her hand back when Blair turned his head and snapped at her. She made a show of holding her hand protectively against her chest and leaning toward Tess.
Henry leaned forward. "What is cs759?"
"Her designation." Simon hesitated. "Meg is a cassandra sangue."
"A blood prophet?" Jester said. "Our Liaison is a blood prophet?"
Simon nodded. "She ran away from the place where she was kept. That's how she ended up here."
"It's rare for them to be out in the world," Henry said thoughtfully. "We know little about her kind of human because so few of them are out in the world. I wonder if Meg doesn't smell like prey because she is a different kind of human."
"I don't think the Owlgard knows much about them except for a few rumors, and those always make them sound special and pampered," Allison said.
"Caged. She said they were caged," Simon said. After a moment he added, "She said she would rather die than go back there."
An awkward silence. Caging a terra indigene was considered an act of war—which was why keeping Sam in a cage for the pup's own safety was killing Simon a little more every day.
"Did you see any scars?" Nyx asked.
He nodded. "On her left arm, above and below the elbow. Evenly spaced."
Jester blew out a breath. "Meg is the first decent Liaison we've ever had in this Courtyard—at least since I've been living here. But if the police have this poster and are showing it to you, they know she's here. Do we want to get into a fight with them over another human? We don't even know enough about blood prophets to know if it's worth the fight."
Tess suddenly shifted in her chair—a jerky, angry movement. Her hair was now bloodred with green streaks and black threads.
Jenni looked at Tess, let out a caw, and scooted her chair as close to Blair's as she could.
"Don't ask me how I know these things," Tess said in a rough voice. "Just know that they are true."
"Tell us," Simon said, struggling not to make any changes that would look aggressive.
"Cassandra sangue," Tess said. "Blood prophet. A Thousand Cuts. Apparently, someone determined that was how many could be gotten out of one of these girls. The distance between cuts is precise. Too close and the prophecies... smudge. Too much space and skin is wasted. A precise cut with a very sharp blade to produce the euphoria and the prophecies. The girls become addicted to the euphoria, crave it beyond anything else. Which is what kills them in the end. Unsupervised, they might cut too deep or nick a vein and bleed out while their minds are within the euphoria and prophecies. Or they cut too close and the mixed prophecies drive them insane. However it happens, most of them die before they're thirty-five years old."
"Then the caging is done as a kindness?" Henry asked, sounding reluctant.
"You'd have to ask someone who has lived in that kind of cage," Tess said. "While she has any skin that can be cut, Meg is a valuable asset to someone—a source of potential wealth to someone. Like every other kind of creature, the cassandra sangue have different levels of ability. A cut on a thick-skinned, thickheaded clunker is still worth a couple hundred dollars. A sensitive skin, combined with intelligence that has been educated? Depending on what part of the body is being cut for the prophecy, you're talking about anywhere from a thousand dollars a cut to ten thousand or more."
Blair whistled. "That raises the stakes."
Simon looked at the people around the table. Yes, that raised the stakes. Meg could be worth thousands of dollars to the human who had controlled her.
What is she worth to us?
"I gather the reason you called us here was because of the potential fight if we allow Meg to stay," Vlad said.
Simon nodded.
"Then Nyx and I would like to add some information that the rest of you need before you make a decision." Vlad looked at Nyx, who nodded. "Meg met Grandfather Erebus."
Everyone jerked in their chairs.
"She came by delivering packages," Nyx said, "and she fretted over one that wouldn't fit in the boxes. It had been in the office for a while, so she didn't want to take it back, and she wouldn't leave it in the snow the way other humans would have done. So Grandfather gave her permission to enter the Chambers and place the box in front of his door. It turned out to be the box of old movies he'd been waiting for these past few months."
"He has decreed that the sweet blood may enter the Chambers to deliver packages, that the Sanguinati will do nothing to harm or frighten the sweet blood within the Chambers or anywhere else in the Courtyard," Vlad said.
"Sweet blood?" Simon said. "Does he know she's a cassandra sangue?"
Vlad shrugged. "Does it matter? There is a sweetness about her that appeals to him, and he's made it clear what he expects from his own as far as Meg is concerned."
Simon didn't comment. Meg had an annoying appeal, but he wouldn't call her sweet. Puppylike in some ways, which would interest Wolves, but definitely not sweet.
Now Julia and Jenni shifted in their chairs.
"She met the girl at the lake," Julia said.
Jester whined.
"Which one?" Blair asked.
"Which one would be out there skating, wearing nothing but a short-sleeved white dress and shoes?" Julia replied.
"Winter," Simon breathed. "Meg talked to Winter?"
"The Hawks and Crows were warned off. Apparently, the Elemental didn't want to share the conversation. We don't know what was said, but she and the Meg chatted for a while, and then the Meg left."
So at least one of the Elementals also had an interest in Meg. And Winter, if provoked, could be a terrifying bitch even for other terra indigene.
They looked at one another. Then they all turned to him and nodded.
"Meg stays," Simon said in confirmation. "And we'll make sure Meg—and the police—know we consider her one of us now."
"How are you going to do that?" Tess asked as the black threads faded from her hair.
Simon picked up the razor and the wanted poster. "With a slight change of address."
Meg didn't need to see the deliveryman suddenly tense to know Simon was standing in the Private doorway. When the man left, she continued to stare out toward the street rather than look at the Wolf.
"Should I close up the office?" she asked.
"The office is closed from noon until two p.m., and it's almost noon," Simon said. "So, yes, you should close up until you reopen for afternoon hours."
Now she turned to look at him. "I can stay?"
"With some changes."
"What kind of changes?"
"Close up, Meg. Then we'll talk."
She closed up the office, put on her coat and boots, then followed him out the back door, which he locked before she could pull out her keys.
He led her to a BOW parked near the door and stuffed her into the passenger's seat. By the time she got herself sorted out, he was behind the wheel and headed into the Courtyard.
She started to ask again what changes she had to make, but he was frowning more and more. Then he hit the brakes, and the BOW slid sideways before it stopped.
Those amber eyes stared at her. The frown deepened. "How were you taught things in that place where you were kept?"
She noticed he didn't say where she had lived. At least he understood that distinction. "We were shown pictures. Sometimes drawings, sometimes photographs. We watched documentaries and training films. Sometimes scenes from movies. After we were taught to read, we were given reading assignments, or an instructor would read aloud. Or we read aloud in order to learn how to speak properly and pronounce words." And there were things that had been done to them "for the experience," or things they had been made to watch being done to a girl who was used-up or too deficient to earn her keep through the cutting.
Simon's frown deepened a little more. "You took the BOW out the other day. How did you learn to drive?"
"It's not that hard," she muttered. Then she added defensively, "At least I didn't slide like you just did."
He straightened the BOW and continued down the road. "You weren't taught to drive. Were you taught to do anything except speak prophecies?"
"You aren't dependent on your keepers if you can do for yourself," she replied quietly.
The sounds he was making were terrible and frightening. When he glanced at her, he stopped the sounds, but in the moment when his eyes met hers, she saw a queer red flicker in the amber.
"Where are we going?" she asked. It looked like they were headed for the Green Complex. A minute later, he pulled into a parking space across the road from the complex.
"This is guest parking or temporary parking," Simon said as he got out of the BOW. When she joined him, he pointed to a lane that ran alongside the U-shaped building. "That leads to the garages and resident parking. The morning bus wouldn't get you to work on time, so you need to use the Liaison's BOW—once you learn to drive."
"I can drive," she protested. "At least, going forward."
He stared at her. "You can't back up?"
She didn't answer.
"Right. We'll drive to work together for a few days."
"But..."
"You can't stay in that efficiency apartment over the shops, Meg. You're too vulnerable there. So if you're going to stay and be our Liaison, you're going to live here."
"Here? But this is inside the Courtyard. Humans don't live here."
"You do."
There was a finality to the way he said the words, the way he took her arm and led her across the road. She'd seen some of the Green Complex when Tess brought her here to wash her clothes.
Out of sight. Out of reach. Safe.
"Second floor," he said, leading her to a stairway. The porch had latticework on both sides and along half the front. She guessed it would provide shade, shelter, and some privacy in the summertime. And some shelter from the snow now.
He pulled a set of keys out of his coat pocket, opened the door, and stepped aside.
She stepped on a welcome mat, toed off her boots, and placed them on a cracked boot mat. Then she looked around.
Big living room. Natural wood and earth tones. Some furniture that didn't fill the space, but was as much as she had in the efficiency. She glanced back at Simon. He stayed near the door, an unreadable look on his face. Hesitantly, she explored.
Two bedrooms. One was empty; the other had a double bed that had been stripped and a dresser. The bathroom looked modestly clean, and the kitchen had a pleasant, airy feel and included a dining area. It also had a door that led to an interior landing and a back staircase that went down to an outer door—both of which were shared with the apartment next to hers.
"Acceptable?" he asked when she returned to the living room.
"Yes. Thank you."
He turned his head toward the door, listening for a moment before nodding. "Some females will help you make your den human clean. I'll drive you back to the office in time for the afternoon deliveries."
When he opened the door, she heard Merri Lee and Jenni Crowgard talking as they came up the stairs.
"Mr. Wolfgard?" she said before he stepped out the door. "I noticed the kitchen door shares a landing. Who lives in the other apartment?"
He gave her a long look. "I do."
Then he was gone, and Merri Lee, Jenni, Allison Owlgard, and a young woman who introduced herself as Heather Houghton were piling in with food and cleaning supplies. By the time they all piled out again to go back to their usual jobs, the only thing left for her to do was bring over her clothes and the bits and pieces she had acquired.
Simon was waiting at the bottom of the steps. As the women passed him, Jenni said, "The Meg didn't want to ask you, but there's no television or movie player here. Could she bring the one from the little apartment?"
Simon stared at them, then at Meg. "Anything else?"
"Meg likes books," Merri Lee replied cheerfully. "If there's a spare bookcase at the efficiency apartment, you could bring that too."
"I didn't say... I wasn't asking..." Meg stammered.
He took her arm and led her to the BOW. The other women piled into the one parked beside his, Merri Lee in the driver's seat, Heather beside her, and Jenni and Allison curled in the back. They took off while Simon watched them.
Shaking his head, he opened the passenger's door and, once again, stuffed Meg inside. Getting in the driver's side, he said, "Merri Lee doesn't drive any better than you do."
"I drive just fine," Meg snapped.
"Considering you don't know how." He pulled out of the parking space and sent the BOW flying down the road at a speed she wouldn't have considered.
Folding her arms, she stared out the side window and muttered, "Bad Wolf."
His only response was to burst out laughing.
Monty followed the man named John up the stairs and down a hallway to the door that had OFFICE painted in black letters on frosted glass. John knocked, swung open the door, and retreated.
"Come in, Lieutenant," Simon said, rising from the chair behind an executive's desk made of a dark wood.
The quick glance he allowed himself before giving the Wolf his complete attention gave him the impression of a typical office—desk with phone, computer, trays for paperwork; a large calendar that also served as a blotter and a protection for the wood. There were filing cabinets along one wall, and a lack of anything personal—no photographs or even framed prints—but some men preferred an austere work environment, so that wasn't altogether out of the ordinary. The only thing in the room that wasn't typical of a human businessman's office was the pile of pillows and blankets in one corner.
"I appreciate you responding so promptly," Simon said.
"Frankly, Mr. Wolfgard, I'm surprised you asked for me at all," Monty replied. Something about those amber eyes. They were more feral now than they had been this morning, if that was possible.
"I talked to the members of the Business Association, and we all agree that while the woman in the wanted poster bears a strong resemblance to our Liaison, they are not the same person."
Monty opened his mouth to disagree, then realized there was no point. Wolfgard knew perfectly well Meg Corbyn was the woman on the wanted poster.
"Furthermore," Simon continued, "it seems the police are not the only ones who have made that mistake. Late Watersday night, someone tried to break in to the efficiency apartments we keep over the seamstress/tailor's shop. He only got as far as breaking the lock on the outside door and climbing the stairs before being scared off by Henry Beargard."
"You're sure it was one man?" Monty asked.
"There might have been another waiting in the vehicle, but Henry smelled only one intruder."
While Wolfgard's form didn't change, he wasn't making any pretense now at passing for human.
"You didn't report the attempted break-in," Monty said, shoving his hands in his overcoat pockets to hide the trembling.
"I'm reporting it now. A broken lock wasn't sufficient reason to trouble our friends in the police, but if it was an attempt to take our Liaison against her will, then it deserves everyone's attention. We have, of course, taken precautions. Meg Corbyn is now residing in the Green Complex, where safe access is only possible by prior arrangement. I live there. So does Vladimir Sanguinati and Henry Beargard."
Message understood. No one who tried to reach Meg Corbyn when she was asleep or otherwise vulnerable would survive.
"I'm sure Ms. Corbyn appreciates your interest in her well-being," Monty said.
Simon barked out a laugh. "Not enough to notice." Then his face took on that feral look that was terrible to see on an otherwise human face. "Human law doesn't apply in the Courtyard, Lieutenant. No matter what anyone else thinks, Meg Corbyn is ours now—and we protect our own. You make sure you send that message back to whoever made the poster."
"Do you know why someone is making so much effort to find her?"
"It doesn't matter anymore."
One other angle to try. "If the items that were stolen were returned, I don't think Ms. Corbyn would be of interest to—"
Flickers of red in Wolfgard's amber eyes. When he spoke, Monty didn't think Simon was even aware of the way his voice snarled, "Meg is ours."
Another message there—and a sudden suspicion that he might be dealing with something far more delicate and dangerous than he'd realized.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Wolfgard." It was hard to do, but he turned his back on the Wolf and walked out of the office, closing the door behind him.
He didn't get all the way down the stairs when the howl came from the floor above him.
He nodded to the pale young woman behind the counter and walked out of Howling Good Reads—and noticed how many people who had been browsing in the front of the store looked up and then headed for the checkout counter.
Kowalski was waiting for him when he slid into the passenger's side of the patrol car. On the other side of the snow-shrunk parking lot was a van with FALLACARO LOCK & KEY painted on the sides.
"Anything?" he asked as he adjusted his seat belt.
Kowalski tipped his head toward the three men crowded around a glass door. "Break-in the other night. Broken lock. Intruder didn't get far enough to enter any of the apartments and take anything. Chris Fallacaro runs this side of the business. His father is semiretired, which I took to mean has some prejudice against the Others and doesn't take these particular service calls."
"Does Mr. Fallacaro do any of the residential locks in the Courtyard?"
Kowalski shook his head. "He's teaching a couple of the Others about replacing locks, and they've got their own key-cutting machine set up in their Utilities Complex. I had a chance to talk to him for a minute before the Others showed up. He says they don't quibble about a bill, pay in cash, and outside of crowding him to watch what he's doing and sniffing him—which can be unnerving because they can tell if he's been with his girlfriend or what his mother served for dinner the previous night—there's nothing hard about working with them."
"If a key ever found its way into the wrong hands, that boy wouldn't survive a day," Monty said.
"Oh, he knows that, Lieutenant. That's why he's very careful about handing over all the keys, and goes to their complex to help them make extra sets."
"All right. Let's go back to the station. Looks like I'm going to spoil Captain Burke's afternoon."
Monty watched his captain's expression turn stonier as he gave his report.
"You really think they'll fight about this?" Burke asked.
Monty nodded. "They'll fight."
Burke leaned back in his chair. "You have any thoughts about why this woman is so important to them—or what she stole?"
"Why do any of us bring a stray kitten into our home and feed it?" Monty replied. "It may have been no more complicated than that in the beginning, but now that someone has invaded their land to get to Ms. Corbyn, the Others are a lot more invested in keeping her." He paused, not sure how much to reveal about his own suspicions. "Something Simon Wolfgard said has been bothering me. If the victim of the theft knew who had taken the items and could give us what amounts to a photo ID for the wanted poster, why couldn't he supply a name? If this is some kind of corporate theft and Meg Corbyn was an employee, why weren't we told her name?"
"You're edging toward a point. What is it?"
"What if she didn't have a name? Or what if anonymity is for her own protection?"
"Everyone has a—" Burke slowly sat forward.
"From what I understand, those compounds are as well guarded as any Courtyard, and no one, including the clients who go to those places, really knows what goes on inside."
Burke sighed. "We are standing on thin ice, Lieutenant, and if any part of what you've just implied is true, there are going to be some powerful people dropping boulders off a bridge, trying to hit the ice beneath your feet—and mine. Gods above and below, if our city government is seen to be on the wrong side of this argument, and our mayor, along with our jackass governor, has already put us on the wrong side by giving the order to circulate that wanted poster..."
He didn't finish the thought. He didn't need to. Finally, he pushed himself up. "I'd better talk to the chief and see what he can do about getting those posters off the streets before someone tries to make an arrest. What are you going to do?"
"Talk to MacDonald and Debany when they come on shift and make sure they're aware of the potential conflict brewing. And I'm going to see if I can confirm or deny my suspicions about why Ms. Corbyn is so interesting to so many people."
Monty hung up his overcoat and made himself a cup of green tea. Then he sat at his computer and spent the next couple of hours hunting for what little the police actually knew about the race of humans known as cassandra sangue. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 9 | Timing her approach, Asia drove her car into the Liaison's Office delivery area and parked in a way that guaranteed her vehicle would clog up the most space. Then she plucked the takeout cup out of the cup holder and hurried into the office. Seeing Meg hesitate in the doorway of the room marked PRIVATE, she widened her smile and strode up to the counter.
"I'm working an earlier shift and only have a minute," Asia said, sounding a little breathless. "We got off on the wrong foot the other day, and it was totally my fault. I get too enthusiastic sometimes, and I really did want to get acquainted because I don't have many friends and I think you're someone I could talk to, you know? Anyway, here's a little peace offering." She set the takeout cup on the counter in front of Meg. "I wasn't sure how you take your coffee or even if you drink it, so I brought you a cup of hot chocolate. Can't go wrong with chocolate, I always say."
She shifted position, her body language signaling awkward but sincere. "Anyway, I hope I didn't cause you any trouble."
"You didn't cause trouble," Meg said. "I appreciate the hot chocolate, and I'd like to chat with you sometime, but..."
"But right now you've got work and I've got work." Asia looked over her shoulder when a horn beeped and the Crows perched on the stone wall responded. She rolled her eyes as she turned back to Meg. "And I am in the way of those delivery trucks and creating a roadblock on the highway of commerce."
Meg smiled. "More like the cart path to the petty cash box."
Waving, Asia hurried out to her car, flashed a smile at the deliveryman that wiped the sour look off his face, and drove out of the Courtyard. As she glanced in her rearview mirror before pulling out into traffic, she noticed two Crows taking off.
Score, Asia thought. Let those black-feathered gossips tell everyone she'd stopped by the office. Meg Corbyn had no social skills and couldn't lie worth a damn with body or words. The feeb had bought the new version of Asia Crane, and that's all Asia had been aiming for today.
A cup of coffee here, a slice of pizza there, and she would become the friend Meg couldn't say no to. And then she would be able to get on with her assignment and make her backers happy.
A shiver went through Monty when he walked into the station's assembly room and saw Captain Burke passing out the wanted posters of Meg Corbyn.
"Lieutenant?" Kowalski whispered behind him. "Maybe we should take a seat."
Burke understands the danger. Why would he...?
Monty looked at the faces of the other men as they glanced at the poster and then studied their captain, and their reaction to this particular assembly began to sink in.
When everyone was seated, Burke gave them all that fierce smile.
"Most wanted," Burke said. "Grand theft. You will notice there is no mention of what was stolen or the identity of this person, despite an indication that she is, in fact, known to the person or persons who reported the theft. I've been told that all cities in the eastern half of Thaisia have been asked to be on the lookout for this person, and we will do our duty to our government and our city by keeping our eyes open.
"But, gentlemen, there are a couple of things I want to emphasize. First, nothing leads me to believe this person is armed or dangerous or in any way a direct threat to us or the citizens of Lakeside. So if you believe you have sighted this woman, force is not required for initial contact. Be clear about that.
"Second, it's been said that every person has a doppelganger—someone who looks so much like you as to be mistaken for you. That can make for interesting stories of mistaken identity—unless that doppelganger happens to live in a Courtyard."
Sudden shifting in the chairs. Nervous twitches. Nervous coughs.
"It has come to my attention that someone living in the Lakeside Courtyard bears a strong resemblance to this woman on the poster. I trust you can all appreciate the consequences to this city if we try to apprehend the wrong person. Lieutenant Montgomery and his team are assigned to handle any incidents that deal with the Others, whether the terra indigene are in the Courtyard or out amongst us in the city. If you see someone with the Others who looks like the woman in the poster, you call Lieutenant Montgomery. If he or any of his team asks for backup or assistance, the rest of you will provide it.
"The governor wants this alleged criminal apprehended and the stolen property returned to its rightful owner. He's given his orders to the mayors of all the cities and towns in the Northeast Region. Those mayors have given their orders to the police commissioners of their cities, who have passed those orders down to the chiefs of police, who have passed them down to the captains, who are, like me, passing them down to the rest of you."
Burke paused and looked at all of them. He was still smiling, but his blue eyes were bright with anger. "So now you know what His Honor wants you to do. I hope you all understand what I want you to do."
Monty walked out of the assembly, saying nothing. He stopped at his desk long enough to grab his coat, then left the station. Kowalski caught up to him at the patrol car.
"Where to, Lieutenant?" Kowalski asked as he started the car.
Monty released his breath in a sigh. Burke had walked a verbal tightrope to warn the men of a potential conflict with the Others. He hoped his own careful talk would be as successful. "Howling Good Reads."
Kowalski drove away from the station. "I don't think HGR is open this early, but A Little Bite should be open by now."
Monty glanced at the other man before staring out the passenger's window. "Karl, coffee on the house is one thing, but we can't accept breakfast sandwiches and pastries every morning. And MacDonald and Debany shouldn't be going in for free soup every afternoon."
A quick smile, there and gone. "I don't think Officer Debany is stopping by for the soup."
"Oh?" He thought of the human woman who worked for Tess and understood Debany's interest. "Nevertheless, this constant largesse could be misunderstood, and we might be creating a tab we don't want to pay."
"The last time I offered to pay for the food, the owner seemed insulted, and, frankly, Lieutenant, I'm a lot more scared of her than I am of you."
Tess. Definitely not someone he wanted to insult. "All right. But... restraint." Monty sighed again. "Besides, if I keep eating like this, I'll have to find a gym."
Kowalski was suddenly paying the roads an excessive amount of attention. "Ruthie has been making noises about joining a gym or fitness center—specifically, joining Run and Thump, since it's the closest place to the apartment we're moving into. All the residents and employees of the Courtyard can use R and T, but there are also a few memberships open for humans who don't work for them."
"This might not be the best time for such a membership," Monty said. "If anything goes wrong..."
"I know, but Ruthie thinks giving the Others positive exposure to humans might help us in the long run. She goes into HGR all the time and says she never feels threatened. If she's polite, the Others are polite."
"Help who? The police?"
"Help all of us. Isn't mutual exposure the whole reason Simon Wolfgard opened a few stores to humans?"
Maybe, Monty thought. After a few days of contact with the Others, he didn't think Wolfgard wanted to be friends with humans any more than the Wolf wanted to be friends with deer, but having a better understanding of one's prey was useful for all kinds of reasons.
"Just be careful, both of you," Monty said.
"Count on it."
When they reached the Courtyard, HGR still had a Closed sign on the door, but A Little Bite was open. Kowalski pulled into the parking lot.
"Wait here." Monty reached for the door handle, then stopped. Something about the way Burke had worded things when talking about the Courtyard. Something about the way the men suddenly got twitchy.
He sat back. "Karl? Has a shield ever shown up at that cairn in the park?"
"There wasn't a specific place to look for identification on a DLU until Daphne Wolfgard was murdered two years ago." Kowalski stared straight ahead. "It hasn't happened since Captain Burke took over as patrol captain at the Chestnut Street station, but there have been times in the past when an officer was reported missing and the abandoned patrol car and a blood-smeared badge were the only things that were found. There's some speculation that the chief and the captain have an... understanding... because if Captain Burke wants anyone transferred out of the Chestnut Street station, that person is gone the next day, no arguments made or questions asked." A hesitation. "There's a saying among the officers: it's better to get transferred than be a DLU."
"Is the hazard pay for being on this team worth the risk?" Monty asked.
"Lieutenant, if things go really wrong between us and the Others, no amount of pay will be worth the risk. But there also won't be any place in Lakeside that is safe, so maybe taking those risks is what will make the difference for everyone."
Since Kowalski didn't seem inclined to add anything else, Monty got out of the car and went into A Little Bite.
Tess was behind the counter. The smile she gave him made him feel as if someone had sliced his back open, leaving him weak and trembling.
"Lieutenant. Coffee is fresh; the pastries are from yesterday. Everyone seems to be getting a slow start this morning."
"Coffee would be appreciated," Monty replied. "But I stopped by to see if I could have a word with Mr. Wolfgard. I noticed Howling Good Reads isn't open yet, so I wondered if you had a way of getting in touch with him."
"Regarding?"
"A discussion we had yesterday."
Black threads suddenly appeared in Tess's brown hair as it began to coil.
"This way." Her voice hadn't been warm before. Now it was brutally chilling.
He followed her to the lattice door that separated the two shops. She opened the door, went into HGR, and said, "Vladimir. Lieutenant Montgomery wants a word." Turning to Monty, she added, "The members of the Business Association know all about your discussion. Simon isn't available right now, so you can talk to Vlad."
She walked back into her shop and closed the lattice door, leaving him with one of the Sanguinati.
Vladimir's smile was as brutally chilling as Tess's voice had been a moment before. It took all the courage Monty could gather to approach the book display the vampire was rearranging.
He did not want to tell the Others anything about Meg Corbyn they didn't already know, but not telling them enough could lead to a slaughter. And maybe— maybe —there was one bit of information that might persuade the terra indigene to let humans deal with humans.
"I wanted Mr. Wolfgard to be aware that the poster I showed him yesterday has been distributed to all the police stations in Lakeside—to all police stations throughout the eastern part of Thaisia, in fact."
"Is that significant?"
Vlad sounded like he was making an effort to show polite interest, but Monty wondered how long it would take for that tidbit to reach the farthest Courtyard on the eastern seaboard—and what it would mean to the police in those other cities. "I also wanted to make him aware of some details I came across while checking the information on the poster." He paused to consider his words. "There is a small segment of the human population that is considered at risk. Their deaths are mostly caused by self-inflicted wounds, so a provision was made in human law to allow another person to have a 'benevolent ownership' of such an individual."
"Wouldn't this benevolence be called slavery if it was forced on any other kind of human?" Vlad asked, now sounding a little puzzled. Before Monty could respond, the vampire continued. "What about the segment of your population that chooses suicide by Wolf? As a defender of your people, you know it happens. Does your law insist on this benevolent ownership for them if they're stopped before they throw themselves in front of a pack?"
Suicide by Wolf. The phrase chilled Monty—and the vampire noticed.
"No," Monty said. "Our law has no provision for that." He didn't think explaining about the mental wards in city hospitals was a good idea, since he wasn't sure Vlad would understand—or care—about the difference between being held in such a ward and benevolent ownership.
Vlad looked more and more coldly delighted. "There are always the stronger and the weaker, the leaders and the followers. Don't you force the weaker among you to accept the scraps that are left when the stronger have eaten their fill? Don't they wear the worn-out rags instead of warm clothes? Stronger and weaker exist in any group, but you've clearly decided some kinds of humans are more important than others. Some kinds of humans are human and other kinds are... property? Is that how it works? I didn't realize you monkeys had such savagery in you. Next you'll be eating your weak in order to keep the strong healthy."
"No."
Monty knew the look Vlad gave him would haunt his dreams for years to come.
"How long will that attitude last if there is no other food?" Vlad asked softly.
For a moment, Monty couldn't breathe. Was this a real threat to cut off food as an experiment in cannibalism or just the peculiar intellectual workings of a terra indigene mind?
"Was there anything else you wanted Simon to know?" Vlad asked.
This, at least, was a piece of what he was here to say. "Yes. There is concern that with so many police officers looking for the individual on that wanted poster, mistakes in identification could be made."
"You're referring to that person who looks similar to our Liaison?"
Monty nodded. "I would appreciate being informed whenever Ms. Corbyn leaves the Courtyard. My men and I won't interfere with her, but I would feel more comfortable being present. To avoid any misunderstandings."
"That's an excellent suggestion, Lieutenant Montgomery." Vlad smiled. "Misunderstandings have been so costly in the past."
Thinking of the Drowned City, Monty shivered. "Yes, Mr. Sanguinati, they have." When silence was the only response, Monty took a step back. "I'll leave you to your work. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me."
Vlad took a step forward and held out his hand. "Anytime, Lieutenant."
Not daring to give offense, Monty took the vampire's hand—and instantly felt a prickling that was gone a moment later. And in that same moment, he felt the odd sensation of Vlad's strong grip being less substantial.
"You can go out through A Little Bite," Vlad said, releasing Monty's hand and turning back to the display of books.
Glad to leave, Monty went to the lattice door. As he reached out to open it, he noticed the pinpricks of blood on his palm.
He swayed as understanding replaced puzzlement. He didn't dare turn around and look at the vampire.
How much blood had Vlad taken from him in the few seconds their hands had touched? Was that a feeding, a warning, or a threat?
He hurried into the coffee shop and turned toward the door, wanting to escape. But Tess's voice saying, "Don't forget your coffee," made him turn back.
The threads of black were gone, but the hair was still unnaturally curly.
She handed him some paper napkins first—and smiled.
It took effort not to run, but he walked out of A Little Bite and joined Kowalski, who was leaning against the patrol car, watching the roofs of the buildings.
"They sure are keeping close watch," Kowalski said as Monty handed him one of the coffees. "A dozen Crows and a couple of Hawks have come and gone while you were inside. You all right, Lieutenant?"
"Let's get in the car," Monty replied.
When they were inside and partially sheltered from feathered observers, Monty pulled the napkins away from his hand.
"Gods above and below," Kowalski said, whistling softly. "What happened?"
"I shook hands with Vladimir Sanguinati."
"Why?"
"Didn't have a good alternative, and considering the conversation prior to it, it didn't seem smart to insult him."
Kowalski paled. "They can take blood just by touching you?"
"Apparently. You had mentioned there was some evidence that they could take blood without biting a person. Looks like we've just been given a demonstration of what that other method is."
Monty raised the cup to his lips, then lowered it without drinking. "Let's get out of here, Karl. I need something to eat, and I need to get away from the Courtyard for a while."
Kowalski secured his cup in a holder and drove out of the parking lot.
Warning signs everywhere, Monty thought. The mayor wanted the dangerous criminal caught and the stolen property returned to its rightful owner. Except the property wasn't a thing; it was a person. Meg Corbyn had stolen her own body, had run away from someone's "benevolent ownership."
Considering what the cassandra sangues could do, how much of that benevolence was about profit?
Monty closed his eyes, letting Kowalski choose the place for a light meal.
Now that Vladimir Sanguinati had put the thought on the table, Monty wasn't sure that, in this case, benevolence wasn't another word for "slavery." He also wasn't sure if leaving a blood prophet on her own wasn't a passive form of murder.
But he was sure that any intervention with regard to Meg Corbyn and her addiction to cutting would have to come from Simon Wolfgard now and not him.
The phone rang as Meg was pulling on her coat. "Hello?"
"Meg? It's Jester. Listen, old Hurricane is coming up with the other ponies. He's retired now—that's why he's living at Lakeside—but it would be good for him to feel useful. Could you give him the mail for the Owlgard or the Pony Barn?"
"Sure. How will I know which one he is?"
"White mane and tail, and a gray coat with a hint of blue. Can't mistake him for any of the others."
"Have to go," Meg said when she heard the chorus of neighs.
She opened the delivery door and then stared.
There were twelve ponies waiting for her. Meg didn't recognize four of them, but she figured out which one was Hurricane based on the description Jester gave her. Instead of forming their usual line, the ponies were all jostling for first position at the door, pushing and crowding until Thunder stamped a foot.
The boom shook the building and had Meg grabbing for the doorway to keep her balance.
She looked at the pony. Oh, he couldn't have...
Suddenly a voice yelled, "Blessed Thaisia! What is going on?"
She'd never heard that voice before, but she was willing to bet it was Elliot Wolfgard yelling out a window in the consulate.
In the absolute silence that followed, she heard a window slam shut.
"You're going to get me in trouble," she told Thunder in a loud whisper.
The pony wouldn't look at her, which confirmed he had been responsible for that roll of thunder.
"Now," she said firmly. "Lakeside mail carriers are good-mannered ponies. Anyone who can't behave will have to go home."
She couldn't actually make them go back to the Pony Barn if they weren't good mannered, but she just stood in the doorway of the sorting room. The ponies stared at her as if trying to decide if she was bluffing. Then they sorted themselves out in a neat line, with Thunder in his usual first position.
"Thank you." Giddily triumphant, Meg went to the table and picked up the stacks of mail for Thunder's baskets. As each pony shifted in the line, she filled baskets for Lightning, Tornado, Earthshaker, and Fog. Going back to the table for the last three batches of mail, she wondered about the ponies' names. If Thunder could make so much sound by stamping his foot, what could Tornado and Earthshaker do if they pitched a fit?
Couldn't think about that. Just like she wouldn't think about having Wolves and vampires living in the same apartment complex that she did—or why she felt safer being around them than the humans she had lived with in the compound.
Just like she wouldn't admit to being curious about seeing a Wolf in Wolf form. She didn't have a training image of a terra indigene Wolf, just images of the animal. Even her Controller, with all the money he acquired from the use of his property, hadn't been able to buy a photograph of a Wolf to use as reference.
Shaking off those thoughts, Meg fetched the treat bowl and held out two carrot chunks for Thunder.
He looked at her, looked at the carrots, and shook his head.
"Carrots," Meg said. "You liked carrots last week."
Another head shake. Thunder lifted a hoof, looked toward the consulate, and put the hoof down carefully.
Meg studied the ponies and felt her stomach flutter. Oh no.
Retreating—and becoming aware of just how cold the room was because she'd already had the door open too long—she hustled into the front room, grabbed the calendar and a marker, then hustled back to the ponies.
"Look." She made a big S on Moonsday, then turned the calendar around for the ponies to see. Not that she thought they could read, but they seemed to understand words. "We had sugar lumps on Moonsday as a special treat. We don't get sugar lumps again as a treat until next Moonsday, which is here." She made another S on the calendar. " Today we have carrots as our treat."
She put the calendar and marker down, picked up the treat bowl, and returned to the doorway. "Carrots today." She held out two carrot chunks.
Managing to convey disappointment and resignation, Thunder ate his carrot chunks and headed out to deliver his mail.
All the ponies ate their carrots, including the ones who must have shown up today because they expected sugar.
Meg closed the outside door, checked the front room to make sure no delivery trucks were pulling in, then went into the back room to make herself a cup of peppermint tea. If they were going to have a treat discussion every day, she was going to put on her boots and stand outside from now on. At least that way she could warm up afterward.
Simon hung up the office phone and sat back in his chair. That was the third West Coast Courtyard leader to call him this morning, asking if there had been any peculiar attacks in the Lakeside Courtyard's territory.
Something new had found its way among the humans. Something that was absorbed by the terra indigene when they ate the meat. Humans were turning savagely aggressive, and not just among their own kind. They were attacking some of the Others. Mostly Crows were being attacked, were being ripped apart in both forms, by packs of humans that were so aggressive, they had no survival instincts. The top predators in those Courtyards had taken down the monkeys, then began to fight among themselves soon after consuming the meat.
Just as disturbing were the Wolves and Grizzlies and Cats that were suddenly so passive, they couldn't defend themselves against an attack by a gang of humans.
The bodywalkers, the healers among the terra indigene, could find no evidence of poison or drugs, but something was making humans behave strangely and was also affecting the Others.
More humans in the bigger cities took drugs that not only damaged their lives but also spoiled them as meat. But none of the incidents being reported were in the big cities. This new danger was happening in small farming hamlets or industrial centers that had a few hundred citizens. The kinds of places where the Others had minimal contact with humans and wouldn't know there could be reasons not to eat a kill.
The kinds of places that, if the Others felt threatened and decided to eliminate those humans, the number that were killed would be howled at as tragic on the television or in the newspapers, but in truth would be no more than an inconvenience. Another group of humans would be selected to work the farms or run the machines, would scrub off the blood and move into the houses—if the Others didn't get there first and simply reclaim the land and property for themselves.
Didn't humans understand how expendable they were? The terra indigene were as old as the world, as old as the land and the seas. They learned from the top predators and became more than those predators. Always adapting, always changing as Namid changed. They would be forever.
The terra indigene in Thaisia didn't need humans anymore in order to have the material things they wanted. If the monkeys became a real threat, they no longer had enough to offer to make their presence endurable. If that day came, humans would follow the same path as other creatures before them and become an extinct meat.
Meg wasn't surprised when Jester showed up an hour after the ponies trotted off. She put down the stack of mail she'd been sorting and held out the treat bowl. "Have a carrot."
Jester leaned over the bowl, sniffed, then leaned back. "I prefer meat."
"Set a good example," Meg growled. "Eat a carrot."
Jester took a step back and eyed her. "You're sounding rather Wolfish . Was there a problem with the ponies this morning?"
Meg set the bowl on the table. "Only that they didn't get sugar lumps today, but sugar is a special treat and isn't something they should have every day, so today the treat was carrots, and Thunder... thundered... which upset Elliot Wolfgard, who sent some stuffy Owl to remind me that the consulate dealt with human government and shouldn't be embarrassed by the Courtyard help's shenanigans!"
She hadn't realized how much the reprimand had upset her. After all, she hadn't done anything to deserve it.
No. She wasn't upset. She was mad.
It felt good to be mad. It felt invigorating to be able to feel emotions without fearing punishment. It felt alive.
She stared at Jester.
"You gave sugar to the ponies?" he asked.
"So what? An occasional lump of sugar won't hurt them."
"No. Of course it won't." He took another step away from the table. "I'd tuck my tail between my legs, but it's very uncomfortable growing one while wearing trousers, and I think we'd both prefer that I remain dressed."
She picked up the bowl and held it out. "Eat a carrot instead. It won't hurt you either."
Sighing, he took a carrot chunk and nibbled on it. "Will there be sugar again?"
The calendar was now sitting next to the music player. She held it up and tapped the big black S. "Moonsday is sugar day."
"Right. I'll explain it to them."
Her anger fizzled out. "I'm not upset with you, Jester. It's just that I want to do a good job. I really do. But I haven't been here a week yet, and I keep getting into trouble."
Smiling, Jester held thumb and forefinger close together. "A little bit of trouble, which is amply compensated for by the entertainment you've been providing."
"Thanks a lot." She hesitated. She didn't know much about anything, but she didn't have to know much to figure out she was going to have time on her hands. "Jester? When they were caught up with their work, what did the other Liaisons do while they waited for deliveries?"
He looked around the room. "You cleared out all the old mail and packages?"
"Yes."
He looked a little bewildered. "I don't know, Meg. I don't remember seeing this room so clean. Maybe... read books?"
"Is there something else I could do to be helpful?"
"What do you want to do?"
Good question. One that deserved some thought.
"Your suggestion about reading is a good one. I'll start with that." She could study anything she wanted, could read about a subject from beginning to end if she wanted. She could learn how to do things instead of having a head full of disconnected images.
"Good," Jester said. "Fine. I'll talk to the ponies. From now on, they'll be happy with whatever treats you give them."
Then he was gone, slipping out the door so fast she almost wondered if he'd been there at all.
Meg shook her head. She wasn't sure humans could—or should—understand how the Others thought. But Jester's suggestion was a good one, so during her lunch break she would pick up a book to study and a book to read for fun, and ponder what else she could do to earn her keep.
Then it occurred to her that if the Others had no suggestions about what she should do with her time, she could adjust her job to include whatever she wanted. Hadn't she already done that by making deliveries?
Putting a music disc into the player, Meg filled the room with a lively tune and went back to sorting.
Hearing the crunch of tires behind him, Simon shifted over to the side of the road. But the shiny black sedan slowed to keep pace with him, and the rear window rolled down.
"Want a ride home?" Elliot asked.
Simon shook his head. "Need to walk."
"Stop the car," Elliot said to his driver.
Simon waited for Elliot to exchange the expensive leather shoes for practical boots and get out of the car. The sedan drove off, leaving the two Wolves walking toward the Green Complex.
"What's wrong?" Elliot asked. "Has your Liaison caused another problem? Isn't one a day sufficient?"
"Could have been worse," Simon replied, a low growl under the words. "At least it was Thunder expressing an opinion. And if he hadn't been showing off or trying to scare her or whatever it was he was trying to do, his stamping a hoof wouldn't have done that."
"And if it had been Twister or Earthshaker expressing an opinion around so many buildings?"
"It wasn't." If it had been, he would have had an unpleasant conversation with the girl at the lake, since the ponies were the Elementals' steeds. Instead he'd had a baffling talk with Jester. The Coyote was delighted that Meg was able to pull Elliot's tail with so little effort, but Jester was also wary of their weird-haired Liaison. She didn't behave like other humans, so none of the Others were quite sure how to deal with her—which made her the most interesting and frustrating thing to cross their paths in quite some time.
"There's trouble in the western Courtyards," Simon said. As they walked, he told Elliot about the phone calls, the attacks, and the deaths. "Select Courtyard leaders might be meeting in the Midwest Region to discuss this new threat."
Elliot frowned. "This... disease. It's contagious?"
Simon shook his head. "It's not a disease. It wears off like a drug in a few hours. There are two pieces of foulness trickling into small human settlements, and our bodywalkers can't find the source of either of them."
"You're going to represent the Northeast Region?"
"If the meeting is called, I'll be the one to go for the Courtyards in this part of Thaisia."
A brief, uncomfortable silence. Then Elliot said, "What about Sam? I'll take care of him. You know that. But I will not have him in a cage."
"The cage is for his protection." An old argument. In his terror and grief after seeing his mother killed, Sam had gone on a binge of self-destructive behavior no amount of pack discipline could stop. After the second time the pup had come too close to killing himself, Simon had gotten the cage, intending to get rid of it as soon as the pup settled down. But by the time he could trust Sam to be alone, the pup had decided the cage was the only safe place, and getting him to come out for even a few minutes at a time had become a daily battle.
As much as Elliot loved Sam and still mourned the loss of Daphne, it was a battle the older Wolf refused to endure. And the sight of Sam in a cage upset everyone in the Wolfgard complex, especially the other pups.
"Henry will look after him. Or Vlad."
"How long will you be gone?"
"A few days. Maybe a week." He didn't want to consider what could happen in a week—or who might not be in the Courtyard when he returned. "Try to get along with Meg, all right? She's the first Liaison we've had in a long time who actually does the work, and that includes making deliveries to the Chambers."
Elliot looked uncomfortable at the reminder that Erebus Sanguinati approved of their new Liaison. "Well, I will say this for her. She's the first monkey who bothered to walk the few steps between buildings and deliver the consulate's mail personally so that I receive correspondence in a timely manner."
Having that much settled, they finished the walk to the Green Complex in easy silence. The black sedan was waiting in a visitor's parking space.
Elliot opened the door, then paused. "By the way, the mayor called me to whine about a dangerous thief and about a rumor that she may be hiding in the Courtyard, even posing as our Liaison, and it was vitally important that the property that was taken be returned to its owner."
Simon twitched. Should he tell Elliot about Meg? The decision the Business Association had made not to tell anyone that Meg was a blood prophet was sound—and it had taken a threat from Tess to get Jenni Crowgard's promise not to share that information with anyone, including the other Crows. But maybe knowing would help Elliot deal with the monkeys who chattered in his ear?
"What did you tell him?" Simon asked, knowing his hesitation had given Elliot a clue that he had reasons for wanting to hold on to their new Liaison besides her ability to sort mail and deliver packages.
Elliot bared his teeth in a smile. "I told him our Liaison didn't have the backbone to be dangerous or the intelligence to be a successful thief."
"That will do." Not a compliment to Meg, but the kind of answer that the human government could find useful. Then something occurred to him. "How did the mayor know that Meg looked like the woman on the wanted poster? Only a handful of police have seen her, and the deliverymen would have no reason to know about the poster."
"The mayor said he received an anonymous tip," Elliot said.
"Male or female?"
"He didn't say."
How would Asia Crane have seen one of those posters? She wasn't above causing mischief for the person who had the job she claimed she wanted. Or was it someone else? Someone who might be able to charm information out of a policeman. Or someone who worked for the Others and had earned some degree of trust.
Something else he would discuss with Henry, Vlad, and Tess, especially if he had to leave for that meeting.
Simon watched Elliot drive off to the Wolfgard Complex before crossing the road and going to his apartment. Sam's greeting ended as soon as Simon opened the cage door and reached for the pup.
Ignoring the whimpers, he hauled Sam out of the cage and took him outside. As usual, as soon as Sam's feet touched the ground, he tried to bolt for the apartment.
Growling, Simon turned to give chase. Having to use the damned cage scraped at him as much as it did Elliot, but what were they supposed to do—let the pup die?
What will you do if he starts growing again, if he ever matures into a full-grown Wolf and still needs a cage?
He'd taken a couple of steps after the pup when Sam slid to a stop and headed away from their door, sniffing the ground with an interest he hadn't shown in much too long.
Intrigued, Simon joined the pup and bent low to see if he could pick up whatever scent Sam found so interesting.
Meg.
As he straightened up, he saw her coming through the archway that led to the garages and parking area behind the complex. She had carry bags in both hands and was puffing a bit.
One way or another, he was going to make sure she got more exercise—even if he had to chase her like a bunny.
"Meg," he said, nodding.
"Mr. Wolfgard."
Calling him Mr. Wolfgard was becoming an effective door she kept slamming in his face, and he didn't like it. If she kept doing it, thinking of her as a two-legged bunny was going to have more and more appeal.
Then she looked down, smiled, and said, "Hello. Who are you?"
That's when he remembered the pup, who was halfway hiding between his legs.
Sam gave her his squeaky-door howl of greeting.
When young, terra indigene Wolves didn't look much different from wolves. As they matured, the differences in size and shape became apparent.
"This is Sam," Simon said. He didn't offer an explanation of who Sam was. Meg didn't seem to notice.
"Hello, Sam."
The pup grumbled and howled in conversational tones. Still safe between Simon's legs, he edged forward to sniff at Meg, then jumped back to hide. And all the while, Sam's body quivered and his tail thumped against Simon's leg.
Not one of us, but she doesn't smell like prey either, Simon thought. Doesn't smell like the kind of humans who had destroyed Sam's world. Meg was something new, and her scent made the pup forget he was afraid of being outside.
Wasn't that interesting?
"You need any help getting those up the stairs?" Simon asked.
"No, thank you. The stairs are clear of snow, so I'll be fine. Besides, this is my second trip. Good evening, Mr. Wolfgard. Bye, Sam."
He watched her go up the stairs before he took the pup over to the area Sam was using as a dumping spot. The rest of the residents were tolerant because it was Sam and because it was so cold and because the Hawks and Owls didn't object to the rats and mice that were drawn to the feces. But sooner or later he was going to have to clean up all the poop.
As soon as the pup had done his business, Sam made a dash for the stairs leading up to Meg's apartment. Simon caught him halfway up and took him inside their own place.
"No," he said firmly. "I don't think she wants to play tonight."
He could picture, too clearly, the two of them romping with Meg in the snow.
"Come on. I'll give you a good brushing. Girls like a well-groomed Wolf."
Meg doing the brushing, her fingers deep in his fur.
It was better not to think of that picture either.
Sam got a good brushing and remained fairly calm about having to stay out of the cage while Simon gave it a thorough cleaning—calm enough to venture to the front door by himself and sniff around the entrance.
It was easy enough to figure out what scent the pup was looking for.
And wasn't that interesting? |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 10 | Meg bobbled the jar of sweet pickles when something thumped on her kitchen door. Her hands shook as she put the jar on the table, and her heart bounced in her throat. Someone had found her, but she couldn't seem to move, wasn't able to run for the front door and escape.
Then the thump was repeated, followed by a growled "Open up, Meg!"
Relief made her dizzy. No one had found her except the annoyed Wolf whose apartment also accessed the common hallway and back staircase.
"Just a minute!" Keys. She needed...
A key turned in the lock, but the door was still held shut by the sliding bolt. That resistance was followed by a snarl that made her shiver as she hurried to the door and slid the bolt to an open position.
Simon burst into her kitchen, grabbed her before she could scramble out of reach, and hauled her out to the landing and then through the open doorway into his apartment.
She struggled—an instinctive need to escape from an angry man—until he snapped at her, his teeth so close to the tip of her nose, she wondered if he'd stripped off a layer of skin.
"I don't have time to play." His growl rumbled under the words as he pulled her through an empty room, down a hallway, down the stairs, and into his kitchen. "I have to go away for a few days, and I need you to take care of Sam."
That pins-and-needles feeling filled her arms and hands as soon as he said the words, but she didn't dare rub her skin and call attention to herself.
"Why are you going away? Where are you going?" It wasn't just curiosity or concern that made her ask. Simon still had her razor. She'd gritted her teeth for an hour yesterday evening while a craving seemed to eat its way through her chest and belly. Not sure how far blood scent could travel and being sensibly afraid of exciting the predatory nature of her neighbors—especially the vampire, Grizzly, and Wolf—she'd managed to resist using a kitchen knife for a cut. But she wasn't going to be able to resist much longer.
"It doesn't concern you," Simon said. "Just do your work until I get back, and you'll be fine." He opened a bottom cupboard, hauled out a bag of dry dog food, and scooped some into a bowl. "This is Sam's food. I give him a scoop in the morning and another around dinnertime. And he gets fresh water at the same time."
Staggered by the responsibility he'd just dumped on her, Meg said, "But I don't know anything about taking care of a puppy!"
"Just give him food and water twice a day." Simon repeated as he shoved a set of keys into her hand. "Keys for this apartment. If you have any questions, ask Vlad or Henry."
Meg hurried after him as he strode to the front door and picked up the carryall beside it. "Mr. Wolfgard!"
He turned and looked at her. The prickling under her skin turned into a harsh buzz that filled her legs as well as her arms.
Something bad has happened. Something very bad.
"What about taking Sam outside?" she asked, forcing her voice and body to imitate calm, a skill she had learned out of necessity. No matter what the Walking Names had said about professional manners and being clinical while handling female bodies, when girls struggled against being strapped down for a cut, it provoked some of them into doing... things... after the cut and prophecy in order to relieve their own response to the girls' distress. And as long as no usable skin was damaged, the Controller chose not to see what his people were doing. After all, some experiences provided richer details to the visions—especially the darker visions.
To her surprise—and relief—Simon responded to her calm manner by calming down.
He shook his head. "If Sam got away from you, he could get hurt before you could catch up to him. He'll have to do his business in the cage. I'll clean it up when I get back."
The whole apartment would stink of poop if the cage wasn't cleaned for a few days.
A horn beeped.
Simon reached for the carryall.
"Mr. Wolfgard." When he looked at her again, she lifted her chin. "You have something that belongs to me."
He didn't do anything except straighten up and face her, but she felt the underlying menace. Anyone seeing him now would know he wasn't human. Because of that, she felt certain this was one time she couldn't afford to back down. If she did, something in him would force her to remain submissive.
"You don't need it," he said.
"That's not for you to decide. But you're right—I don't need it. A kitchen knife will do just as well, but mistakes happen more often when the blade doesn't have a familiar weight and the sharpest edge."
It wasn't a bluff. Most girls who used some other kind of sharp edge when they couldn't get their hands on the proper razor ended up ruined in one way or another if they didn't end up dead.
He stared at her, red flickers in his eyes. Then he bared his teeth, and she watched in disbelief as his canines lengthened and then returned to almost human size.
The Wolf was definitely too close to the surface this morning.
Saying nothing, he reached into the pocket of his jeans, pulled out the silver razor, and handed it to her.
Someone outside laid on the horn.
Simon grabbed his carryall and went out the front door, not bothering to close it behind him.
Meg rushed out after him and watched him get into a small passenger van. She couldn't see who was driving, but it looked like there were a couple more people in the back seats.
When the van drove off, she remembered she was outside and it was cold. But when she turned to go back inside, a fierce need to cut washed over her. Remembering the euphoria produced a flutter through her pelvis, that delicious pull of arousal.
One cut for a good cause. Something bad had happened. Something that was taking Simon away from the Courtyard. One cut might tell him so much.
Meg went inside, closed the door, and then leaned against it as she opened the razor.
One cut to help Simon and get rid of that awful buzzing under her skin. But with no idea of why he left, what should she focus on? Prophesies became too general if the cassandra sangue wasn't focused on someone or something specific. Even a photograph wasn't usually enough because the prophecy could be about the person who took the photo, not the subject in the photo. That was why the Controller's clients had to be in the same room as the prophet in order for her visions to be about the right person.
As she raised her left arm and studied the skin on her forearm and hand, she heard a whimper. She walked into the living room and studied the pup in the cage. He was huddled in the back corner, looking scared.
A prophet needed someone to listen to the prophecy, needed to speak the words in order to feel euphoria from a cut. Swallowing the words and enduring the pain was how she had remembered the visions that had shown her how to escape.
Was she brave enough to suffer like that again?
Simon was gone, but there was still someone who could listen. Except the pup wouldn't be able to tell her what was said, and she wouldn't remember enough for the cut to be useful for anything but some physical relief.
[ Caw caw caw ]
Meg jolted at the sound of the Crows leaving. Gods above and below, she was going to be late for work!
Flustered, she closed the razor and tucked it into her pocket. She fetched the bowl of puppy food that Simon had left in the kitchen and put it in the cage. Then she locked the front door and bolted up the stairs to the back hallway and her own kitchen, locking doors as she went. The beef slices and jar of sweet pickles were shoved into the refrigerator. She'd return during her lunch break to check on Sam and put everything away properly.
A last look around to make sure everything was turned on or off as it should be. Then she grabbed her coat and the bag of apples for the ponies, stuffed her feet into her boots, and locked her door. Rushing down the stairs, she ran to the garage that held her BOW.
It wasn't until she was driving toward the Liaison's Office that she realized Simon hadn't told her what to do if the Wolf pup shifted into a boy.
Simon waited until they reached the Utilities Complex before he turned his head and looked at Nathan Wolfgard and Marie Hawkgard, who were sitting in the back of the van. "You going somewhere?"
"They're going with you," Blair growled, slowing at the Utilities gate.
The Wolf manning the gate pulled it open just enough to allow the van to exit. He nodded at Simon, who nodded in return.
Blair pulled out into traffic, still growling. "The train isn't going to wait for you, and we don't have time to spare with all these monkeys on the road. Why are they on the road?"
"They're going to work," Simon replied. Glancing at Nathan and Marie, he added, "I don't need company."
"They aren't company," Blair snapped. "They're guards. You're the leader of the Lakeside Courtyard. You don't travel alone. Especially not now. Humans see a Wolf on his own in a train compartment, they might get stupid and kill you. You remember what happened the last time a terra indigene was mobbed on a train?"
It was like a line had been drawn between the east and west of Thaisia. For three months any train traveling across the continent was hit by a tornado at the line that served as the designation for where the Hawk had been killed by humans.
Three months of bodies and freight torn up and thrown along the tracks. Then the Elementals, having made their point, went back to their usual way of interacting with the world.
"I remember," Simon said.
Blair nodded. "That's why enforcers from the Wolfgard and Hawkgard are going with you. That's also why I called the train station to tell them you would be on the westbound train this morning, and why I asked Henry to call that policeman so that some of his people would be at the station."
"This is supposed to be a quiet gathering of leaders to talk about what happened in Jerzy yesterday."
"Once you get off the train at the Midwest station, you'll disappear into terra indigene land. Until then..." Blair glanced at him. "Simon, there's nothing obvious, but you can't pass for human today. The police and the train workers need to keep their kind under control because humans can't afford to cause another problem."
The humans in this part of Thaisia might not have heard the news yet, but once they did, they would be full of shock and anger and panic. Not a good time for terra indigene to be among them for anything but a massive hunt. But the Others were also full of anger. A wrong move by humans right now, and a lot of their hamlets, towns, or even cities could disappear.
"What about Sam?" Blair asked.
"Meg will take care of him."
"Meg?" Blair took his eyes off the road to stare at Simon a moment too long and almost rammed the car slowing down in front of him. "Why?"
"Because she's the first thing in two years that made him curious enough to forget he's afraid of being outside."
A soft whine from Nathan.
"What did Elliot say?" Blair asked.
"I didn't tell him."
Blair looked thoughtful. Then he nodded. "When he finds out, I'll deal with it."
"I want the Crows watching the office," Simon said. "Tell Vlad and Henry to keep an eye on Meg. She hasn't had much contact with other terra indigene, and her not prey scent might cause confusion." In someone besides me, he added silently. Although knowing her scent was caused by her being cassandra sangue had eased that confusion inside him. She was still a puzzle, but that just made her something interesting to explore.
"Jester has had the most contact with her," Blair said. "He finds her entertaining, but he's also wary of her."
<If anyone picks up the faintest scent of blood on Meg, I want Vlad or Henry to know about it,> Simon told Blair. If he couldn't stop her from cutting, he was damn well going to know every time she did it.
Blair nodded.
They drove the rest of the way to the train station in silence. Simon's thoughts were full of Sam and Meg. He regretted not being there to watch them, but maybe that was better. They would have to figure out how to deal with each other on their own.
When they pulled into the train-station parking lot, Simon noticed the police car as he got out of the van, letting Nathan retrieve his carryall from the back. Lieutenant Montgomery stepped out of the car.
"Have to go, or we'll miss the train," Nathan said.
Simon nodded to Montgomery, then strode into the station, followed by Nathan and Marie.
When he boarded the train, he and his guards had the back half of a passenger car all to themselves. A sweating conductor blocked the aisle after they took their seats, directing the humans who hadn't found a seat elsewhere to the front half of the car.
Nervous glances. A buzz of whispers once the train started moving. And a railroad security guard taking the place of the conductor to ensure there wouldn't be any trouble.
Nathan was a couple of seats in front of Simon. Marie was a couple of seats behind him on the opposite side of the aisle. They, along with the human guard, would keep watch; he didn't need to.
Nothing he could do for the moment. The new drug or disease that was touching humans and Others alike had become more than a worry. What had happened in Jerzy could start a war. Terra indigene leaders needed to meet, needed to talk, needed to decide what should be done. Humans had weapons that could challenge claws and fangs. They had guns and bombs that could kill the shape-shifters and even the Sanguinati when they were in human form—if they died before they could shift to smoke. But nothing could stop the Elementals, which was something humans tended to forget until it was too late. And that was one of the reasons the terra indigene rationed the metals and fuels and other materials humans needed to create their weapons. The outcome of a war wouldn't change, so why should shifters have to die before the monkeys were extinguished? Besides, killing the humans all at once was a waste of meat.
Simon closed his eyes. Nothing he could do for the moment. Blair would look after the Courtyard—and keep an eye on Sam and Meg. As for the humans, he would have to trust Lieutenant Montgomery to keep the peace until he got back.
"Oh, that's not good," Meg muttered when she spotted the black sedan idling along the side of the Liaison's Office, unable to move forward because of all the delivery trucks that were in the way.
Parking her BOW willy-nilly and hoping no one needed to get another vehicle out of the garages, she bolted into the office. She had to get some of those deliveries taken care of before Elliot Wolfgard coughed up a hairball.
Did Wolves have hairballs? How could she find out such things?
Shaking her head, she removed her boots, hurried into the sorting room... and stopped. The Private door was wide-open, so she could see part of the front counter. The Hawk she had met the other day was standing behind the counter, his arms folded, his stance aggressive. He glared at someone she couldn't see and said, "Just write the words the Meg will want and leave the boxes."
One of the Crows, standing on the counter, cawed at the visitor, then walked over to the container filled with pens, lifted one out and, holding it in his beak, walked back. He tapped one end of the pen on the counter, then held it up as if offering it to someone—who obviously didn't take it because the pen was tapped on the counter again.
Hurrying to the doorway, Meg poked her head into the front room and got a look at the deliveryman.
"Hi, Dan. Sorry I'm late. Slept through the alarm. Just give me a second to get my coat off and I'll be with you."
She hadn't realized how nervous he'd been about being alone with the Others until she saw the relief on his face. She hadn't thought the Hawks and Crows were that dangerous, but maybe he knew more about them than she did.
"Oh, that's all right, Ms. Meg. Happens to all of us."
The Crow tapped the pen on the counter and held it up again.
Meg beamed a smile at the Hawk in human form and the Crow. "And you two opened up the office? That's great. Thank you. Be right with you, Dan."
"I know what you need."
And he didn't wait for her.
As she ducked back into the sorting room, she saw him gingerly take the pen from the Crow . By the time she hung up her coat and pulled on her shoes, Dan was outside, talking to a couple more deliverymen, and Harry was pulling open the door, juggling his delivery on one arm.
"Good morning, Harry," Meg said. Had she remembered to brush her hair? Simon's grab and hustle this morning had wiped her routine right out of her mind. She touched one side of her head.
"Morning, Miz Meg." Harry looked at her hand and smiled. "I see you've got a couple of helpers today. You take your time getting settled. We'll do fine."
The Crow grabbed the pen lying on the counter and held it up.
Taking Harry at his word, Meg retreated to the washroom and looked in the mirror. Her hair wasn't sticking up every which way, but it had been flattened by her hat. She ran a comb through it, decided that was as good as things would get, and went back to the counter.
The last deliveryman was writing down his information under the Crow's watchful eye. He looked at Meg and smiled. "Figures the day you're late to arrive is the day we've all got the Courtyard down as our first stop."
"Well, you all took care of it, and I thank you for that," Meg replied as she watched the black sedan pull out on Main Street.
"The Beargard said to help the Meg today," the Hawk said.
"Oh." The Crow was entertaining himself by pulling pens out of the container and arranging them on the counter, but what was she supposed to do with the Hawk? And how long did they expect to "help" today?
Since he was in human form, there was one thing the Hawk could do.
"I didn't have time for breakfast this morning," Meg said. "Would you go over to A Little Bite and ask Tess for some coffee? Tell her it's for me, and she'll know how to fix it. And ask her if Howling Good Reads has any copies of the Lakeside newspaper."
The Hawk stared at her. "The Lorne makes the newspaper. He's over there." He pointed in the direction of the Three Ps.
"Not the Courtyard's newsletter. I'd like a copy of the newspaper the humans read."
"Why would you want that?"
The Crow looked up from his pen arrangement to stare at her too.
Clearly being too interested in human activity was suspicious behavior here, even if the person was human. But something bad had happened, something that had caused Simon to leave in a hurry. Maybe she could find out what it was without cutting.
"As Liaison, I should be aware of what is happening in the human part of the city," Meg said, choosing her words with care. "And I can check store ads and make a list of things that might interest the terra indigene."
After a moment, the Hawk nodded and left. Meg smiled at the Crow and brought the handcart of packages into the sorting room.
Some were small enough to go with the mail. Others she would pack in the BOW for deliveries, along with her personal delivery.
The Hawk returned with a large coffee, a newspaper, and a small bag. He set them all on one end of the sorting table.
"HGR gets newspapers," he said. "Tess will tell Vlad that you are to get one now. There is food. There is no mouse in it, but the Merri Lee said you would like this meat better."
Thank the gods for Merri Lee. "Thank you." When he stared at her, she added, "I don't need any more help right now."
He turned and went into the back room. Meg was reaching for the coffee when he walked back out, naked. He went right by her, vaulted over the counter, then held out an arm for the Crow, who hesitated but hopped on his arm. The two of them left the office. The Crow joined its friends on the wall that separated the delivery area from Henry's yard. The Hawk stood in full view of anyone driving by long enough to make Meg wonder how to explain the cause of all the car accidents when the police came calling. Then he shifted and flew off.
Putting all the pens back in the holder, Meg went into the sorting room. There was nothing to do until the mail truck arrived, so she ate her breakfast and skimmed through the Lakeside News from first page to last. She found a few things she thought might be of interest to the Others, but she'd ask Tess or Vlad before doing anything.
What she didn't find was any kind of news that would explain why Simon had left in such a rush that morning.
Monty hesitated in the doorway of Captain Burke's office. Something about the way the man sat behind the desk gave the strong impression that intruding for anything but an emergency wouldn't be tolerated.
But when Monty took a step back, Burke said, "Come in, Lieutenant, and shut the door."
He shut the door and approached the desk.
"Something on your mind?" Burke asked. He sounded subdued.
"Simon Wolfgard and two other terra indigene caught a westbound train this morning," Monty said. "Henry Beargard called me with this information and suggested that a patrol car be at the station to ensure good behavior on the part of the humans. Officer Kowalski tells me this is unusual because the Others travel by train all the time and police presence isn't requested." He studied Burke. "It means something, doesn't it?"
"It means Simon Wolfgard knows more about what's happening out west than we do," Burke replied. He sighed and sat back. "Most likely, the newspapers and television news will receive a watered-down version to avoid things escalating out west or spreading to other parts of Thaisia."
Monty shivered. "Sir?"
"In hamlets that have less than a thousand people, the Others don't have a Courtyard. They don't need one because there is no way in or out of those places except on roads running through terra indigene land. But the Others usually have a house at the edge of the village, a place for mail and packages to be delivered and the place where they have electricity and telephones and where they enjoy the technology we've developed. The gards take turns using the house and looking after it, as well as dealing with the mail and deliveries.
"Last night in Jerzy, a farming hamlet that provides about a quarter of the food for one of the bigger cities on the West Coast..." Burke stopped and just stared straight ahead for a long moment. "Well, we don't really know what happened, except some young fools hopped up on some damn thing figured out the Crows had gathered for a movie night, broke into the house, and attacked the Others. One of the Crows managed to reach the phone and call for help, and a couple of them got away and alerted the rest of the terra indigene. The police officers who responded to the call were shot by the intruders, along with several Crows. That much is clear. After that... The Others caught some of the attackers and killed them, right out on the street. And then they went crazy. Some of the people in the village, instead of staying in their houses, grabbed whatever they could for weapons and went out and escalated the fight."
Burke clasped his hands and pressed them on the desk. "By the time police reinforcements from other hamlets arrived, the fight was over and the Others had disappeared into their own land. We don't know how many terra indigene died in that fight, but one-third of the people in Jerzy are dead. We know the humans started it, so the survivors are damn lucky the Others left anyone alive."
Burke's voice had risen to something close to an angry roar.
Out of the corner of his eye, Monty saw men jerk to a stop and stare before hurrying away.
"How did you find out about this, sir?" Monty asked.
Burke sagged, his face an unhealthy gray. "One of the officers who responded to the call is the son of a friend of mine. The Others found Roger and took him to the clinic. Saved his life. The other three police officers didn't make it. So Roger was the only one who knew for sure what happened up to his being shot. My friend called me this morning, both to tell me about Roger and to warn me about something Roger had heard before he passed out." He pushed back from his desk and stood up. "I will be talking—quietly—to the chief, to other captains, and to all the team leaders in this station. The chief will decide who else needs to know."
"About the attack?"
Burke shook his head. "About something that pumps up aggressive behavior. One of the attackers was boasting about having 'gone over wolf' and how they would become the enemy in order to defeat the enemy."
"Gods above and below," Monty whispered.
"So if you hear any whispers about humans having 'gone over wolf' or about something on the street that pumps up aggression, I want to know. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir." He hesitated, not sure he wanted to know. "What about the rest of the people in that hamlet? What will happen to them?"
"The Others let an ambulance come in and take Roger to a city hospital. They did that because he had responded when the Crows called for help. Then they barricaded the roads. Now the only ways out of Jerzy don't lead to anyplace human, and right now it's unclear if people would survive if they tried to leave. But one thing has already happened in the city that is supplied by Jerzy."
"Rations," Monty said. He remembered a winter as a child when his mother was making more soups and got so angry when he or his siblings tried to take a second piece of bread. That spring, he and his father and brothers had turned a piece of their backyard into a vegetable garden, and his mother learned how to can fruit for the hard times, and never went to the butcher shop or the grocery store without her ration book.
"Rations," Burke agreed. "And you can bet that will be news in every city throughout Thaisia, even if the reason isn't. That will be all, Lieutenant, unless you have something to add."
"No, sir. Nothing."
As Monty walked back to his desk to check his messages, he remembered Vladimir Sanguinati's words.
Next you'll be eating your weak in order to keep the strong healthy.
He sank into his chair, his legs trembling. Was someone trying to provoke a war between humans and Others? Did anyone think humans could win?
And if humans started a war and lost, what would happen to the survivors? Would there be any survivors?
Monty took out his wallet and opened it to the picture of Lizzy. He stared at that picture for a long time.
I will do my best to keep you safe, Lizzy girl. Even if I never see you again, I will do my best to keep you safe.
Putting his wallet back in his pocket, he went out to find Kowalski.
"Yes?"
"By the gods! Did you hear about Jerzy? All those people dead!"
"There was some mention of a hamlet by that name, but the news reports were very vague."
"What are you going to do about it?"
"What happened has nothing to do with me. As for what you should do, this seems like the time to adjust the price for your crops. The prophecy did say an incident would create an opportunity for great profit."
"But the prophecy didn't say anything about slaughter!"
"Why should it? You wanted to know if you could make more profit on your farms without further investment. Prices always rise when there is a shortage. Since you own most of the farmland in another hamlet that supplies the same city, you'll have great influence in setting the prices for a variety of crops."
"But you didn't say the shortage would be caused by people being killed!"
"And you didn't ask about anything but profit when the girl was cut."
An uneasy silence. "I should have phrased my request more carefully. I didn't mean to imply I had been given an inferior girl."
Quiet menace. "You paid for a cut on one of my best girls, and that is what you received."
"Yes, of course. You run the finest institution, and all of your girls are of exceptional quality. But for my next appointment, could I reserve cs759?"
"Cs759 is not, at present, on the roster."
"That's a shame. She has the finest skin. It's like she begins to attune to a prophecy even before the cut. When will you put her back in the roster?"
"Soon. I anticipate that she will be available again very soon." |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 11 | Meg sat back on her heels and stared at the Wolf pup, who stared back at her. Sam seemed shy, which made sense since she was a stranger, but he also seemed interested in getting to know her. At least, he seemed that way while she refilled his food and water bowls. But when she reached into the cage with a couple of paper towels to pick up the poop in the back corner, he snapped at her—and kept snapping every time she tried to reach in farther than the bowls, which were in the front of the cage.
"Come on, Sam. You don't want to smell poop all day, do you?"
The pup talked back at her. Since she didn't speak Wolf, she had no idea what he said, but she had the impression he was embarrassed, and her noticing the poop only made things worse, but she didn't know what to do about that. The terra indigene weren't human, didn't think like humans even when they were in a human skin. She'd learned that much in the week she'd been working for them. But they did have feelings. She'd learned that too.
She glanced at the wall clock and sighed. If she didn't get moving, she'd be late for work again.
She secured the cage door. "All right. You win, because I have to go to work. But this discussion isn't over."
He talked back, then lowered his head.
She'd bet a week's pay—if she had a paycheck yet—that Simon didn't take that kind of lip from a puppy. Of course, she didn't think Simon Wolfgard took that kind of lip from anyone.
She got to her feet and studied the pup. Why was he in a cage? If she asked, would anyone tell her?
He wasn't always in the cage. Sam had been outside the other night. Simon would rip her to pieces if she let Sam go outside and something happened to the pup. But there had to be something she could do that would keep them both safe so she could take him outside.
"I'll see you when I get back from work." No response to the words, but as she locked Simon's front door, she heard Sam's squeaky-door howl.
Telling herself she shouldn't feel guilty about leaving Sam by himself—after all, Simon did it all the time—she hurried to the garage, unhooked the BOW from its power supply, and headed for work. She still tended to stomp on the power pedal when backing up. Remembering all those training images from movies—clips of cars speeding up a ramp backward and sailing over another vehicle—kept interfering with the reality of a flat exit. But she was feeling more confident about forward driving, especially now that the main roads in the Courtyard were down to pavement.
She turned the sign on the office door to OPEN one minute after nine o'clock. As she poked her head out the door to say good morning to the four Crows on the wall and the Hawk who had claimed the top of the wooden sculpture—and the best view inside the office—she noticed Elliot Wolfgard coming out of the consulate.
Good clothes. Power attitude. Most of the men who had come to the compound and looked at her skin with a greed that was almost sexual had good clothes and that attitude.
Giving him a brisk nod, she withdrew and went back to the sorting room, closing the Private door partway. Then she braced her hands on the table and closed her eyes.
It had been a week since her last cut. Fear of making a bad cut with an unfamiliar blade had sufficiently dulled the craving for the euphoria. Fear and remembering things Jean had told her.
"They cut us so often for the money. I remember my ma saying that the more you cut, the more you want to cut. But Namid gave us the good feelings as a reward for cutting when folks need help." Jean paused. "Of course, when cutting is the only thing that makes you feel good, most girls won't fight when they're put in the chair."
Was this what withdrawal felt like? The Walking Names always said the girls needed the cutting. Truth or lie? Did she really need a cut or did she just want the euphoria? Since she could make her own choices about her body, did it matter?
Top side of the arms would be the safest place without a watcher. Or the legs, as long as she stayed away from the inner thighs.
Slipping her hand in her jeans' pocket, Meg caressed the razor, her thumb running over the cs759 engraved in the handle. A designation, not a name. And that did matter.
She heard the thump of boxes being set on the counter. Pulling her empty, trembling hand out of her pocket, she went out to take the first delivery.
Asia bought two takeout cups of hot chocolate at A Little Bite, then walked over to the Liaison's Office.
She'd spent an evening at Lakeside University, hanging around the girls who liked taking a walk on the wild side. She had hoped to glean some ideas for getting that kind of interest from the Others, but after an hour, she realized there were boys out there claiming to be what they weren't, and the girls who thought they had romped with a Wolf or a vampire had never seen a real one.
That gave her an idea for a way to get in by a side door, so to speak, but it still meant becoming pals with Meg. She was bound to learn something of interest by hanging around the Liaison's Office, and she'd also be able to scope out any possibilities working at the consulate.
And there had been that interesting phone call from her backers, who had heard from their contact in the mayor's office. Apparently, Meg had been a naughty girl, and White Van was looking for a thief, not a runaway spouse. So keeping tabs on Meg could be profitable all by itself.
A deliveryman held the door for her. Asia flashed him a smile, but she didn't bother to flirt because Meg was at the counter, looking baffled, and that made her curious.
"Problem?" she asked, setting the cups of hot chocolate on the counter.
"This store sent me eight catalogs," Meg said. "Why would a store send me eight of the same thing?"
"So you could distribute them?"
"For what?"
Just where did you come from that you don't know about ordering from catalogs?
"Haven't you noticed the ads in the Lakeside News? There are only so many newspapers that can be printed each day, and they're allowed to have only so many pages. When a store is running a special or a sale, they list the page number of the catalog where you can find the description. Even when there isn't a sale, lots of people check catalogs before going to a store and using up gasoline for the trip."
Meg's face went from baffled to excited. "This is good! Or it could be if the Others understand how to use catalogs. I can send one to each complex and can keep one for reference."
"There you go." Asia nudged the hot chocolate closer to Meg.
"What happens to the old catalogs?"
"They get collected and returned to the stores. A store's paper allowance is based on the amount of paper it's returning for recycling. The fewer catalogs the store returns, the fewer new catalogs it's allowed to print. When the spring catalog comes out, it will be an even trade—you'll get as many new catalogs as you hand in."
"I'll make a note of that so I can get the old ones back. Thanks, Asia."
"Glad to help." Asia hesitated, then decided the timing was good. "Say, Meg. Have you seen Simon around lately? Taking even a couple of classes at the university is expensive, and I'm still looking for some other work to help pay the bills. I wanted to see if he could use someone for one or two evenings a week at HGR. Preferably evenings when he's not on duty. He makes me nervous, so I act like a dummy around him, but I am a good worker. I really am."
Meg hesitated. "I don't think Simon will be in the store for a few days, but you could talk to Vlad. He's polite."
Asia didn't have to fake a shudder. "No, thank you. I like my neck just the way it is." Seeing Meg's blank look, she added, "You do know what he is, don't you?"
"Oh. Yes. I haven't had a lot of contact with him, but he's been courteous. He's certainly not as grumpy as the Wolves I've met."
Good to know, Asia thought. Maybe that meant the vampires considered the Liaison off-limits for dinner. She would be willing to have sex with a terra indigene, but she wanted some assurance that she would survive the experience. Maybe her mistake had been to target Simon. Maybe Vlad would have been a better choice for a lover. Donating a little blood for some useful pillow talk would be a fair exchange.
She gave Meg the "woman down on her luck but still has some pride" look she'd practiced in the mirror last night. And she didn't look at the hot chocolate she shouldn't have bought if she was broke—especially when places charged extra for disposable takeout cups.
Meg fiddled with the pens on the counter. Finally she said, "I can ask Vlad if they hire extra help on occasion."
"Appreciate it." Asia took a deep breath and put just the right note of false cheer in her voice. "Time for me to get going."
"Thanks for the hot chocolate."
With a careless wave, Asia left the office and hurried back to her car. It sounded like a little thing, but Simon being away from the Courtyard so soon after that incident out west was a solid nugget of information—especially when the newspapers and television news still didn't know what happened in Jerzy. Simon's absence was a good indication that the Others were somehow involved, and informing her backers was money in the bank for her.
And Simon being away gave her time to find out more about Meg and the man in the white van.
Days and months and years of training images and sounds. Snips and clips and photographs of the beautiful and the terrifying. Movies and documentaries and carefully edited bits from the news. During all those lessons, the Walking Names never told the girls which images were make-believe and which ones were real. Real was a word with little meaning beyond the cells and the physical things done to girls who were no longer useful enough to be "pampered"—things that gave the rest of them "the full experience" for the visions required by particular clients.
And there were the other images, the ones that swam under the surface of memory and rose without warning or context. The ones that came from prophecies. They looked different, felt different. Sometimes felt too alive, were experienced too much. But they were veiled by the euphoria, and the Walking Names didn't know the girls never forgot anything that was seen or heard during the visions. No, nothing was really forgotten, but those rememories, as Jean called them, couldn't be deliberately recalled like the training images.
Meg shook her head, pushed those thoughts away, and went back to sorting mail. Thinking about the compound wouldn't do anything but give her bad dreams tonight. She needed to remember something that would help her deal with Sam. Had she seen anything in all those binders filled with images that would be helpful now?
"Meg?"
She heard the voice a moment before Merri Lee poked her head in from the back room.
"Would you like to split a pizza with Heather and me?" Merri Lee asked. "Hot Crust is in the plaza a few blocks from here, and today is one of the days a Courtyard bus takes terra indigene for a shopping trip. Henry said he would pick up the pizza for us as long as I ordered a couple of party-size pizzas for the Green Complex."
Meg frowned. "Doesn't Hot Crust make deliveries?"
"They used to, but there was an... incident... and they won't come to the Courtyard anymore." Merri Lee brightened. "But maybe they'll start delivering again now that you're the Liaison."
Meg searched her memory for images of different kinds of pizza. Images of people eating pizza. She had been given a piece once in order to know taste, texture, and smell.
"I don't like the little salty fish," she said. She wasn't sure that was true, but she hadn't liked the look of them.
"Neither do we," Merri Lee said. "We usually get half with pepperoni and mushrooms and half with sweet peppers. Is that good for you?"
"That's fine. But I don't have any money."
"This one is on us—a welcome to the Courtyard. The last Liaison made Heather and me uneasy, so we are really glad you're here. And speaking of money." Merri Lee handed an envelope to Meg. "Your first pay envelope. It covers the three days you worked last week."
Meg opened the envelope and stared at the bills in various denominations.
"I know," Merri Lee said. "Most companies write paychecks. In the Courtyard, you get cash, and it's up to you to set enough aside to pay your income taxes, because they don't bother with anything like that either. You can open an account at the Market Square bank so you could write checks for expenses outside the Courtyard. Or there's a bank in the plaza that the Business Association uses when they write checks for outside vendors."
"I don't think this is the right amount," Meg said, riffling through the bills. "It's too much for the hours I worked last week."
"That's the other thing about working for the Others. You will never get less than what they agreed to pay you, but sometimes they give you more without explanation. We figure it's their way of saying 'Good job—don't quit' without actually having to say it. They don't do it every week, but Lorne says if you don't get a bumped-up pay at least once in a month, you should take it as a warning that you're doing something the Business Association doesn't like." Merri Lee headed for the back door, saying over her shoulder, "They're predicting more snow tonight. I hope it misses the city. If it piles up any more, we'll have to climb snowbanks and go into our houses through second-story windows."
Training image. Snow and barren, vertical rock. Men clinging to the rock, tied together with ropes.
Ropes. Safety lines. Buddies.
Meg hurried to the back room, catching Merri Lee on the doorstep. "When does the bus leave for the plaza?" she asked, feeling her skin almost buzz in response to her excitement.
"Eleven thirty. It returns from the plaza at one thirty."
"Thanks."
As soon as Merri Lee left, Meg went back to the sorting room and pulled out the Lakeside phone book. Ropes wouldn't work, but... Yes! The plaza had a pet store. She should be able to find something there that would be comfortable for Sam and keep them together.
Her hand hovered over the telephone while she went through the list of Others she knew. Vlad and Tess would be working in their own stores. So would Jenni. And Henry would be on the bus. Julia or Allison? Maybe. Blair? Remembering what he said about deliverymen and Wolves, definitely not. Which left...
The phone was answered on the second ring. "Pony Barn. Jester speaking."
"This is Meg."
A pause. "Is there a problem, Meg?"
Did her name automatically mean trouble? "No, but I wanted to ask you for a favor."
"Ask."
"There's something I want to get at the plaza, and the bus leaves at eleven thirty. I need someone to watch the office in case a delivery comes in before we close for the afternoon break."
"I'll come up with the ponies and stay until you get back."
"Thanks, Jester."
After hanging up, she stared at the phone and thought about what she was about to do. It was safe in the Courtyard. No one could touch her in the Courtyard. But in a human plaza where human law did apply?
Risky.
She turned her right hand palm up and studied the scars on the back of each finger. Didn't usually get much from a finger cut. A few disjointed images at the most.
Get on a bus full of terra indigene with a fresh cut on her hand? Did she really want to take the chance of setting off an attack? Besides, she was pretty sure Henry knew she was a cassandra sangue, so how would she explain the cut if he noticed it?
"You don't need to cut to go to the store," she told herself. "Jester is the only one who knows for sure that you're leaving the Courtyard. You'll be fine. Just buy the things for Sam, then go back to the bus and wait for the rest of them."
She briskly rubbed both arms and tried to ignore the pins and needles under her skin by focusing on the mail she had to get ready for the ponies.
It's a good thing Captain Burke expects each of his lieutenants to report at least once per shift, Monty thought as he stepped into Burke's office. Otherwise, the other men would start wondering if he was screwing up big-time.
"Something to report, Lieutenant?" Burke asked.
"Someone named Jester called to tell me Meg Corbyn was on the Courtyard's shopping bus, along with about fifteen Others, including Henry Beargard and Vladimir Sanguinati."
Burke stared at him, and Monty couldn't read anything in those blue eyes that gave him a clue as to what the man was thinking.
"Give me a minute, and then I'll buy you lunch," Burke finally said. "We'll take my car, so tell Officer Kowalski to meet you at the plaza. Maybe he'd like to pick up some lunch or stretch his legs."
Leaving Burke, Monty waited at his own desk for Kowalski. No messages. No reports. And thank the gods, no DLUs to fill out. He hoped that would still be true after the terra indigenes' shopping trip.
When Kowalski joined him, he told Karl about the call and that he and Captain Burke would be at the plaza.
"But he wants a patrol car parked nearby," Kowalski said, nodding. "I probably won't be the only one. The Courtyard bus brings Others to that plaza every Sunsday and Firesday at the same time. Patrol cars tend to drive through the parking lot or park for a while to pick up lunch. Helps to keep everyone honest."
"I'll see you there," Monty said as Burke walked out of his office, adjusting the collar of his winter coat.
He wasn't sure if Burke expected small talk from his officers or wanted silence in order to concentrate on driving. A thin layer of snow covered the streets, and after seeing a couple of cars fishtail while trying to stop at a light, he decided not to pull Burke's attention from the road.
Asia followed the Courtyard bus to the plaza, parking where she could see the dark green vehicle but wouldn't be noticed by the Others. Scanning the lot, she noticed a white van pull in from the other direction.
Not a good place for a snatch unless Meg walked so close to the van that the driver could grab her and be gone before the terra indigene realized there was trouble.
Then a patrol car pulled into the lot and parked a few spaces down from the bus, and another one pulled in from the opposite direction and also parked a few spaces away.
"Damn," Asia whispered. Wasn't unusual to see cop cars in the plaza on the Others' shopping days, but they weren't even trying to be subtle this time. Which meant they were more worried than usual and were going to shut down trouble before it started.
Were they antsy because of what happened in Jerzy, or was there a more immediate concern?
Asia figured she had an answer of sorts when Meg Corbyn stepped off the bus.
Burke parked a couple of spots from the small, dark green bus with LAKESIDE COURTYARD painted on the side.
"I wouldn't think they would want to advertise which vehicle was theirs," Monty said. He looked around at the rapidly filling parking lot. "Especially since they've parked the bus to take up four spaces."
"It's advertised so that the relatives of anyone who starts trouble can't claim the meat didn't know they were messing with the Courtyard's vehicle. Besides, the plaza blocks off those four spaces to give the terra indigene plenty of room. Safer for everyone that way."
Absorbing the significance of the word meat, Monty felt his stomach twitch and suddenly wasn't sure he wanted lunch.
Burke got out of the car and moved toward the bus. Hurrying after him, Monty saw the reason. Meg looked at both of them as she stepped off the bus, her face turning pale. Moving to one side to let the rest of the terra indigene exit, she stayed close to the bus. A big man whom Monty recognized as the sculptor and assumed was Henry Beargard stepped down, looked at them, and growled—and the rest of the Others, who had been heading toward the stores, all turned back to stare at him and Burke.
Beargard took a step to the right. Vladimir Sanguinati stepped down and, somehow, slid between Meg and the bus to stand on her left.
Feeling the tension, Monty wasn't sure what to do. They had called him, so why this hostility?
Because she's afraid, he realized as he looked at Meg. She's afraid, and the Others are waiting to see what we do where human law could apply.
"Ms. Corbyn," Monty said, forcing his lips into a smile. "May I introduce my captain, Douglas Burke?"
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Corbyn," Burke said, extending his hand.
She hesitated, and Monty didn't dare breathe until she shook Burke's hand.
"Thank you, Captain Burke," she said. "If you'll excuse me?" The rest of the terra indigene except Vlad and Henry scattered to take care of their own concerns while Meg hurried to the stores on the other side of the parking lot.
"When we called Lieutenant Montgomery, we weren't expecting to see an officer of such high rank," Vlad said, looking at Burke.
Burke's smile might have passed for genial if you didn't know the man. "I'm taking the lieutenant to the Saucy Plate for lunch to introduce him to some of the best red sauce in the city."
"An excellent choice for dining. I, too, enjoy a good red sauce," Vlad said.
Burke's smile froze.
"Captain?" Monty said. "We should get a seat before the lunch crowd arrives."
With a nod at Vlad and Henry, Burke turned and led the way to the Saucy Plate. Monty said nothing until they were seated and the waitress handed out menus and took their orders for coffee.
"Captain, I don't think he meant it to sound..." Monty trailed off, unwilling to lie to the man.
"To sound threatening?" Burke asked. "Oh, I'm sure he did. They floated that phone call to see what we would do, but they don't trust us—not in general and, specifically, not where Meg Corbyn is concerned." He smiled at the waitress when she brought the coffee and took their orders. "You've met Vladimir Sanguinati before. Any reason why you didn't introduce me?"
Monty shivered and rubbed the palm of his right hand. "I didn't want to put you in the position of having to shake his hand."
Burke gave Monty's hand a long look, then turned the conversation to small talk and stories about Lakeside.
When Meg reached the Pet Palace on the other side of the plaza, she glanced around. The Others who had been on the bus with her weren't in sight, but there were birds on most of the parking-lot lights. She couldn't tell if they were crows or Crows. Not that it mattered. If this worked, everyone in the Green Complex would know about her purchases.
Hopefully the Others would realize she was just trying to help Sam and not eat her for doing it.
"Can I help you?" the clerk asked as soon as she walked in the door.
Meg gave the man a bright smile. "I'm looking for a dog harness and a long leash."
He led her to an aisle that had a bewildering assortment of leashes, harnesses, and collars.
"What size dog?" he asked.
She chewed on her lower lip. "Well, he's still a puppy, but he's a big puppy. At least, I think he would be considered a big puppy."
"Your first dog?" The clerk sounded delighted. "What breed is it?"
"He's a Wolf."
She thought the movie clips of someone's skin turning a sickly green had been make-believe. Apparently not.
"You want to put a harness on a Wolf?"
There was something in the clerk's voice—shock? fear?—that made her wonder how much trouble she was going to be in until she could think of some other way of getting Sam safely outside. "He's young, and I don't want him to get hurt if I take him for a walk."
She didn't see anyone else in the store, but he leaned closer. "How did you get your hands on a Wolf pup?"
"I'm the Courtyard Liaison. He lives in the apartment next to mine. Are you going to help me or not?"
She wasn't sure he would, but he finally reached for a harness. His hands shook and his voice cracked, but based on what information she could give him, he found a red harness that he thought would fit and a long red leash that would give Sam room to roam.
"Will there be anything else?" the clerk asked.
Meg thought about it. "What kind of toys would a puppy like?"
She ended up with a ball and a length of knotted rope. Then she spotted dog cookies and picked up boxes of beef flavor and chicken flavor.
The clerk looked so relieved when she handed over her big zippered shopping bag, she wondered if the store would be closed from now on when the Others usually came to the plaza.
"Do you have a catalog?" she asked.
He slipped two into the bag. "Orders are usually next-day delivery."
She paid for her purchases and sighed with relief when she was on the sidewalk. She hadn't done anything wrong, but she wasn't sure how the Others felt about pet stores. She started to walk between two parked cars, then stopped, unable to take another step.
Rememory. A car door suddenly opening as a young woman walked past. Strong hands reaching, grabbing. Dark hood. Hard to breathe. Impossible to see. And those hands touching and...
"Are you all right?"
Meg jerked back and almost slipped, then almost slipped again trying to avoid the hand reaching for her.
Crows cawed, sounding a warning.
She focused on the man, who now stood very still. Police officer. Not one of the two who had introduced themselves, but not unfamiliar.
"Officer Kowalski, ma'am. I work with Lieutenant Montgomery."
She let her breath out slowly. She'd seen him in the car the day the lieutenant stopped in.
"My thoughts wandered," she said. "I wasn't watching where I was going." That wouldn't explain whatever he'd seen in her face when he reached for her, but the way he looked at her told her plainly enough her explanation, while true in its way, wasn't quite good enough to be believed.
"Let me give you a hand back to the bus. The parking lot is a little slick today."
Feeling unsteady and understanding that making an excuse to refuse his help would cause trouble, she accepted his arm—and noticed, even across the parking lot, the way Vlad stiffened as he watched them. She also noticed the way two more police officers got out of a patrol car and began looking around.
"Was anyone abducted from this plaza recently?" Meg asked, only noticing the prickling in her legs when the sensation began to fade.
"Ma'am?" Kowalski gave her a sharp look.
Rememories and images didn't use to flood her mind like this when she wasn't focused on a particular question, wasn't strapped in for a cutting and prophecy. When other people talked about recalling memories and information, was this what they experienced—this immediate association of one thing to another?
Did that mean she was starting to process the information around her like other people did, or was this the first stage of madness in a cassandra sangue? The Walking Names told the girls they would go mad if they tried to live outside the compound. Only Jean insisted that they wouldn't, but she really was half mad.
"It's nothing," Meg lied. "Overactive imagination. I have to stop reading scary stories before bedtime."
He nodded. "My fiancée says the same thing. Doesn't stop her from reading them."
Releasing his arm when they reached the bus—and Vlad—Meg smiled at Kowalski. "Thank you for the escort."
"My pleasure, ma'am." Nodding to Vlad, he returned to his patrol car.
"Problem?" Vlad asked.
She shook her head.
"You want to do any more shopping?"
She shook her head again. She wanted to get out of sight, wanted to hide. The need to do that was almost painful, and she didn't know what was making her feel that way. But she did remember how Simon had calmed down in response to her acting calm, so it wasn't hard to guess that predators didn't react well around fear.
"I'd like to put this in the bus and then make some notes about what stores are here," she said.
"I'll take that." Vlad's hand closed around the top of her carry bag.
She couldn't think of a way to refuse his help without making him curious about her purchases, so she surrendered the bag, then pulled a notebook out of her purse. As the Others trickled back to the bus with sacks bulging with merchandise, Meg made a list of the stores—and tried to ignore the feeling that more than the police and the terra indigene were watching her.
Asia slumped in her seat, peering over the dashboard as the Courtyard bus pulled out of the parking lot.
"Gods," she muttered when White Van pulled out moments later. "Can you be more obvious?" The fool had been walking toward Meg and was barely a handful of cars away when that police officer approached her. Cops and Crows and a freaking vampire all watching the parking lot. Watching Meg. Did that idiot really think he could have gotten away if he'd even made a grab for her? At best, he'd be having a long chat with the cops. At worst, pieces of him would be all over the damn parking lot.
Satisfied there was no one left who would notice her, she started her car.
Time to call Bigwig to see if he had any other information about Meg Corbyn. Someone who was supposed to be a thief shouldn't be getting police protection. Could be a cover story. A woman on the run being smoked out of hiding by a false accusation of theft. She's taken into custody, and one cop believes her story and helps her escape. Then the two of them are on the run, racing against time to uncover a deadly conspiracy.
That kind of movie could be a hit. She'd have to write up the idea and talk to Bigwig about it. Instead of a movie, maybe it could be a two-part special story in the Asia Crane, SI, TV show that would introduce the cop who might be an information source and/or lover.
While she was discussing that story idea with Bigwig, maybe he would be able to find out why so many people were paying attention to the Courtyard's Liaison.
Meg knelt in front of Sam's cage. She had hoped that everyone else would still be working, but apparently even the businesses available to human customers sometimes closed on a whim.
Or maybe the pizzas Henry took up to the social room were the reason the residents of the Green Complex were home early.
If she waited until dark to try this, they had less chance of being seen, but it might be scarier for Sam. So they would do this now.
"Sam," she said. "I think we should try the buddy system so we can go outside together."
He whined and shivered.
"When humans climb mountains, they tie a rope around themselves that connects them to their buddy. That way, if one of them gets stuck in a snowdrift, the other can pull him out."
She was mashing images together in a way that might not make a realistic whole, but she figured Sam wouldn't know that. Besides, there weren't any mountains in the Courtyard, but there were significant drifts that could bury either one of them.
"So I bought these." She held up the leash. "See? It's a safety line. I loop this around my waist, like this." She slipped one end of the leash through the wrist loop, then stepped into the bigger loop and pulled it up to her waist. "This end clips to a harness that you wear, since that's better than squashing you around the middle." She clipped the leash to the harness and held it up for him to see. "Want to try the buddy system? We wouldn't go far. Just a walk around the inside of the complex. What do you think?"
She opened the cage door. She was pretty sure Sam couldn't get out of the apartment, but she remembered movie clips of what a house looked like after a dog, chased by a human, ran through it.
If that happened, Simon would take one look at his home when he returned and eat her.
Sam crept to the door of the cage and stretched his neck to sniff the harness. He looked at the harness, then looked at her... and stepped out of the cage, making anxious little sounds.
"All right," she said brightly. "Let's go walk in the snow!"
She shimmied out of her end of the leash and put the harness on him, double-checking to make sure nothing was too tight. Then she put on her coat and shimmied the leash back up to her waist. Sam hesitated and looked ready to bolt back into his cage, but he followed her to the front door and pressed himself against her legs, which made putting on her boots a balancing act.
Zipping Simon's keys into her jacket pocket, she opened the front door, and she and Sam stepped outside.
Closing the door, she took a deep breath, grabbed her end of the leash before the loosened loop slipped down, and moved away from the building. After a moment, Sam followed her.
"There's Henry and Vlad," she said, spotting the vampire and Grizzly on the other side of the complex. "Let's go over and say hello." She started walking but stopped as soon as she felt a tug around her middle. She looked back at Sam, who hadn't moved but was now studying the red leash stretched between them.
Meg smiled. "See? Safety line."
His tail began to wag. He trotted up to her, and the two of them followed the walkway until they reached Vlad and Henry.
She couldn't identify the expressions on their faces. Since they weren't yelling at her—or threatening to eat her—she gave them a bright smile and said, "Sam and I are mighty adventurers, just like in the movies."
"I can see that," Henry replied after a moment. He looked at Sam. "You can follow a scent better than she can, so you make sure our Liaison doesn't get lost."
Sam replied in Wolf, and she and the pup continued their circuit around the complex.
Watching the woman and Wolf pup, Vlad felt relieved that Simon wasn't going to be within easy reach of a telephone. When he'd promised to keep an eye on those two, he hadn't anticipated Meg doing anything like this.
"That's Sam," he said, struggling to keep his voice neutral and not provoke the Grizzly.
"It is," Henry agreed.
"That's Sam on a leash." Because their second form couldn't be contained by such things, the Sanguinati didn't have the hatred of chains and cages that filled the shifters, but even he felt anger at seeing a terra indigene being treated like a... a... dog. He could imagine what Blair or, even worse, Elliot would say if they found out.
Hearing the Crows, he amended that thought to when they found out.
"And that's Meg with a leash around her waist," Henry said as Sam ran around her in circles and pulled her legs out from under her, dumping them both in a snowbank. "Hard to get away from what's on the other end, but a good way to haul someone back if there's trouble."
A good way to capture two instead of just one. But Vlad didn't say that. He just watched while girl and pup got untangled and climbed out of the snow.
"Something frightened her at the plaza," Henry said. "For a moment, the air carried the scent of the man who tried to break in to the efficiency apartments. But with all the police around, it was not a good time to hunt."
Vlad watched as Meg and Sam started the second circuit around the complex, heading back toward him and Henry. Sam was ahead of Meg now, sniffing at everything. Then he bounced back to Meg for a moment before bounding into the lead again.
This was the Sam he remembered before Daphne was killed—an exuberant pup. How could a piece of leather that should have offended make so much difference? Why did it make so much difference?
Sam was digging at something in the snow, and Meg was watching Sam. So neither of them saw Blair standing at the entrance to the complex, his mouth hanging open as he stared at the leash and harness.
"Henry," Vlad said.
"I see him."
Before Meg and Sam noticed him, Blair stepped out of sight. Not gone, no, but watching as Sam took a running leap and disappeared in a drift.
He howled that squeaky-door sound that couldn't be mistaken for any other Wolf. Meg laughed and took a step back. "Climb, Sam. Climb! We are adventure buddies scaling the mighty snow!" She pulled, and Sam climbed until he got out of the drift. He shook himself off and looked at Meg, tail wagging, tongue hanging out in a grin.
"Time for dinner?" she asked the pup.
His answer was to set off at a brisk pace, pulling her along behind him.
When Meg and Sam were inside Simon's apartment, Vlad watched Blair reappear at the entrance, looking wary. That harness and leash would infuriate all the Wolves in the Courtyard. Without Simon's presence, Blair, as the Courtyard's main enforcer, would either defend Meg or let the other Wolves have her for this offense. Which would bring the Wolves into conflict with the Sanguinati, because Grandfather Erebus was entertained by the Liaison and her courtesies, and he had made it clear that Meg was under his protection until he said otherwise.
Blair looked at them, nodded, and walked away.
"What do you think?" Vlad asked.
"See what you can find in the books or the computer about adventurers and ropes. See if you can find out why Meg did this."
"I can look. Or I can just ask her."
"Or you can just ask her." A thoughtful pause. "She does not think like other humans, and she does not think like us. She is something new, something little known and not understood. But she found a way to quiet Sam's fear, and that should not be forgotten."
No, that shouldn't be forgotten, which was something he would point out to Blair.
Henry blew out a breath. "Come. There is pizza and a movie. What was chosen for the entertainment?"
Vlad smiled, revealing the Sanguinati fangs. "Night of the Wolf." |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 12 | Her coat dangling from one arm, Meg rushed back into Simon's living room and shrieked, "Sam! What are you doing? Stop that! Stop!"
The pup continued chewing at the cage and pushing his little paws against the wires so hard that it looked like his toes had elongated into furry fingers that were trying to reach the latch.
She banged the cage with the flat of her hand, startling him enough to take a step back.
"Stop that!" she scolded. "You're going to break a tooth or cut your paws. What's wrong with you?"
He talked at her. She threw her hands up in exasperation.
"You have food. You have water. You already ate the cookies, and we had a quick walk. I have to go to work now. If I'm late again, Elliot Wolfgard will bite me, and I bet he bites hard."
Sam lifted his muzzle and wailed.
Meg stared at him and wondered what happened to the sweet puppy she had brushed yesterday evening, the puppy who had snuggled on the couch with her while she watched a television program. He'd been fine about going into the cage when she said it was time for bed. He hadn't made a fuss about her going back to her own apartment. And he'd been fine when she came over this morning—until she tried to leave.
"You can't go to work with me," Meg said. "You'd be bored, and I can't be playing with you. You stay home all the time when Simon goes to work."
Sam howled.
"I can come back during my lunch break for a walk."
Sam howled.
If she left, would he stop howling? If she left, would he still be howling when she got back? How much longer before Vlad or Henry or Tess started pounding on the door to find out what was wrong? Or was this something Sam did every morning and the residents were used to it?
Maybe they were, but she wasn't.
"All right!" she yelled. She opened the cage door. "Out! Out out out. Wait for me by the door."
Sam rushed out of the cage and busied himself trying to tug harness and leash off the coat peg by the front door.
Meg grabbed his food and water bowls and hurried to the kitchen. Finding a clean, empty coffee can with a lid in one of the bottom cupboards, she filled it with kibble and threw a few cookies on top, poured the water down the sink and dried the bowl, then grabbed one of the big carry sacks hanging from a peg and filled it with Sam's things. A moment's thought about snow and puppies had her running upstairs to snag a bath towel from the linen closet.
"I'm late, I'm late, I'm late," she muttered as she ran down the stairs. She stuffed Sam into the harness, ignoring his complaints because she didn't smooth all of his fur in the right direction. "I'll fix it after we get to the office."
Pup, purse, her carry sack, Sam's carry sack. The towel over one arm, the leash looped around her wrist. Juggling everything, she opened the door, fumbling for the keys in her pocket. Just as she pulled them out, Sam jerked on the leash, yanking her off balance.
She dropped the keys—and an olive-skinned hand caught them before they hit the ground.
"Need a hand?" Vlad said, smiling at her.
"Or a mallet."
He looked baffled—and very amused. "I don't understand."
She shook her head.
He locked Simon's front door and handed her the keys.
"Thank you," she said, dumping the keys in her purse and digging for the BOW's key. "I'm having a difficult morning. Sam! Stop tugging at me!"
"Is it that time of the month?" Vlad asked.
Some feeling blew through her. It might have been embarrassment, but she suspected it was closer to rage. "What?"
He studied her. "Is that not an appropriate question to ask?"
"No!"
"Odd. In many novels I've read, human males often ask that question when a female is acting..." Puzzlement as he continued to study her face. "Although, now that I consider it, they usually don't make that observation to the female herself."
"I have to go to work now," Meg said, enunciating each word.
"Ah." He looked at Sam, then at the carry sacks and the towel. "Where is Sam going?"
"He's coming with me."
Something in Vlad's eyes. Surprise? Panic? She would be okay with panic. It would mean she wasn't the only one who felt out of control today.
Although a vampire feeling out of control might not be healthy for the people around him.
"I'll help you with those," Vlad said.
She didn't argue, especially since she hadn't found the BOW's key yet. Vlad flung the towel over his shoulder and held the handles of the carry sacks in one hand as if the sacks weighed nothing, then led the way to the garages, leaving her to deal with Sam. She shortened the leash to keep the pup from running around her in circles. The way things were going, she would end up face-first in the snow. Again.
The way things were going, if she didn't put her foot down, she would end up puppy-sitting a little tyrant.
She was still trying to find her key—and wondering if she'd left it on her kitchen table—when Vlad dipped a hand in his pocket, pulled out a key, and opened the back of her BOW.
"What?" she stammered. "How?"
"Any BOW key works for all the BOWs in this Courtyard," Vlad said. "Makes it easier, since very few of them are designated for a particular individual."
While she stared at him, he picked up Sam, wiped the pup's feet, then placed pup and towel where Sam could look out between the front seats. He tucked the sacks in the back. "Are you riding in the back?" He wagged a finger at the leash still looped over her wrist.
She stripped off the leash and tossed it in the back. Vlad closed the door and walked over to the driver's side. He was courteous, and except for that crack about PMS, he was polite. But she had the distinct impression he was laughing at her.
"It's my BOW, so I'm driving," she said.
"Found your key yet?" He didn't wait for her answer. "Since I do have a key, I'm driving—and neither of us will be too late for work."
She made a growling sound that had his eyebrows shooting up in surprise, but she was beaten for the moment, so she went around to the passenger's side and got in.
The BOWs were built to tootle around an enclosed community like a Courtyard, but knowing Elliot had been grumbling over the Liaison's tardiness, Vlad nudged the vehicle to its top speed, aware that Meg was trying to watch him without appearing to watch him. From what the members of the Business Association had been able to piece together by observing her, Meg absorbed what she saw and heard with unnerving clarity, and those remembered images became her reference to the world. What she saw she could repeat and do—up to a point. There were gaps, omissions of information, that they suspected were deliberate, so that blood prophets could do very few things independently. From what Tess had gleaned from questioning Merri Lee, Meg could identify a lot of objects, but she knew what very few of them did.
Which made her escape from the compound where she had lived to her arrival at their Courtyard all the more remarkable. Somehow, she had figured out enough to run away—and stay alive while she did it.
Thinking about what Henry and Tess—and Simon—would say if Meg ended up in a ditch because of watching how he drove, Vlad slowed to a moderate speed and took care not to do anything that would be considered bad driving. That was something they had agreed on—be precise when showing the Liaison how to do something so that she learned what she needed to know.
Of course, Simon had ignored that completely when he rushed off and dumped a Wolf pup in her lap.
Something new, Henry had said about her. Something little known and not understood. She was all of that. And she was a potential threat, because someone with Meg's ability to remember images and accurately describe them could tell an enemy too much about their Courtyard and about the terra indigene.
He pushed those thoughts aside when a Hawk, an Owl, and four Crows all came winging toward them from the direction of the Liaison's Office.
<Monkeys are waiting for the Meg,> the Hawk told Vlad.
<We're almost there,> he replied to all of them. <The humans will wait for her.>
<We will tell Nyx,> the Crows said as they circled around, and went winging back.
He wasn't far behind them, so a minute later he pulled up at the Liaison's Office, parking close to the back door. "You go in and get settled. I'll bring Sam and the bags."
"Thanks," Meg replied, jumping out of the BOW.
Sam tried to scramble into the front seat and follow her, but Vlad grabbed him as Meg closed the door. The pup struggled for a moment, then stared out the window, making anxious sounds.
<Listen to me, Sam. Listen,> Vlad said. <This building is a place where we deal with humans. There will be many of them coming and going. Meg will be talking to them. You're afraid of them, but if you're going to stay here with Meg, you have to be brave. Do you understand?>
No answer except that shallow, anxious breathing, accompanied by a whine.
Vlad sighed. How had Simon endured this silence from a pup he loved?
He got out of the BOW, carrying Sam so he wouldn't have to dry off the pup. After setting him on the floor in the back room—and watching while Sam rushed into the sorting room to find Meg—he took the sacks and towel out of the BOW and carried them inside.
Moving silently, he entered the sorting room. Sam was sniffing one corner of the room, now oblivious to everything except the scent he'd found. Opening the Private door all the way, he looked at the tableau and thought, A Crow, a prophet, and a vampire walk into an office...
Then he huffed out a breath. It sounded like the beginning of one of those stupid jokes the terra indigene never understood.
Three deliverymen, all holding boxes and all standing back from the counter. Dropping the pen it was holding, the Crow cawed at them, walked to one end of the counter, selected another pen, then returned and tapped the pen on the paper clamped to the clipboard.
The men hesitated to approach, as if that small distance would make any difference. If Nyx wanted to feed, there wasn't anything her prey could do to stop her. If she had been wearing jeans and a sweater, the men wouldn't have known she was one of the Sanguinati. But Nyx preferred wearing a long, black velvet gown that had a modest train and those draping sleeves—the kind of garment female vampires often wore in the old movies Grandfather loved so much. Wearing it amused her because she said it was a way to tell her prey what she was, even before she began to feed.
Still in her winter coat, Meg took the pen from the Crow . Smiling and talking to the men, she quickly filled out the information while they set the packages on the handcart and kept glancing at Nyx.
Realizing none of the men were leaving, Vlad said, <Nyx.>
<I have done nothing. It is their own fear that holds them,> she replied, her dark eyes watching the men while she remained perfectly still. <Meg will do her work, and I will remain where I am.>
<Why stay?> he asked, although he made no move to withdraw.
<To teach the humans that they're not prey when they are in this office. They will learn we do not harm those who deal with Meg, even if she is delayed. They will value her because of that and be a different kind of guard.>
<Have you heard something to indicate there is a reason for another kind of guard?>
<She pleases Grandfather. That is reason enough to keep her safe,> Nyx replied.
Meg smiled at the deliverymen as they walked out the door together and got into their trucks or vans. She continued to smile until they drove away. Then she blew out a breath and turned to Nyx and the Crow.
"Thank you for opening the office. I don't mean to be late every morning. Things have gotten complicated the past couple of days."
Looking over his shoulder at Sam, who was still busily sniffing his way around the sorting room, Vlad said, "That's understandable."
"It was entertaining," Nyx said. "And Jake knew what to do."
The Crow who was pulling pens out of the holder and arranging them on the counter looked at them and cawed.
"I think there is a package for Mr. Erebus from the movie place," Meg said. "Do you want to take it with you?"
Nyx laughed. "And deprive him of a visit from you? No. But I will tell him a package has arrived." She changed to smoke, from feet to chest, and floated over the counter. Returning to solid form, she held out her arm to the Crow, who hopped on to be taken outside.
Meg stared as the Crow flew off and Nyx changed completely to smoke that flowed toward the access way leading to the Market Square. Then she stared at the counter, and finally at Vlad. "Am I the only one who needs to use the go-through?"
Feeling Sam come up beside him, Vlad grinned at her. "No, you're not the only one. At least for now. I'll park the BOW in the garage for you. If you don't find your key, let me know and I'll drive you home."
He didn't wait for her answer. He needed to open HGR, and he wanted to let Henry know Sam was with Meg—assuming Jake hadn't already told the Courtyard's spirit guide.
And he still needed to find a subtle way of warning everyone in the Courtyard that, until Simon returned, he and Henry Beargard would be looking after Meg and Sam.
Meg put out kibble and water for Sam, smoothed the fur under the harness, and let him roam the sorting room without the leash. After she barely missed stepping on his tail or toes a couple of times, he settled down where he was out of the way but could watch her sort the mail and packages. The package for Mr. Erebus from the movie place was small enough to go with the mail, but remembering what Nyx said, Meg put it with the afternoon deliveries—including a special delivery for Winter that she hadn't yet had a chance to make.
The morning passed quickly. When she heard the ponies, she snapped the leash to Sam's harness and slipped the other end over her wrist before opening the outer door, just in case the pup decided to bolt outside. But Sam, while intrigued, was happy to stay with her as she walked back and forth from table to ponies. For their part, the ponies seemed curious but unconcerned about the pup.
Congratulating herself on getting through another week without getting eaten or fired, she tapped the stack of papers that held her notes about the week's deliveries. Her little finger slid along the papers' edge.
A shiver of pain came before blood welled from the slice along the joint. She stared at her left hand, trying to remember something from her lessons that would explain the cut, unwilling to believe that paper could slice skin. Then the pain came, smothering her chest and twisting her belly.
Sam howled in terror.
She looked at the pup to reassure him, hoping to shape ordinary words before the prophecy began flowing through her.
Except Sam wasn't howling. He stood next to her, watching her anxiously as her own body told him something was wrong.
Sam wasn't howling. But she could hear him. Even now, knowing he wasn't making a sound, she could still hear him.
The vision had started. She didn't know what was coming, what images she would see. But if Sam was part of it... If she spoke to experience the euphoria, she wouldn't remember enough, if she remembered anything at all, and no one would know why Sam was afraid. But if she didn't speak, if she swallowed the words so that she could see the prophecy... For Sam's sake, could she endure the pain?
"Stay here," she said through gritted teeth. She hurried to the bathroom and shut the door before Sam could follow her.
Her throat felt clogged with terrible things. Leaning over the sink, she struggled to breathe as pain crawled through her and the vision filled her mind as if she were watching a stuttering movie clip.
Men. Dressed all in black. Even their faces, their heads, were black. Some had guns; others carried rifles... skip... One man was grabbing at something, but she couldn't see... skip... A sound like a car mated to a hornet... skip... Snow falling so fast and fierce and thick, she couldn't get a sense of place, couldn't tell if she was seeing the Courtyard or the city or somewhere else that had a snowstorm... skip... But Sam was there, howling in terror.
Meg came back to herself when the muscles in her hands cramped from holding on to the sink so hard.
Focus on breathing, she told herself. The pain will fade. You know it will fade.
She washed her hands, taking care to thoroughly clean the little finger.
Such a small slice along the edge of that joint. If she sliced it again to lengthen it, maybe she could see more. And maybe she would see another prophecy, but it would be mashed with the images she'd already seen in this small cut. The Walking Names called the result of cutting over a previous cut a double vision, that nightmarish occurrence when one prophecy imposed itself over another and the images collided in ways that usually had terrible, mind-breaking consequences for the girl who saw them.
Sometimes the colliding images weren't terrible. Sometimes, if the girl could accept what she was seeing, the images could change a life. They had changed hers when the Controller had cut across old scars as a punishment. The colliding prophecies had shown her the first steps of her escape.
Just because she had survived double visions before didn't mean her mind wouldn't break if she tried it again.
She dried off her hands, got antiseptic and a bandage from the first-aid kit, and took care of the slice. Moving slowly, she returned to the sorting room and Sam. Opening her personal notebook to a clean page, she wrote down what she had seen while the details were fresh.
She had to tell someone, but who would listen?
Wishing she could talk to Simon, Meg reached for the phone and made a call. The phone at the other end rang and rang. Then the answering machine picked up.
"Henry? This is Meg. I need to talk to you."
Henry arrived a minute after she locked up for her lunch break. Leaving Sam in the sorting room with a couple of cookies, she found herself unable to look at the big man, let alone say anything.
"You're hurt," he finally said.
She shook her head.
"You smell of pain, of weakness."
Not weakness. No, she wasn't weak. But the pain, while fading, was still a fearsome thing.
Henry's voice was a quiet rumble. "What did you do to your hand, Meg?"
"I didn't know paper could cut." Even to her own ears, she sounded whiny. "I thought that was a make-believe image."
"Make-believe?"
"Not real."
He looked puzzled. "Let me see your hand."
"My hand is fine. That's not why—"
He took her left hand and unwrapped the bandage on her little finger. His hands were big and rough, but he touched her with surprising gentleness.
"You have scars," Meg said, looking at his fingers.
"I work with wood. Sometimes I am clumsy with my tools." He studied the slice on her finger, then bent his head and sniffed it. Shaking his head, he rewrapped the bandage. "Such a small cut shouldn't cause so much pain."
He wanted an explanation, but her pain had no significance in what she had seen, so right now it wasn't important. "Henry, I saw something."
Releasing her hand, he straightened to his full height, towering over her. "You saw...?"
Easing around him, she picked up her notebook from the table in the back room and handed it to him.
She watched him read the words, the frown line between his dark eyes getting deeper as he read them again.
"Some prophecies look like a series of images or sounds," she said. "Some, like this one, look like a movie clip, or a series of clips with sounds and action. The same image might appear in a hundred prophecies, so it's up to the person who wanted the vision to understand the meaning."
Henry studied her. "You heard a Wolf howling. Are you sure it was Sam?"
"Does any other Wolf howl sound like Sam's?"
"No." Henry thought for a moment. "Why would you have a vision about Sam? He could not have asked you to see anything."
"No, but he was the only person with me when I got the paper cut." Meg shivered. "Who are those men? Why do they want Sam?"
With Henry standing in the middle of the room, she didn't have room to pace.
"I'm so useless!" she cried. "I see this, but I can't tell you where it will happen or when or why!"
Henry held up her notebook. "I need to talk to some of the others. May I take this? I will return it."
"Okay. Yes. What about Sam?"
"Vlad will take Sam home. He has been here long enough for one day."
"But..."
The back door opened and Vlad walked in, giving Henry a questioning look. Then he glanced at her hands and stiffened.
Something passed between Grizzly and vampire that neither shared with her. Vlad slipped into the sorting room while Henry fetched her coat from the peg on the wall.
"Come with me," Henry said.
"My purse is in the sorting room, and my keys are in it."
Before she had both boots on, Vlad opened the door enough to hand her purse to Henry, and used one of his feet to block Sam's attempts to join her.
"Where are we going?" she asked when she and Henry stepped outside.
"Not far."
He led her to the yard behind his shop. A narrow path ran down the center of it to his studio door, which wasn't locked. Big windows filled the back wall on either side of the door, providing light. The sides of the studio were the building's brick walls. The floor was wood chips—or was covered in a layer of wood chips so thick she wasn't sure what the floor was supposed to be. The room felt warmer than outside, but not warm enough that she wanted to give up her coat, and Henry didn't indicate she should remove her boots.
He pointed to a bench. She sat down, wondering why she was there. Besides several pieces of wood and a cart filled with tools, there was a storage cabinet with a granite top and a round carved table that held a music player.
Henry stripped off his own coat and hung it on a peg before plugging in an electric kettle that sat on the cabinet. While the water heated, he placed her notebook on one of the cabinet's shelves, then selected a music disc and put it in the player. A few minutes later, he handed her a mug, turned on the music, and began working on the piece of wood in the center of the room.
The scent of peppermint rose from the mug. Not sure what he wanted from her, she cupped her hands around the mug for warmth and watched him as he coaxed a shape from the wood. The music, a blend of drums and rattles and something like a flute, flowed in the air, and the sound of Henry working seemed to blend with the rest.
"I like the music," Meg said. "What is it?"
He looked at her and smiled. "Earth-native music. When humans invented the music players and the discs that held sounds so that songs and stories could be shared by many, we saw the value of those things and arranged to record the music of our people."
"Do you like human music?"
"Some." Henry caressed the wood. "But not here. Not when I touch the wood and listen to what it wants to become."
Meg studied the rough shape that seemed to be leaping out of the block of wood. "It's a fish."
He nodded. "A salmon."
When she said nothing more, he picked up his tools and began working again. She watched the salmon emerge from the wood, its body a graceful curve. Not finished, to be sure, but not unformed.
She hoped she would still be there to see it when it was done.
The music ended. Her mug was empty. Taking it from her, Henry said, "The pain is quieter now. Eat some food. Rest a little more before you return to your work."
She stood. "Thank you for letting me sit here. I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful."
"You gave us warning. That is help. As for the rest, you are welcome to come here and let your spirit touch the wood."
Now that the pain had dulled, she was hungry for more than the usual soup and sandwich she could get at A Little Bite, so she walked over to Meat-n-Greens, the restaurant in the Market Square. Training images told her this wasn't a high-end restaurant—the tablecloths were the kind that could be wiped down instead of cloth that needed to be laundered—but the menu listed everything from appetizers to full dinners. She ordered a small steak with mashed potatoes and peas, savoring the experience of making a choice.
When she got back to the office, she found a container of soup and a wrapped sandwich in the little fridge, and her lidded mug filled with fresh coffee.
"Don't have to wonder about dinner," she said as she picked up the copies of the Lakeside News and the Courtyard's newsletter that someone had left on the back table. She took them and her coffee into the sorting room, then opened the office for the afternoon deliveries.
Henry, Vlad, Blair, and Tess gathered in the Business Association's meeting room.
Henry set the notebook on the table. "This is Meg's. I think whatever else is written here is private, but she offered these words for all of us to see."
None of them spoke as they read Meg's record of the vision, but Blair began growling.
"If this was a book, the vision would have included a newspaper that would indicate the date something would happen," Vlad said.
"But it is not a book," Henry replied. "She gave us much for such a small cut. An accident," he added when Blair stared at him.
Blair nodded and went back to studying the words.
Henry looked at Tess. "You said there was pleasure in the cutting. All I smelled in her was pain. Why?"
"I don't know," Tess replied. "Maybe it's the difference between an accidental cut and one made deliberately. Maybe it was because there was something she wasn't able to do alone, so she experienced pain instead of euphoria. I told you all I know about blood prophets."
"I used the computer to check for books or any writings about them," Vlad said. "There are stories that have cassandra sangue as characters, but they were listed under horror or suspense novels, so I doubt there is any useful information. I added a couple of them to the next book order coming to HGR. I'll keep looking."
"Someone knows about them," Tess said.
"Meg knows," Henry said quietly. "In time, she will tell us." He looked at the Wolf. "Blair?"
Blair let out a breath slowly. "Could be this year, could be five years from now. There's still plenty of time for a storm like that before the cold girl yields to her sister. That sound. Smaller than a car, but not a BOW. Has to move well over snow."
"I can help Vlad search the computers for such a vehicle," Tess said. She hesitated. "Should we tell that policeman who talks to Simon?"
"Are such visions ever wrong?" Blair asked. "Can we know that those men coming in with weapons and hidden faces aren't police?"
"Why would the police want Sam?" Vlad asked.
"Why would anyone?" Henry countered.
Flickers of red danced in Blair's amber eyes. "Daphne is dead, so Sam is the Wolfgard's child. Would anyone be foolish enough to touch him and start a war?"
"Someone will be foolish enough," Henry said. "Meg has seen it."
Silence.
Finally Blair said, "Clear skies today. Unless someone angers the girl at the lake, we shouldn't have another storm for a few days."
Tess leaned forward and brushed a finger over the page that held Meg's notes about the vision. "Even if a blood prophet is never wrong, what she sees is open to interpretation. Meg has shown us the beginning of a fight, but there is nothing here that shows how it will end."
She looked at the three men. Despite his strength as a Grizzly, Henry felt a shiver down his spine when he saw the way her hair began to coil.
Tess left the room, apparently deciding there was nothing more to say.
"Sam's not going to accept being left behind all the time," Vlad said. "And being around Meg is good for him." He gave Blair a pointed look. "You don't like the harness and leash, and I understand that, but a couple of days with Meg has pulled Sam away from the bad place he's been in since Daphne died. That should count for something."
"I can't speak for other Wolves, but it counts with me," Blair said. "We'll keep Sam safe. And Meg too."
Vlad shifted in his chair. "She hasn't seen a Wolf yet. Except Sam."
"There's always a Wolf on duty at HGR," Blair said.
"Yes, but she hasn't been in the store since she became the Liaison, so she hasn't seen one of you."
"I'll assign a couple of Wolves to keep watch around the office. In human form."
"Keep in mind that they'll see Meg and Sam," Henry said.
Blair growled. " That is for Simon to deal with when he gets back."
"Agreed."
Satisfied they had done what they could for the moment, Henry stood. "I am close by during the day, and the Hawks and Crows keep watch when Meg is working. They will alert the Wolves if there is a threat."
The three went back to their own work.
As Henry walked the narrow path to his studio door, he looked at the Crows gathered on the wall. <Anything to tell me?>
<Humans and boxes,> Jake replied. <The Meg does not need help with the writing.> He sounded disappointed.
Back inside, Henry hung up his coat and walked around the pieces of wood waiting to be given a new kind of life—and thought about the female who, despite being human, he was beginning to see as a friend.
In between deliveries, Meg scanned the Lakeside News, but didn't see anything she thought should be reported to Henry or Tess—and wondered if she was out of place to even be looking. Surely Tess or Vlad did that anyway. But they didn't have all the images she did and might not recognize something that could have an impact on the Others.
She noticed the sale ads, which were set up as Asia said, but she didn't know if any of the residents would be interested in such items.
She read the comics and didn't understand most of them. But there was a comic strip about the Others that disturbed her. It seemed to be part of an ongoing story, so the words had little meaning, but the slavering Wolf, standing upright and looking like a furry man with a wolf's head, made her uncomfortable. Maybe it was a way to diminish something that was feared, but it felt dangerous. She couldn't say if it was dangerous to the Others or to the humans, but she absorbed the image, then looked at the date at the top of the newspaper. Another image.
Folding the paper, she reached for the Courtyard's newsletter, then stopped. Too much information, too much to absorb already today. Besides, distributing that new catalog to the residential complexes had produced a flurry of orders that had arrived that afternoon, so she still had to separate a cartload of packages and contact the complexes to come and pick up their orders.
She locked up promptly at four o'clock, filled the back of the BOW with small packages for the Chambers and the Green Complex, made sure she had her package for Winter, and headed out to make her deliveries.
It still made her nervous to get out of the BOW at any of the mausoleums that housed the Sanguinati—except Mr. Erebus's home—but she was getting used to the smoke that flowed out of the buildings whenever she stopped the BOW. The Sanguinati in smoke form didn't flow beyond their fences when she was around, and the ones who remained in human form didn't speak to her or approach. She always bid them a good afternoon as she tucked packages into the delivery boxes—and always breathed a sigh of relief that none of them wanted to make a meal out of her.
Mr. Erebus, on the other hand, came down the walkway to meet her as she got out of the BOW.
"Your movies arrived," Meg said, holding up the package. She noticed his fingernails didn't look as yellow or horny as they had the first time she'd seen him, but maybe that was because she'd been nervous and the doorway had been dark.
"I do enjoy my movies," he said. "Such a sweet girl to bring them to me." Then he pointed at the black delivery boxes to indicate she should put his package inside. Even when he came out to meet her, he wouldn't take a package directly from her hand.
"I'm pleased to do it," Meg said.
Erebus studied her as she put the rest of the packages inside the delivery boxes. "Vladimir is kind to you?"
The question surprised her. What surprised her more was the feeling that Vlad's well-being depended on her answer. "Yes, he is. He and Nyx were very helpful this morning."
"That is good." He stepped back. "Go finish your work, then enjoy the night."
"I will."
As she drove toward the lake, she wondered if that was a warning that she should stay within the Green area of the Courtyard after dark.
Winter was skating on the lake, wearing the same white dress. Meg parked in the same place as the first time she'd visited, pulled a scarf out of the shopping bag, then walked down to the edge of the lake.
The girl gradually joined her.
"It is the Liaison," Winter said. "Do you skate, Meg?"
"I never learned."
"Humans wear metal on their feet to glide over ice. I have no need of such things." Winter tipped her head. "Did you come to collect the library books? We have not finished reading them."
"No, I'm not here for the books. I brought you this." Meg held out the scarf.
The girl stiffened, and the eyes that fixed on Meg were filled with an inhuman anger.
"You brought me the color of Summer?"
Staggered by the depth of the anger, Meg looked at the green scarf. "Summer? No. I didn't think of it as a summer green."
Winter seemed taller than she'd been a moment ago—and less human. And the air, which had been tolerable that afternoon, suddenly had a bite.
She had insulted the girl. That much she understood. It sounded like Winter and Summer didn't get along, despite being sisters. Were they sisters?
"When I saw this, I thought of you," Meg said, hoping to explain.
"Me." The word was a furious whisper. Snow suddenly whipped around the other side of the lake, a curtain moving toward them.
"Because of this." Meg unfolded the scarf, revealing the snowflakes that became the white ends and fringe. She struggled to find the right words. "Winter isn't an absence of color; it has all these shades of white. And then there are the evergreens with their branches tipped with snow, their color an accent for the white. When I saw the scarf at a shop in the Market Square, I thought of you because your dress has shades of white, and the green would be an accent for the dress like the evergreens are for the land."
The snow on the other side of the lake quieted. Winter studied the land and the trees, then looked at the scarf. "It is the color of the evergreens." She reached out and rubbed the scarf between her hands. "Soft."
Meg hardly dared to breathe.
"Kindness," Winter murmured, taking the scarf and wrapping it around her neck. "So unexpected."
The eyes that would never be mistaken for human stared at her. "Thank you, Meg."
"You're welcome, Winter." She walked back to the BOW and waved before she got in. The girl didn't wave back, but as Meg drove away, a second girl glided over the ice and linked hands with Winter.
During the drive back to the Green Complex, Meg noticed how the snow beside the road swirled in the air like skaters twirling over the ice on a lake. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 13 | After a long, hot shower and a late breakfast, Meg filled Earthday with chores, Sam, and her first social outing. While her clothes washed, she and Sam walked around the complex. While the clothes dried, she and Sam walked around the complex. By the time she got home and put her clothes away, Sam was sprawled on her bedroom floor, unwilling to move. She had to lug him back to his cage in Simon's living room.
Then it was time to meet the females who were gathering in the Green's social room to watch a chick movie. Jenni Crowgard and her sisters were there, along with Julia Hawkgard, Allison Owlgard, and Tess.
They rearranged the chairs and the sectional couch to their liking—and for ease at reaching the popcorn, nuts, and chocolate chip cookies Tess had brought. Then Jenni started the movie.
There were mothers crying about daughters, and daughters yelling at mothers. There were fathers arguing with sons. There were friends offering unwanted advice to everyone. But in the end, they were all smiling and hugging.
Meg couldn't decide if this was supposed to be a story about a real family or if it was make-believe and wouldn't actually happen in a human community. The Others didn't understand the story either, but they all agreed on one thing: there wasn't a single chick in the whole movie.
By the time she got back, Sam was awake and ready to play. So they ate and played and watched another movie that definitely had chicks and other animals in it.
"If you let me get some sleep tonight, you can come with me in the morning," Meg said when she latched the cage. "But if you start howling and keep everyone up, you'll have to stay home by yourself."
Sam whined, making Meg feel like a meanie. But he settled down, and she went back to her apartment and barely had time to go through her nightly routine before she fell into bed and was sound asleep.
The next morning, there wasn't a sound from Simon's apartment. Not a yip or a howl. Having slept through her alarm, Meg wasn't sure she would have heard Sam before she stumbled out of bed, no matter how much noise he'd made. However, by the time she got out of the shower, the silence had taken on an ominous feel.
What if she hadn't latched the cage correctly last night? What if Sam had gotten out and, feeling upset with her for leaving him, had done one of the things that had worried Simon enough to buy the cage in the first place?
Rubbing her wet hair, Meg stuffed the towel on the rack, put on her robe and slippers, and hurried over to Simon's apartment. She shivered as she worked the lock in the back hallway—a reminder that even indoors, this wasn't a good time of year for wet hair and minimal clothing.
She would fix both of those things as soon as she checked on Sam.
What if he wasn't making any noise because he was injured and couldn't howl for help? What if he was sick? What if...
She rushed down the stairs and into the living room.
... he was licking the last bits of kibble out of his bowl and waiting for her quietly so she would take him with her?
Sam wagged his tail and let out a soft arrooooo of greeting.
"Good morning, Sam," Meg said. "I just wanted to let you know that I'll come and get you in a few minutes. Okay?"
Taking the sound he made as agreement, she dashed back to her apartment to dry her hair and get dressed. She hurried through the rest of her morning routine, almost choking on her hasty breakfast of peanut butter and bread.
By the time she got her place locked up and returned to Simon's apartment, Sam was dancing in place. As soon as she unlocked the cage, he was out and dancing at the front door. She got him into his harness and packed up his bowls and towel. When she stepped outside, Vlad was waiting for her.
He took the two carry sacks and looked thoughtful. "What are you bringing every day?"
"Sam's food bowls," Meg replied, double checking that she had properly locked Simon's door, because she remembered images and clips of thieves breaking into houses. Then there was the recent vision of those men dressed in black and Sam being afraid. She didn't think anyone would sneak into the Courtyard and try to steal from the Others. On the other hand, people did foolish things all the time.
"Meg, if Sam is going to the office with you most days, get another set of bowls so you don't have to cart these back and forth," Vlad said.
"I'm going to look through the Pet Palace catalog this morning to see how much they cost," she said as the three of them set off for the garages, stopping every few steps for Sam to pee. She didn't want to be stingy, but the shopping trip on Firesday had shown her how quickly money was used up, and she didn't want to run out before the next pay envelope. And that thought reminded her to stop at the Market Square bank and find out how much store credit she could anticipate having each month. She was beginning to understand why so many of the Controller's clients had wanted prophecies about money.
"Buy what you want for Sam and charge it to the Business Association," Vlad said. "I'll authorize the purchases."
"Thank you."
They packed the carry sacks and Sam into the BOW. Then, despite her having her key that morning, Vlad drove the three of them to the Liaison's Office.
When she opened the front door, Harry from Everywhere Delivery was just pulling in.
Not late this morning, she thought as she waved at Harry—and caught a glimpse of someone watching from the second floor of the consulate. But just barely on time.
Since Harry always chatted with her for a few minutes, Meg took her time setting up her clipboard and filling out the information on the packages he brought. Unlike Asia Crane, he wasn't blatantly curious about the Courtyard. Harry chatted about his own life, a version of the human world that was as alien to her as the terra indigenes' way of life. But Meg absorbed the words, and whenever she had a few minutes of quiet time, she tried to match the things Harry talked about to the images and clips that had been part of her training.
"Pull up so we're not in the way of deliveries," Monty said as Kowalski drove into the Courtyard. "This won't take more than a couple of minutes."
There had been no further news from the West Coast, no confirmation of how many people in Jerzy had been killed last week, no information about why a pack of young men had attacked the Others and started the fight that escalated into a slaughter. And despite having a patrol car waiting at the train station whenever an eastbound train pulled in, there had been no sign of Simon Wolfgard.
Preferring to avoid more dealings with Vladimir Sanguinati, Monty had decided to approach the Liaison. He didn't think Meg Corbyn could—or would—tell him anything, but he wanted to remind her that he was there to help.
As he opened the office door, one of the Crows fluttered over the stone wall, while another went winging off, no doubt to tell someone that he was there.
There was that flash of fear in Meg Corbyn's gray eyes when she saw him, quickly followed by an effort to hide that fear. He wondered if she would ever look at him and not be afraid that he was going to take her back to whatever she had run away from. But why would she still be afraid? Didn't she know that the Others wouldn't tolerate her being apprehended?
"Good morning, Lieutenant Montgomery. Is there something I can do for you?"
Reaching the counter, Monty smiled and shook his head. "No, ma'am. I just dropped by to see if there was anything we can do for you."
"Oh." She looked at the catalog on the counter, as if searching for the correct response among the merchandise.
Since she wasn't looking at him, he focused on the room beyond the Private door, which she had left open. A back wall with slots and shelves. A box of sugar lumps sitting on a big table in the middle of the room. And a gray puppy standing in the doorway, its lips peeled back to reveal a mouth full of healthy teeth.
Not a dog puppy, Monty thought when the animal snarled at him. A Wolf pup.
Meg jerked at the sound. After staring at the Wolf, she looked at Monty and said, "This is Sam. He's helping me for a few days." Then she looked at the youngster. "Sam, this is Lieutenant Montgomery. He's a police officer." Back to him. "He's young. I'm not sure he knows what a police officer is."
When did the Others start shifting into human form? Was that pup also a boy? Whose boy?
He didn't need three guesses to figure that out, but it made him wonder what other duties Simon Wolfgard might require from his Liaison.
"Maybe the bookstore has one of those 'this is' books," Monty said. "I don't recall the actual name, but the gist of the books is to help children identify things. Like, 'This is a cat. This is a car. This is a mouse. This is a moose.'"
There was a queer look in her eyes, and her fair skin paled. "I remember those kinds of books," she whispered. "I didn't know other children were taught that way."
He'd been thinking of all the evenings he sat with Lizzy, reading those books to her, and how excited she had been when they went to the children's zoo and she could identify the goat, chicken, and bunny. But looking at Meg, he doubted she had the same kind of warm memories about those books.
"Thank you. That's a good suggestion," she said. "If HGR doesn't carry children's books, maybe the Courtyard library does."
Time to leave. He glanced at the catalog, which was open to a selection of dog beds, and noticed she had circled one. He took a moment to gauge the pup, then tipped his head to look at her choice.
"I'd go with the medium-sized bed, not the small," he said.
"But he is small," Meg protested. She paused. "At least, I think he's small. I haven't seen a full-grown Wolf yet."
He smiled, but he wondered why she hadn't seen a Wolf yet. "Take my word for it. Sam is already bigger than what people consider a small dog."
"Oh. Well, that's good to know."
"You have a good day, Ms. Corbyn."
"You too."
When he stepped out of the office, he caught sight of Kowalski's expression. Looking to the right, he saw the Grizzly who was standing on the other side of the wall, watching him. In those first moments, his lungs refused to breathe and his bowels turned to water.
"Good day, Mr. Beargard," he said quietly. Then he walked over to the patrol car and got in.
"We okay to leave?" Kowalski asked, still keeping an eye on the Grizzly.
"Yes. Let's go," Monty replied.
Henry Beargard watched them until they pulled into traffic.
"A guy from the consulate came out as soon as you went into the Liaison's Office," Kowalski said. "Mainly wanted to know what we were doing there. Told him it was a courtesy call."
"Which it was."
"The guy was in my line of sight, so when I first saw the Grizzly, I thought it was one of those carvings, until the bear turned his head and watched you talking to the Liaison." Kowalski braked carefully as they came up to a red traffic light. "Never saw one of the Bears before. Can't say I'm anxious to see another one." A pause when the light changed and they started moving again. "Do you think he could have gotten over that wall?"
Could have gotten over it or gone through it. Not finding any comfort in that certainty, Monty didn't answer the question.
Meg called the Pet Palace and placed her order with the shop's manager since the salesperson who answered the phone didn't want the responsibility of charging anything to the Courtyard. Receiving a promise that the bowls and bed would be delivered the following morning, she considered her next call.
Something was wrong with Sam—or had been wrong. She'd understood that from the cage in Simon's living room and the kibble, which she doubted was a typical food for any of the Wolves.
Something had changed in the past few days. Sam seemed more responsive, more like a curious puppy now. If he was behaving more like a typical Wolf pup, maybe that explained his increasing lack of interest in the kibble.
Although it didn't explain his interest in the cookies she had bought for him.
Since she couldn't ask Simon for advice—and she sure didn't want to ask Blair—she called the Market Square butcher shop to see if she could get an answer.
And as she listened to the phone ring, a thought niggled at her. She'd been in the Courtyard almost two weeks now and heard them every night, so why hadn't she seen any of the Wolves in Wolf form? Were they under orders to avoid her when in that form? Were they really that scary?
"We got meat and fish today," a male voice said. "Whaddaya looking for?"
"This is Meg, the Liaison. Do you have any special meat?"
Silence, followed by sputtering. "Special meat? You want some of the special meat?"
Obviously there was a special meat. Just as obviously, not everyone was allowed to have it.
"It's for Sam," Meg said. "He's not enthusiastic about the kibble, so I wondered if there was a special meat for puppies. Well, maybe something like rabbit or deer isn't really special, since Wolves eat it all the time. Don't they?" When he didn't say anything, she plowed on. "Little Wolves Sam's age do eat meat, don't they?"
A gusty sigh. Then that voice, sounding relieved, said, "Sure they eat meat. Sure they do. Got some nice bits of beef in today. That would be more of a treat than deer or rabbit—unless you want a whole haunch of rabbit. Got a haunch left from the one I caught this morning."
Suddenly feeling queasy, Meg said, "A small piece of beef would be fine. I don't want to give him too much if he hasn't had it for a while."
"I'll bring it over." He hung up.
Meg stared at the phone. "Why was he so upset about me asking for special meat?"
Not everyone was allowed to have it. Or was it just the humans who weren't supposed to want it because...
Before she lost her nerve, she called A Little Bite and silently thanked all the gods when Merri Lee answered.
"Are humans considered special meat?" Meg asked.
"This isn't a good thing to talk about over the phone," Merri Lee finally said.
For a moment, Meg couldn't think, could barely breathe as a drawing of a cow with arrows pointing to the various cuts of meat popped into her head. Then she imagined a drawing of a human with the same kinds of arrows. Could there be a sign like that in the butcher shop?
"Merri? Does the butcher shop in the Courtyard sell people parts?"
Silence.
"Oh, gods."
After another silence, Merri Lee said, "I'm pretty sure the special meat isn't sold in the butcher shop anymore, if it ever was," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "And I'm pretty sure when the Others kill a human, that person is usually consumed on the spot and there aren't any leftovers." She swallowed hard enough that Meg could hear it over the phone. "But when special meat is available, you'll see a sign on the shop door. It's not obvious what it's for, but we've all been able to guess why it goes up. Like I said, I'm pretty sure they don't sell the meat there, but the sign tells all the Others that it's available."
"But we're supposed to shop there!"
"Have you been inside yet?"
"No. I don't know how to cook, so I haven't bought any meat there yet." And might never buy any.
"When you do, be sure to ask what meat you're getting. Or tell them what you're looking for. If you ask for a steak and don't specify the animal, you could get beef or horse or deer or moose or even bison. That can be interesting, but you don't always want interesting."
Feeling wobbly, Meg braced a hand on the counter and wished she'd never thought of getting a treat for Sam. "Okay." She blew out a breath. "Okay. Thanks, Merri."
She hung up and went back into the sorting room in time to hear a loud knock on the back door. Sam followed her, still wearing the harness and leash because he wouldn't let her unclip the safety line.
She opened the door. The man had the brown hair and eyes of the Hawks she'd met, and he was wearing a blood-smeared apron around his waist. He held out two packages wrapped in brown paper.
"Chopped up a few pieces of stew beef," he said. "Let it get body warm before you give it to Sam. The other package has pieces of dried stag stick. The pups like chewing on those."
"What's a stag stick?" Meg asked, taking the packages.
He stared at her for a moment. Then he put a fist below his belt and popped out a thumb.
"Oh," Meg said. "Oh."
He spun around and ran back to the Market Square.
She closed the door, looked at the packages in her hands, and said, "Eeewwww."
But Sam was bouncing all around her, dancing on his hind legs to sniff at the packages.
The first package she opened had the beef. Figuring she could warm it in the wave-cooker, she put that package in the little fridge. The next package held three pieces of... stag. Using thumb and forefinger, she picked up a piece and gave it to Sam. Then she hurriedly wrapped up the rest and ran to the bathroom to wash her hands. Twice.
Of course, he wouldn't stay in the back room with his chewy, so she began sorting the mail while she studiously ignored what Sam was holding between his paws and gnawing with such pleasure.
Vlad looked up from the invoices he was sorting and studied the Wolf in the doorway. "Something wrong?"
Blair came in and took a seat on the other side of the desk. "Boone says he's not going to store special meat in the shop anymore because he doesn't want to get into trouble with Henry now and with Simon when the Wolfgard returns."
"Why is Boone worried about getting into trouble?"
"Because Meg asked if he had any special meat."
Vlad's mouth fell open. "Meg?"
"Boone says he'll get in trouble if he doesn't sell it to her when she asks for it, but he'll get into more trouble if she buys some and then finds out what it is. He can't sell what he doesn't have, so he's not going to have it."
"Meg?" Vlad said again. He couldn't decide if he was intrigued or disturbed by this information.
"Turns out she was looking for a treat for Sam." Blair's lips twitched in a hint of a smile. "From the sounds he was making when he called me, I'm guessing the Hawk is going to stress molt a few feathers before the day is done."
Vlad laughed out loud.
Blair pushed out of the chair. "Course, he also brought pieces of a stag stick for Sam."
"Stop," Vlad pleaded, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. "No, wait. Did Meg know what it was?"
"She does now. I did tell Boone he should continue delivering a little meat for Sam." A pause. "Simon called. He'll be back on Windsday."
Still trying to catch his breath, Vlad waved a hand to acknowledge he'd heard.
"Doesn't sound like he got any answers," Blair said.
Sobering, Vlad nodded. "We'll all talk when he gets back." Once Blair left the office and he was sure the Wolf was out of hearing, he added, "About a lot of things."
Meg stared at the back door of Howling Good Reads. Bringing a Wolf into the store wasn't a problem; she'd heard that one or two Others were usually in animal form to provide store security. No, the problem was how they would react to Sam's harness and leash—and whether she would be breaking some unspoken rule by bringing a young terra indigene into a store frequented by humans.
Leaving Sam in the office had not been an option after she considered how much trouble he could get into on his own. So here she was, dithering at the door.
The wooden gate at the back of Henry's yard opened. The Beargard studied both of them for a long moment before he looked at HGR's back door. Stepping up to her, he took the leash.
"Come on, Sam. You play with me for a while. The sooner Meg takes care of her chores, the sooner you can both eat."
This was Henry, and Sam would be safe with the Grizzly, but Meg didn't feel easy about other people holding the leash and having control over Sam, and she especially didn't like the pup accepting that other people could hold the leash.
Her uneasiness must have shown on her face, because Henry said, "We'll be fine, Meg. Do your chores."
She looked at Sam. "It would be better if you stayed with Henry. Okay?"
She didn't wait for an answer. She went into HGR and hurried through the stockroom. But she didn't make it into the public part of the store before she heard that squeaky-door howl—Sam's protest at being left behind.
Already feeling guilty about leaving him, she let out her own squeak when Sam's howl was answered by a deeper howl somewhere in the store. She hesitated. Then curiosity pushed her into the store proper.
Maybe she would see her first grown Wolf.
Apparently, she wasn't the only one engaged in Wolf spotting after hearing that howl. All the customers she passed were looking for something that wasn't on the shelves, but she reached the front of the store without seeing one of the terra indigene in Wolf form. She did find John Wolfgard, who took her to the children's section. He seemed too cheerful to be a Wolf, and she wondered if customers who dealt with him were relieved or disappointed by that.
Called away by another customer, he left her browsing the picture books and "this is" books. She chose a couple of the "this is" books and a book of children's stories. Not sure how long she'd been browsing, and wanting a chance to look for a book for herself, she hurried out of the children's section and headed for the front of the store where she'd seen a display of books, and almost ran into the man blocking the way.
He was about Simon's age, with a lean face and body, but his hair was a blend of gray and black, and his gray eyes held the least illusion of humanity of any shifter she'd seen in the Courtyard so far. He wore jeans, a white sweater, and a scarred, black leather jacket. There was no doubt in her mind that he was the Wolf who had answered Sam's howl.
He didn't move out of the way so much as shift position enough for her to squeeze past him. When she did, he leaned in and sniffed her with no subtlety whatsoever. Then he sneezed.
Meg didn't bother to sigh about another Wolf who was going to complain about her stinky hair—which didn't smell anymore, thank you very much.
Even John's smile faltered when he noticed how the other Wolf followed her to the front of the store, but he rang up her purchases—including a novel that she grabbed from the display table to prove she could buy a book for herself—and put them in the carry bag she'd brought with her.
Thanking John, she headed toward the back of the store, more and more nervous about the Wolf who seemed intent on following her. She breathed a sigh of relief when he hesitated, then turned and went into A Little Bite. Wanting to get back to the office before he began following her again, she flung open the back door of HGR and hurried to the open door of Henry's yard.
A snowball hit her shoulder, surprising a squeak out of her. But it was the Wolf charging at her that made her scream so loud the Crows and Hawks that were all around Henry's yard and the Liaison's Office took off in a flurry of wings. Meg dropped to her hands and knees, then curled up, covering her head and neck with her arms.
The Wolf landed on her back, snarling fiercely as he slid off her in his attempt to grab at her arms.
Then a small head shoved its way under her arm, and a tongue gave her face a couple of quick licks. Sam talked at her for a moment before he pulled his head out of the space and happily jumped on her again.
Henry's laugh boomed out. "You caught her good and proper, Sam. Now let her up."
Meg counted to ten. When no one jumped on her, she slowly uncurled. A moment later, a big hand grabbed the back of her coat, hauled her upright, and began whacking the snow off her.
"You make a fine squeaky toy, Meg," Henry said, his voice suffused with laughter. "Sam, it's time for you to go."
"That's enough," she gasped, brushing the snow off the front of her coat.
Henry picked up her purse and the carry bag, brushing the snow off both of them. "It was nice of you to play at being prey."
She hadn't been playing at anything. The red harness or the size of the animal hadn't registered in her brain. All she'd seen was a Wolf heading toward her at a full run. Sam had looked a lot bigger in that moment, and dropping to the ground had been instinctive.
"I probably should have run," she murmured, taking the purse and carry bag from Henry. Sam returned, mouthing one end of the leash as he dragged it behind him.
"No," Henry said quietly, his attention on something behind her. "Running would have been the wrong thing to do."
Taking the leash from Sam, she clipped it to his harness and slipped the other end over her wrist before turning to look at whatever Henry was watching.
The Wolf who had followed her in HGR was standing nearby, holding one of the insulated lunch boxes Tess used to deliver food or coffee to people working in the Market Square. He stared at her with a fury that bordered on crazed hatred.
"What do you want, Ferus?" Henry asked.
It was Sam, standing between her feet and snarling at the other Wolf, that finally pulled Ferus's attention away from her. But not for long. He couldn't seem to tear his focus away from the harness and leash that attached Sam to a human.
"Ferus." Henry's voice was both command and warning.
"Tess asked me to carry this for the Liaison," Ferus said, the words almost lost in the growling voice.
"You should go now," Henry said to Meg, resting a hand on her shoulder. "You'll need to open up for afternoon deliveries soon." He gave her a little push toward the office.
"Come on, Sam," Meg said, too scared now to do more than whisper.
All the way back to the office, Sam ran to the end of the leash, then stopped and kept watch until she caught up to him. And all the way back, Ferus trailed behind them, a silent threat.
Memory. A movie clip showing a pack of ordinary wolves pulling down a deer. Beginning to feed before the deer was dead. Ripping. Tearing. Gorging on fresh meat.
They had watched that same clip for an entire afternoon because one of the girls had fought against being cut, and the resulting prophecy had been of inferior quality. And while the girls watched the clip, the Walking Names had whispered over and over, "That could be you. If we ever stop taking care of you, that is what the wolves will do to you."
They took care of property, not people. Willing to risk her life in order to have a life, she had run and had ended up in a Courtyard, hiding among beings who were even more dangerous than the man who saw her as nothing but a living tool. Despite Simon snarling at her about one thing or another and always threatening to eat her because she had done something he didn't like, and despite the conditioned fear of the Others the Walking Names had tried to instill in her, she hadn't thought of herself as prey. Until now.
She didn't need to cut skin to know that was exactly how Ferus saw her. To him, human equaled prey, equaled meat. She didn't need the razor to know it wasn't a question of if he would pull her down and rip her open like the deer she had seen in that movie clip; it was a question of when.
She had been so busy building a life here, she had forgotten the other part of her personal vision. She was going to die in this Courtyard.
But she'd also seen herself in that narrow bed, and Simon pacing in that white room. How could she be there if the Wolves tore her apart?
Sam yipped, and she realized they had reached the office's back door. Her hands shook as she struggled to get the key in the lock.
Once she had the door open and Sam had darted inside, she dared to look at the other Wolf . "Thank you for carrying the lunch."
He just stared at her. Then he held out the lunch box.
Taking it, she backed inside the office and closed the door—and almost wet herself when the furious howl sounded from the other side of the door.
Panting in her effort to breathe, she set all the bags on the small table and ignored the snow she was tracking on the floor. Slipping the leash off her wrist and stripping off her coat, she went into the bathroom, shutting the door before Sam could follow her.
She needed to pee but now she couldn't relax her muscles enough to go. Finally able to take care of business, she left the bathroom in time to see Sam climb up on a chair and try to snatch the lunch box.
Grabbing the pup, she dried off his feet, removed her boots, and cleaned up the floor. Then, with him dancing around her, she opened the lunch box. A container of beef and vegetable soup for her, and a smaller container of soup for Sam. Dumping out the untouched kibble, she poured the soup in his bowl, dipping her finger into it to make sure it wasn't too hot. He began lapping up soup as soon as she got out of his way, so she opened her own container. That soup was hot, and she realized Tess must have deliberately let Sam's serving cool off. A cheese sandwich was included with her lunch. Tearing off a piece, she gave it to Sam, then forced herself to eat a bite of the sandwich and a couple of spoonfuls of soup. Her stomach was still flipping with fear, so even that little bit of food made her queasy.
Giving up, she heated water while she wrapped up the food—and wondered if she was going to have to puppy-proof the fridge and lower cupboards.
After making a cup of peppermint tea, she grabbed the carry bag of books and headed for the front room, intending to open up early and take a better look at the books in between deliveries.
The box of sugar lumps she'd left on the sorting table was knocked over and the top of the box was torn. Drawers where she kept her office supplies were pulled open.
And there was someone making furtive noises in the front room.
Quietly turning the knob, Meg yanked the Private door open, then stared at the Crow who, flustered at being caught, almost fell off the counter.
"Jake?"
Jenni had told her that Jake liked playing the pen game with the humans who brought packages, and he intended to help the Meg whenever he was assigned to watch that part of the Courtyard.
Help was not the word that came to mind as Meg unlocked the front door. And how had Jake gotten in? As far as she knew, only a few members of the Business Association had keys to the Liaison's Office. Well, he could have slipped in with one of the deliverymen and hidden so he could rummage through the drawers while she was out of the office.
She picked up two empty boxes from the floor, then looked at all the pencils that were scattered on the counter, along with most of the pens she usually kept in the holder. She wasn't sure what the Crow was building, but he'd certainly gone through the drawers to find what he wanted.
"Jake, you can't have the pencils and pens," Meg said. She reached for one of the pens. He pecked her. "Hey!" She had had her fill of wildlife today and didn't need a pesky Crow stealing her things.
Caw!
"I need those pens!"
Caw!
"Jake!" Her eyes filled with tears, which was stupid. It was all stupid, but she had been scared twice in the space of a few minutes, and she didn't need this—whatever it was.
Jake tipped his head this way and that. Then he fluttered around his creation, pulled out a blue pen, and offered it to her. When she took it, he selected a red pen and offered it. Finally he gave back a black pen and began rebuilding whatever he was building on her counter.
"Mine," she said, sniffling as she put the three pens under the counter with her clipboard.
She was about to ask about the sugar when Asia dashed into the office.
"Gods above and below, Meg. What's going on? Is someone hurt?"
"Hurt?"
"That scream. Didn't you hear it? I was looking at the display of pottery in the window of Earth Native and I heard that awful scream. And all the birds suddenly flying around, going crazy and making a racket." Asia threw her hands up, causing Jake to flutter his wings and caw in protest.
Meg wanted to slink into the sorting room and lock all the doors and never come out. She would stay there until she dried up into human jerky.
Then she considered what the Wolves would happily do with that kind of jerky.
"You heard that?"
"Of course I heard that!" Asia edged away from the Crow and lowered her voice. "Do you know who it was?"
"Me," Meg mumbled, her face burning with embarrassment. "It was me."
"You?"
"I was startled. And even little Wolves look pretty big when they're running right at you."
Of course, that was the moment Sam chose to stand in the doorway, wagging his tail and licking his chops.
"Oh," Asia gushed, leaning on the counter but careful not to have any part of herself beyond the counter. "Isn't he the sweetest thing!" Her eyes flicked up to the doorway. "Speaking of sweetest things, you must have a mighty big sweet tooth, Meg."
Meg glanced back. "Oh, the sugar is for the ponies. They get a special treat on Moonsday." She looked at Jake. "Do you know how the box got knocked over and the top torn open?"
The Crow lifted his wings in a way that perfectly mimicked a shrug.
Meg leaned closer to Jake. "If someone hid a lump of sugar in order to attract bugs to eat, that someone isn't going to be allowed to play with the pencils anymore."
He stared at her. Then he fluttered down to the floor, pecked around the edge of the counter for a moment, flew back up, and dropped the sugar lump on the counter.
Sighing, Meg took the sugar lump—and heard something fall over in the back room.
"Asia, this isn't a good day for a visit."
"I can see that," Asia replied. "You take care. Maybe we can grab some lunch in one of those places across the street tomorrow."
"I'm not sure. I'm looking after Sam, and he's a handful."
A thump, followed by Sam loudly talking back at something.
"I have to go," Meg said, hurrying into the back room.
For a moment all she could do was stare. Sam had somehow dragged a chair across the room and was climbing up to reach the box of puppy cookies she'd left on the counter. The fridge door was open, and scraps of her cheese sandwich were scattered on the floor, along with the wrapping, which had been ripped into pieces. Either he wasn't interested or he hadn't been able to grab her container of soup. She didn't want to think of how much of a mess that would have made.
Deciding she would drink her now-cold peppermint tea before dealing with Sam's helping himself to her lunch, she grabbed the pup and went into the sorting room, firmly closing the door to the back room.
That's when she saw the box of sugar on the table and realized she no longer had the sugar lump she'd taken from Jake and had no clue where she'd dropped it.
Slipping into the front room to retrieve her tea, she saw Ferus standing outside the consulate, talking with Elliot Wolfgard and gesturing toward the office. Easy to guess what they were talking about: Sam on a leash. Vlad and Henry didn't seem concerned about it when she and Sam walked around the complex, but she had a feeling the Wolves weren't going to be as understanding about buddies and safety lines.
"Crow in the front room, puppy in the middle room, crazy Wolf outside," she muttered. "Could today get any better?"
Apparently, it could. Fortunately, she noticed the bug Jake must have dropped in her tea as a peace offering before she took a sip.
Entering the Stag and Hare, a restaurant directly across from the Courtyard's delivery entrance, Asia settled at a table by the windows. The cold came off the plates of glass in waves, and most of the customers were huddled at the tables closest to the fireplace in the center of the main room.
Keeping her coat on, Asia placed her order and stared out the window, turning over the things she had seen as she considered what she could use to her advantage.
Meg had screamed, and all the terra indigene in that part of the Courtyard had responded, even those who worked in the consulate. According to Darrell Adams, a human who worked for Elliot Wolfgard, everyone at the consulate thought of the Liaison's Office like a poor relation—something that had to be tolerated but was ignored as much as possible.
Poor relation or not, even they had paid some attention when Meg screamed. So there was a way to redirect the Others' attention, if only for a minute or two. Plenty of things could be accomplished in a minute or two.
And there was that Wolf pup wearing a harness. Could he shift into a boy, or did the harness constrict his ability to change into human form? If one of the Others could be contained and controlled, her backers probably knew a few collectors who would risk the wrath of the terra indigene to have a Wolf for a pet, if only for a little while. They might even consider using a tamed Wolf in a few horror movies—at least until he became old enough to be dangerous.
Asia smiled at the waiter when he brought her a bowl of soup. As the simple meal warmed her, she looked at the Courtyard and smiled again.
Meg was looking after a pup while Simon Wolfgard was away. Didn't need to be a genius to add up two and two and get money.
After all, holding someone for ransom was often a lucrative, if risky, business. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 14 | On Sunsday morning, the new set of bowls and the dog bed for the office were delivered as promised, and Sam was delighted to have his own comfortable spot where he could watch Meg as she sorted mail and packages. Boone brought over a small container of chopped meat, claiming it was now a regular order. Meg didn't ask what kind of meat it was or who had placed the order. She just warmed up the meat and stirred it into the kibble.
That morning, there was no sign of Jake Crowgard. There was also no sign of any of the pencils or pens he'd been playing with—including the three that were supposed to be hers. Between deliveries, she called toy stores, found what she was looking for, and got a promise from the store that she would have the merchandise by that afternoon.
Sometimes Sam hid from the deliverymen; sometimes he watched them from the sorting-room doorway—and Meg watched the way a couple of them studied the red harness just a little too long for her liking.
And too often throughout the day, when she thought about the vision of the men in black and Sam howling in terror, she found herself rubbing her arms to relieve the prickling under her skin while she struggled with the craving to make another cut.
By Windsday, Meg and Sam had a workable morning routine, and for the first time since beginning her puppy-sitting stint seven days ago, they got to the office without rushing.
As she opened the front door, Meg stuck her head out and smiled at the Crows who had taken up their usual position on the wall. "Tell Jake I have a package for him."
After setting up for business, she unclipped the leash and removed Sam's harness. She made that decision after waking up twice, scared by dreams she couldn't remember. She would keep the harness and leash handy, but she didn't want him wearing it when it wasn't necessary.
Besides, Merri Lee told her that Ferus had been reassigned to work with Blair at the Utilities Complex. And yesterday Henry suddenly came into the office several times to check on a delivery or look through a catalog he claimed he didn't have. It hadn't escaped her notice that the Grizzly showed up every time Elliot Wolfgard left the consulate. Realizing Blair and Henry had done those things because some of the Wolves were upset about the harness was another reason for Sam not to wear it.
"We don't need the safety line when we're inside the office," she told him when he tried to leap up and grab the harness off the counter. "All you have to remember is not to run out when we fill the mail baskets for the ponies."
He talked back, but she gave him cookies and another piece of the stag stick, which he took back to his bed to gnaw on, ending the discussion.
Jake Crowgard wasn't as easy to distract.
Meg didn't know how he was getting in, but he was on the counter, studying the empty pen holder when she came back to the front room. Setting her peppermint tea on the sorting table, where it would be out of reach of any gifts he might want to drop into it, she pulled out a box from under the counter, opened it, and showed him the wooden wheels, colored sticks, and various connectors.
"Give back all my pencils and pens—and promise to leave them alone from now on—and you can have this," she said.
Negotiations would have been simpler if Jake had shifted to his human form so that he could actually talk to her. She was sure that was the reason he didn't shift. He tried to pretend he didn't understand what she was saying, so she smiled at him, closed the box, took it into the sorting room, and shut the Private door.
She ignored Jake's cawing while she sorted the mail. She ignored Sam's howling when she unlocked the sorting-room's outside door, then went into the back room to fetch her coat and the bowl of carrot chunks that was the ponies' treat that day.
Sam stood in front of the outside door, mouthing his end of the leash and wagging his tail. Clearly, having a door open to the outside required the safety line. Wondering if she had emphasized the buddy system a little too much, Meg slipped the leash's loop over her wrist and picked up the first two bundles of mail just as a chorus of neighs announced the arrival of the ponies. Pleased with himself, Sam stayed beside her as she walked back and forth between the table and the ponies, loading their baskets with mail, catalogs from nearby stores, and flat packages.
Once the ponies were on their way and Sam had ducked out just long enough to yellow up some snow, Meg locked the doors. Then she checked the front room. Jake wasn't in sight, but there were three pencils on the counter.
She took the pencils and put two colored sticks and a wheel in their place.
When she closed for lunch, she snuck the toy box out of the office and locked it in her BOW. Then she dropped Sam off at Henry's yard for an hour of playtime while she went to A Little Bite for a leisurely meal.
Returning to the office, she found three more pencils and four pens on the counter—and a black feather in the sorting room. Apparently, Jake had tried to get around trading by searching for the box. She felt oddly proud that she'd been sneakier than a Crow.
She never saw him during the afternoon delivery hours, but every time she checked the front room, a few more pens or pencils would be on the counter. When the pen holder and the pencil boxes were full, Meg set all the remaining toy pieces on the counter and locked up for the day. She had deliveries to make, and she needed to get Sam settled at home before heading out.
As she and Sam went out the back door, Starr Crowgard ran up to them.
"Jake wants to know if you found the last pencils," Starr said.
"Yes, I did." Meg paused, her key in the lock.
"He wondered if he could have the rest of the sticks."
He wondered? Meg thought as she opened the door. "Sure."
They went to the front room. Meg put the remaining pieces back in the box and gave it all to Starr, who shifted from foot to foot.
It was a mistake to think the Others were exactly like the birds or animals they mimicked, but after living in those forms for so many generations, they had absorbed some of the behaviors of those animals. Putting together what she knew about crows with the way Starr was looking at her, Meg tried not to sigh. "How many boxes would you like for the Corvine social room?"
Starr held up five fingers.
"I'll order them tomorrow."
Smiling, Starr followed her out, then hurried toward the Market Square, where her sisters—and, no doubt, Jake—were waiting at Sparkles and Junk to finish building whatever they were building.
Once she and Sam were settled in the BOW, Meg let out a gusty sigh. It wasn't easy dealing with the Others, but at least she had shown the Crows that she wasn't a pushover.
The Crows might have learned she wasn't a pushover, but that particular lesson had been lost on the puppy. When she parked at the Green Complex, Sam wouldn't get out of the BOW.
"Sam," Meg said sternly. "I have deliveries to make before we can play. You have to wait for me at home."
He talked back, and she didn't need to speak Wolf to know he wanted to come with her and wasn't agreeing with anything she said about him staying home by himself.
Until a few days ago, he'd been home by himself all the time. Apparently, he didn't like it anymore.
Meg stared at the defiant pup and considered the problem. She could pick him up, but he was fast enough to bounce all over the inside of the BOW, and there was the possibility of him smashing a package that held something breakable. She could try to grab the harness, but he might forget they were friends and bite her. Or she could grab the leash and haul him out of the vehicle. But she had spent a lifetime of being controlled and held by one kind of a leash or another, and she didn't want Sam thinking that he should let someone control him without fighting that person all the way.
A human someone, anyway, since Simon Wolfgard controlled pretty much everything and everyone in the Courtyard. Which didn't help her now, as he was still out of town.
Leaning into the BOW, she shook her finger at Sam, bopping him on the nose a couple of times.
"All right," she said. "You can come with me. But, Sam, you have to mind me, or we'll both get in trouble. Do you understand?"
He licked her finger and wagged his tail. Once she was sure feet, tail, and leash were safely inside, she closed the door and went around to her side.
After starting the BOW, she considered her delivery route. She wasn't going near the Wolfgard Complex while Sam was with her. That would be asking for trouble. She had a box for Jester. The Pony Barn was safe enough. The Utilities Complex? Trickier if Blair and Ferus were there, but she had sent a note along with the mail telling Blair she would deliver his boxes when she made her afternoon rounds, and she didn't think it was a good idea to break a promise to the Courtyard's enforcer.
"I'm going to get bitten one way or the other," she muttered as she headed for the Pony Barn. When she pulled up in front, she counted four Owls perched on a decorative piece of wooden fence. Three Hawks claimed a similar bit of fence on the other side of the barn. And the trees around the barn held a dozen Crows. Apparently, she was still entertaining enough for the Others to watch her activities.
Jester walked over to the BOW, glanced in the passenger's window, and grinned. Coming around to Meg's side, he waited until she rolled down her window and blocked Sam's attempt to climb in her lap and poke his head out.
"Got a helper today?" Jester asked.
"I've got something," she replied. Then, "Sam! Stop it! You promised to behave."
"If you had a better sense of smell, you'd want to sniff around too," Jester said. He looked at her face and let out his yipping laugh. "I'll get my own box out of the back."
"Thank you." She grabbed Sam before he climbed in the back with the packages, but she couldn't stop him from howling to let the whole Courtyard know he was there. And the whole Courtyard would know, because the Crows cawed, the Hawks screamed, the Owls hooted, and the ponies neighed. And the damn Coyote raised his voice along with the rest of them, despite being in human form.
"Drive carefully," Jester said. "Got some snow coming." He closed the BOW's back door and headed for the barn.
As she drove off, several ponies, including Thunder, Lightning, and old Hurricane, left the barn and trotted along behind her, turning off on one of the unmarked tracks while she continued to the Utilities Complex.
Blair was there, waiting for his delivery. So was Ferus. When she pulled up, both of them were focused on her passenger.
"You have to stay inside," Meg said quietly. "Big Wolves don't like the safety line." She got out of the BOW and had the back door open before the two Wolves approached.
There were flickers of red in Ferus's eyes. He snarled at her. Blair immediately turned and snarled at him until Ferus lowered his eyes and took a step back. And Sam, poking his head between the seats to watch the Wolves, vocalized opinions to everyone.
Blair studied the pup. Then he studied Meg. Finally, he said, "You have any packages for the Wolfgard Complex?"
"Yes."
"You leave those here. I'll take them with me when I go home."
Relieved, she hauled out boxes and packages, which Blair handed to Ferus to take into the Utilities building.
"Simon will be home tonight," Blair said as he took the last box.
"Oh. That's good." It was good. It also meant she needed to have Sam tucked at home before Simon arrived.
Having sufficiently expressed his opinion, Sam was curled up in the passenger's seat, napping, when she got back into the BOW and headed for the Chambers.
Her hands shook a little as the BOW chugged up the road and snow swiftly covered the pavement. She wanted to finish her deliveries and get home before the snowfall surpassed her driving skills—and it wouldn't take much snow on the roads to do that.
Sam didn't stir when she stopped at the first set of delivery boxes for the Chambers, but he woke up when she rummaged through the BOW to find the snow brush and clean off the windows before she could drive to the next group of mausoleums the Sanguinati called home.
By the time she pulled up in front of Erebus's home, Sam was almost bouncing with excitement, pawing at the passenger's window and then at the door handle.
"Come out this way," Meg said, holding her own door open.
He leaped out of the BOW and dodged across the road to explore as far as the leash allowed.
"Over here, Sam." Meg breathed a sigh of relief when he immediately obeyed. Crouching, she put a hand on his head. "We must never run across a road without looking in both directions. There could be other vehicles on the road, and the drivers might not see us in time to stop. That would be very bad, especially if anyone got hurt. So you don't run across the road like that. All right?"
He licked her chin, which she took as agreement.
When they went to the back of the BOW and she began gathering the packages, she noticed the way the pup stared at the wrought-iron fence, and thought of what Jester had told her about the Chambers.
Getting Sam's attention again, she said, "This is also a very important rule that we all have to follow. No one is allowed to go inside the fence unless Mr. Erebus gives his permission. Even Simon doesn't enter the Chambers without permission. So we stay on this side of the fence and don't even poke our noses between the bars."
Sam sighed.
"I know," she said as she opened a couple of the delivery boxes and began filling them. "There are a lot of rules to remember when you go beyond the Green Complex—and even more rules when traveling outside the Courtyard. If you had let me take you home, you could have been in a warm house, watching a movie, instead of being out here in the snow."
"Do you like movies, little Wolf?"
Meg jumped and let out a squeak. Sam responded by making puppy growls and snarls—which would have sounded more impressive if he hadn't leaped behind her and then poked his head between her knees to voice those opinions.
She looked at the old man standing at the gate, smiling gently at her. "Mr. Erebus."
"I didn't mean to startle you."
"I know. I just didn't see you." She glanced at his mausoleum. The door was open, but there were no footprints marring the fresh snow on the walk. She had gotten so used to seeing smoke drifting over the snow, she hadn't even noticed it this time.
Erebus didn't comment. He just stood there, smiling gently.
"Sam does like movies," Meg said to fill the silence. She closed the full delivery boxes, then went back to the BOW for another group of packages. "But I don't think he watches the same kind of movies that you do."
"I like many kinds of movies," Erebus replied, looking at Sam. "Have you seen the movies called cartoons? I especially enjoy the ones where the animals or people do the most foolish things and still survive."
Sam stayed close to her while she filled the boxes, but when she went back to the BOW for the final packages—the ones addressed to Erebus—Sam eased up to the gate to study the vampire patriarch.
Erebus opened the gate, crouched down, and extended one hand beyond the Chambers boundary. Sam sniffed the hand, licked a finger, and wagged his tail.
Erebus laughed softly as he petted the pup. "You're a delightful boy. I'm glad you're looking after our Meg."
"Looks like you have another movie," Meg said. When Erebus rose, she expected him to tell her to put it in the delivery box. Even when she had gone up the walk and delivered his packages at the door and he was watching, she had set them on the stoop per his instructions. But he had petted Sam, and she had a feeling that meant something. So she held out the package.
He hesitated. Erebus actually hesitated before he took the package from her hand.
"Namid is full of many things, some wondrous and some terrible," he said softly. "And some of her creations are both. Thank you for bringing my movies, Meg. I do like my old movies."
She opened the passenger's door, made sure the towel was on the seat, and let Sam jump in. Once he was settled, she got in, waved at Erebus, and drove off.
Why had he always hesitated to take a package from her until now? Was there some taboo about Sanguinati touching cassandra sangue? Did he even know what she was? And why had he looked at her when he said some of the world's creations were both terrible and wondrous? Yes, prophecies could be either and sometimes both, but she didn't think Erebus had been talking about prophecies.
Which made her wonder what he knew about her kind that she didn't.
The snow was falling faster. Meg stopped the BOW and took out the copy of the Courtyard map that she tucked into her purse each time she went out to make deliveries. She wasn't ignoring the danger of taking a map out of the Liaison's Office, but she was careful to keep it out of sight. And while it did show where each gard lived within the Courtyard, the map didn't show any roads except the paved ones that were suitable for vehicles. It wasn't anywhere near as detailed as the map of Lakeside that she had found in the Courtyard's library.
The Controller would have paid a lot of money for even this much information about the interior of a Courtyard.
After studying the map for a minute, she tucked it back in her purse, put the BOW in gear, and turned onto an interior road. She'd make the other deliveries tomorrow if the roads in the Courtyard were passable. Right now, she wanted to get back to the Green Complex while she could.
By the time the BOW slid across Ripple Bridge, Meg was gripping the steering wheel and hardly daring to breathe. Even with the wipers going and the heater switched to blow on the front window, it was getting harder and harder to see.
The white horse standing at the edge of the road blended in with the swirling snow, and she wouldn't have seen him on his own, but the black horse and his rider stood in the road, waiting for her.
She stopped the BOW and put it in park, afraid that if she shut it off, she would never clear the snow off the windows enough to drive home. Rolling down her window, she peered at the riders who came up alongside the vehicle. Not girls. Closer to adult women, but still looking a bit too young to be considered mature.
Their faces—eerie, seductive, and compelling—looked even less human than their child faces, but the green scarf confirmed the identity of the black horse's rider.
"Winter?"
Winter laughed, and the snow swirled around them. "Yes, it's me. Thunder and Lightning wanted to stretch their legs, so Air and I are out riding." Her smile was chilling.
Meg stared at the horses—beautiful, otherworldly creatures with flowing manes and tails, who, except for their color, didn't look anything like the chubby ponies who delivered the mail.
Then Thunder lightly stamped a foot, and sound rolled softly through the Courtyard.
"Be patient," Winter scolded mildly. "This is our Meg."
Thunder tossed his head as if agreeing. Then the horse poked his nose in the window at the same moment Sam clambered into Meg's lap. The two breathed in each other's scent and seemed satisfied.
"More snow is coming," Winter said once Thunder pulled his head back. "You should go home."
"I have the library books you requested." Nudging Sam back into the passenger's seat, she started to twist around to find the carry bag.
"Leave it with Jester," Winter said. "We'll fetch it on the way back." She studied the BOW, then exchanged a look with Air. "And we can give you a little help getting home."
"You don't have to do that." Meg wasn't sure what they were offering, but she didn't want to face Thunder and Lightning anytime soon if they ended up hitched to the front of the BOW to pull her back to the Green Complex.
"No, we don't. But it will be amusing," Winter replied.
"Do you think the storm will hold off long enough for Simon to get home?" Meg asked. It was more thinking out loud than an actual question.
Another look between Winter and Air. "The Wolfgard will be able to get home tonight. Follow us."
Turning, they cantered down the road.
Rolling up her window, Meg put the BOW in gear and followed.
Snow blew off the road in front of her, leaving the pavement clear so the BOW could keep up with the horses, and filling back in moments after Meg drove past. It was like driving through a snow-shaped tunnel that was lit up by flickers of lightning and trembled with the thunder that followed. It should have been frightening, but she felt oddly safe in the cocoon of weather the Elementals were shaping around her. A few flakes drifted down and were cleared by the wipers, but she could see the road and the horses up ahead, and that's all she really needed.
As they neared the Pony Barn, she spotted another rider heading out on a brown horse—and noticed the funnel of snow that followed Tornado.
They stopped at the Pony Barn long enough for Jester to run out and fetch the bag of library books. After that, Winter and Air escorted Meg and Sam all the way back to the Green Complex's garage.
"Thank you," Meg said, grabbing her own carry bag and Sam's towel as the pup jumped out of the BOW.
With a nod of their heads, Winter and Air turned the horses and rode off.
Meg paused long enough to check that she'd shut off the lights. She couldn't remember what the power gauge read, but she shook her head and closed the garage door. There should be enough power for her to get to the office, and she could charge the BOW in the garage there. Besides, the snow was coming down harder now, and it was lung-biting cold outside.
Sam didn't have any trouble running in snow, but after Meg skidded a couple of times and almost landed on her butt, he slowed down to accommodate human legs. Pausing at the bottom of her stairs to catch her breath, she noticed the black sedan idling at the side of the road.
"What does he want?" she muttered uneasily as she looked around. No lights on in Henry's apartment. Most likely he was still working in his studio. She paused a moment longer, then climbed the stairs to her apartment.
"Come on, Sam. You can stay up here with me until Simon gets home." She'd spent so much time in Simon's apartment these past few days, she hadn't had a chance to settle into her own place.
"Meg!"
Meg opened her door, tossed the towel on the floor near the boot mat, and told Sam to stay on the towel. Then she greeted Tess as the other woman bounded up the stairs.
"Here," Tess said, holding out a bakery tin. "Chocolate chip cookies, still warm from the oven. I booted everyone out and closed A Little Bite early, but after I got home, I felt restless and decided to bake."
Meg took the tin. "Thanks, Tess. Do you want to come in?"
"No. I've got a casserole in the oven now. You're shivering. You should get inside."
Tess wasn't shivering—yet—but she wasn't dressed for being outside for long.
Meg stepped inside.
Tess's hair began to streak with green. She shook her head, but the hair continued to change to green and started to curl. "It's this storm," she explained. "Everyone will be edgy if the Wolfgard gets stranded tonight."
"Winter said the storm will hold off and Simon will be able to get home," Meg said.
Tess gave her an odd look. "Did she? Well, she would know."
Bounding down the stairs, Tess ran back to her own apartment. Meg closed her door and set down the tin with the rest of her things as she took off her boots and hung up her coat.
Sam immediately began sniffing at the bakery tin. When he couldn't nose it open, he sat and grabbed it between his front paws, trying to hook his claws under the lid to pull it open.
"No," Meg said, taking it from him. Going into the kitchen with him bouncing beside her, she set the tin in the middle of her table, opened it, and recalled everything she could about cookies and animals.
The chocolate chip cookies smelled delicious, and she wanted to bite into one. But she looked at Sam, balanced on his hind legs with his front paws resting on the table's edge, and closed the tin.
"I'm sorry, Sam, but I don't know if Wolves can eat these cookies. I remember that chocolate is bad for dogs—" She held up a hand to stop him when he began vocalizing. "Yes, I know you're not a dog, and maybe since you can change shape you'd be fine eating chocolate even when you're furry, but I can't take the chance of you getting sick, especially tonight, when it would be hard to get help. So no people cookies. And I won't have any either." At least, not until you go home.
Sam howled.
Someone pounded on her front door.
Meg hesitated, rememories of bad things happening when someone answered a door flashing through her mind. Then, reminding herself that she was safe in the Green Complex, she hurried to the door. It was probably Vlad checking to make sure she and Sam had gotten home all right. Or maybe Henry had come home in the past few minutes and wanted to let her know he was close by.
But when she opened the door, Elliot Wolfgard stepped inside far enough to prevent her from closing the door. The hatred in his eyes froze her—more so when Sam bounded in from the kitchen, trailing the leash because she hadn't had time to remove the harness.
"Sam," he said, still looking at Meg. "Come with me."
Sam whined and looked at her.
"Sam," Elliot snarled.
"It's all right," Meg told the pup. "Simon will be home soon."
Elliot scooped up Sam. "Once I get him settled, I'll be back. I have some things to say to you."
As soon as Elliot went down the stairs, Meg closed the door and hurried to the phone.
"Tess?" she said as soon as the other woman answered the phone.
"Meg? Is something wrong?"
"Elliot Wolfgard was just here. He took Sam back to Simon's place. Was it all right to let Sam go with him?"
A pause. "In human terms, Elliot is Sam's grandfather, so there's no reason why the pup can't go with him."
Then why didn't Simon ask Elliot to watch Sam? "All right. Thanks. Have to go. Someone is at the door."
"Call me when your visitor leaves."
She hung up without promising to call and hurried back to the door.
Elliot stepped inside, leaving her to shiver because, once again, he wasn't far enough inside for her to close the door.
"The enforcer may be willing to protect you, but the rest of the Wolves will never forgive what you've done," he snarled. "As far as I'm concerned, you're barely useful meat, and I am going to do everything I can to have you running before the pack as prey for what you did to Sam."
"I haven't done anything to Sam!"
He slapped her face.
"Enjoy your evening, meat. You won't live to see many more of them."
He went down the stairs, leaving her shaking. A few moments later, she heard Simon's front door slam.
She was going to die in the Courtyard. She'd known that since the first time she'd set eyes on Simon Wolfgard.
She swallowed convulsively, but her mouth kept filling with saliva. She barely made it to the toilet before she threw up.
Vlad flowed over the snow toward the Green Complex, ready to spend a quiet evening at home. Blair was on his way to pick up Simon and the two guards who had gone with him, Nathan Wolfgard and Marie Hawkgard. If the weather forecast was right about Lakeside getting another foot of snow this evening, the drive home would be slow going.
After hearing that report, he had sent Heather home, closed Howling Good Reads, and locked up the social center. Tess had already closed A Little Bite, and Run & Thump, along with the rest of the Courtyard businesses, had closed an hour after that. But a bar across the street from the Courtyard was still doing a brisk business. He had fed sufficiently on two delightful girls who claimed they had missed their bus and were in the bar drinking while they waited for the next one. He was suspicious about their reason for being in the bar, but he had no doubt they'd been drinking, because he was a little drunk from the alcohol in their blood.
If the weather had been milder, he would have let the girls find their own way to the bus stop, since it was within sight of the bar. By itself, the amount of blood he'd taken from each of them wouldn't do more than make them tired. But the police officer, Lieutenant Montgomery, paid attention to the Courtyard now, and Vlad didn't think Simon would appreciate questions about two girls falling into a drunken sleep and dying in a snowdrift so close to where the Sanguinati lived—especially when there was no reason for the girls to die. So he flagged down a cab and paid the driver to take the girls back to their residence at the nearby tech college.
He wasn't sure he liked thinking of humans as something other than useful prey or concerning himself with their welfare once he was done with them, but with humans stirred up about whatever had happened in the western part of Thaisia, being considerate of the prey here was just healthy self-interest.
As he flowed into the Green Complex and headed for his apartment, he became aware of sounds coming from Simon's apartment. Sam was howling, an unhappy sound. Probably meant that Meg wanted some time to herself or wasn't interested in taking any kind of walk with the temperature dropping and the snow falling so heavily.
Passing his own door, Vlad shifted into human form and walked over to the stairs leading to Meg's apartment. Since the cold and snow didn't bother him, he would offer to take the pup for a walk. That would at least give them all a bit of quiet.
Her front door stood open.
Shifting back to smoke, he flowed up the stairs and into her apartment. No sign of intruders. No sign of struggle. He flowed into the kitchen and found nothing. Nothing in her bedroom.
Shifting back to human form, he hesitated outside the bathroom door.
"Meg?" he called softly. "Meg? Are you in there?"
"I— Yes, I'm here."
Ignoring how many ways he might upset a human female by entering a bathroom uninvited, he pushed open the door, then rushed over to her. The room smelled of vomit, which he found repulsive, but not of blood. No injuries then, just illness.
"You're sick?" Should he call Heather to find out what medicine humans used for stomach sickness? Or maybe Elizabeth Bennefeld. Wouldn't she need to know about the human body for her massage work?
"No," Meg replied. "I'm..." Tears spilled down her face. She shook her head.
"Sam?"
"Home."
He knew that much. "You done here?"
She nodded. She flushed the toilet once more and closed the lid. When he helped her up, he saw the other side of her face.
"What's that?"
She shook her head. When he continued to block her way out of the bathroom, she whispered, "Please. Don't make this harder."
Make what harder? Vlad thought.
"I'd really like to be alone now," Meg said.
Not knowing what else to do, he left her apartment, closing the front door behind him. He hesitated at the top of the stairs, then went down and knocked on Simon's door.
He heard a crash, followed by Elliot's angry shout. He knocked again, harder. Elliot finally opened the door enough to look out, his body blocking the space.
Vlad smelled blood. "Problem?"
"A family matter," Elliot replied darkly.
He leaned closer to Elliot. "If Meg ends up with another unexplained bruise or is frightened into sickness again, that, too, will be a family matter. But the family involved won't be the Wolfgard's."
Threat delivered, Vlad went to his own apartment. He would inform Grandfather Erebus tomorrow. That would give Simon time to settle things in his own way.
Flanked by Nathan and Marie, Simon stepped off the train, walked through the station, and out the door that opened onto the parking lot. There had been bands of snow all along the way, but once the train reached Lake Etu, the snow had turned into serious weather. By the time they reached the train station at Lakeside, Simon figured the snow was going to make all but the main roads impassable.
He breathed out a sigh of relief when he saw Blair brushing off the van's windows—and he felt his muscles tense when he spotted the police car idling in the parking lot.
After handing his carryall to Nathan, who climbed into the back with Marie, Simon took the passenger's seat in the front of the van. Blair got in on the driver's side a moment later, turned on the wipers, and put the van in gear.
Simon tipped his head toward the police car. "Is there some trouble I should know about?"
Blair shook his head. "I think that lieutenant who comes sniffing around wanted to know when you returned."
The tire tracks from the cars that had arrived to pick up passengers were already filling in with fresh snow. Blair pulled out of the parking space and slowly drove toward the lot's exit.
"You think we'll get home tonight?" Nathan asked, leaning forward.
For a moment, Blair didn't answer. Looking at the other Wolf's face, Simon had the strong impression the Courtyard's enforcer wasn't easy about something. Maybe more than one something.
"Tess called while I was waiting for the train to get in," Blair said. "Apparently, the Liaison expressed the same concern about you being able to get home. The girl at the lake assured her that you would get home tonight." He paused, then added, "Vlad called too, but not about the weather."
A plow had come by recently, filling the entrance to the parking lot with a wall of snow. Blair revved the van's engine and rammed through the snow. The van lost traction for a moment, its tires spinning. Then it muscled through the rest of the white barricade and reached the road.
"Of course," Blair said dryly, "the girl at the lake didn't say getting home would be easy."
No, it wasn't easy, but most of the streets they needed were plowed to some extent, and the ones that weren't plowed had snow drifted in unnatural patterns that gave them one passable, if serpentine, lane.
Simon stayed quiet until they reached the Courtyard, letting Blair focus on driving. When they pulled in at the Utilities entrance, the gates were open enough for the van to squeeze through.
"That's not good security, leaving the gates open," Nathan growled.
"We're not going to get them closed until we shift some of that snow," Blair replied. He wasn't pleased about that.
"I don't think a potential intruder will get far," Simon said. It looked like someone had cleared the part of the Courtyard's main road that headed for the Green Complex. In the other direction, the road was completely hidden under fresh snow.
He twisted in his seat to look at Nathan and Marie. "Doesn't look like you'll get back to your own homes tonight."
"Julia's apartment is in the Green Complex. I can stay with her tonight," Marie said.
"Nathan?"
Before answering, Nathan glanced at Blair. "I guess I'll bed down in one of the apartments above the Liaison's Office?"
Blair nodded. "And I'll come back to the Utilities Complex and bed down there to keep an eye on things. The Crows will take care of the Corvine gate."
<Did something happen?> Simon demanded.
<Some things we can't discuss yet,> Blair replied.
A chill went through Simon as Blair slowly drove toward the Green Complex.
<Is Sam all right?>
Blair's lips twitched. <Sam is fine.>
He hesitated. <And Meg?>
<Not so fine.> A dark note in Blair's voice. <But nothing that can't be fixed.>
What did that mean? He was tired and frustrated and as worried as the rest of the terra indigene leaders over the unexplained aggression that had ended with so many dead in that western village. They had no answers, didn't even know where to begin looking for the enemy hiding somewhere in the human villages and cities scattered throughout Thaisia.
He knew the solution most of the Others would take if humans became too much of a threat. He'd make the same choice. But he wanted extermination to be the last choice, not the first.
He hadn't wanted to come home to trouble. He had hoped Meg and Sam...
But Blair said Sam was fine. So why wasn't Meg fine?
When the van pulled up at the entrance to the Green Complex, Blair reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a set of keys tied to a leather loop that would slip over a human head—or a Wolf's.
"Take the BOW as far as you can," he said, handing the keys to Nathan after pointing to the vehicle parked in the visitor's space. "You might make it all the way. Call Henry when you get to the apartment."
"Should I be on the lookout for anything in particular?" Nathan asked as he opened the van's side door.
"Same thing we always look for," Blair replied. "Intruders."
"I'll do a sweep from the Liaison's Office to the Corvine gate in the morning," Marie said, hefting her carryall. She followed Nathan out of the van.
Simon watched them trudge through several inches of snow. He wanted to shift, wanted to lash out at his enforcer, wanted to purge the uneasiness growing inside him. "We're alone. Now tell me."
"Sam is fine." Blair looked straight ahead. The only other sound was the rhythmic swish of the wipers. "I'm not easy about how she did it, but I'm sure she meant no harm, and I do like the results." He turned his head to look at Simon. "She got him out of the cage, and not just a few steps outside the apartment door to pee and poop. They've walked around the complex. He's gone to the office with her. He was with her this afternoon when she made some deliveries before the weather started to turn. Maybe he was ready to wake up, and she did things that were just strange enough to slip past his fear."
Simon looked away, confused by what he was feeling. Jealousy? Hurt? He'd spent two years trying to find a way to help Sam come back to them, and Meg had found the answer in a few days? He felt like a pair of jaws had closed over his throat, making it hard to breathe.
"How?" he finally asked.
"Something none of us would have considered," Blair said. "A harness and leash."
Shock. Fear. Fury. How dare any human try to restrain a Wolf?
"You let her do this?"
"First I knew of it, they were walking around the complex, and I wasn't going to take on Henry and Vlad in order to discipline her. And after seeing how the pup was playing, I thought it best not to interfere." Blair paused. "He's playing again, Simon. He's eating meat again. He's acting like a young Wolf again. For the most part. He still hasn't talked to any of us, but I think that will come if he's not scared back into that cage."
"Why would he be?" The pup was playing again? He wouldn't allow anything to interfere with that.
Blair went back to staring out the window. "Like I said, I'm not easy with how Meg got Sam out of the cage, but Henry and Vlad have been keeping an eye on them and have voiced no objections. Elliot, however, is a problem."
"Did he hurt Meg?" Simon asked, his voice stripped of emotion. Elliot didn't know about Meg. If he bit her, cut her...
"She's puking scared. I had the feeling there was something else, but Vlad wasn't interested in telling me. He did want me to remind you that while the Sanguinati don't usually hunt other terra indigene, we are not exempt from being prey."
Simon couldn't believe what he was hearing. "The Sanguinati are going after Elliot?"
A long pause. Then Blair said quietly, "I guess that depends on whether you can talk Meg into staying."
"Well, she's not going anywhere tonight." Of course, someone who was puking scared might not consider the danger of trying to run when the roads were bad and the air too cold. Especially when that person had already run away once in exactly that kind of weather.
He unbuckled the seat belt. "Anything else that can't wait until morning?"
Another pause. "Nothing that can't wait. But if any monkeys dressed all in black try to enter the complex tonight, just kill them." A longer pause. "It's something Meg saw. Henry can tell you about it."
Simon shivered, and it wasn't because of the cold. Meg had cut herself while he was gone? How many times? What other scraps of information were going to be tossed at him?
"We're all going to meet tomorrow morning," he growled. "You, me, Tess, Henry, Vlad, Jester, and anyone else you think needs to be there."
"I'll call you in the morning to find out if we're meeting at the Business Association or the social room here at the complex," Blair said.
He nodded. Except for Blair, the rest of them lived in the Green Complex. They could meet early and then see about getting the stores and roads open.
Grabbing his carryall, Simon got out of the van and broke a trail to his apartment's front door. He reached for the door, then stepped back and looked around. Lights shining from the windows of every apartment except Meg's.
It wasn't that late, so it shouldn't have been strange to see all the residences lit up. But it seemed like there were too many lights, too much brightness, making that dark space too noticeable, almost ominous.
Why was Meg sitting in the dark?
His uneasiness became an itch under his human skin, making him anxious to shift to a more natural shape. As Wolf, he had the fangs and strength to deal with itchy problems.
He heard Sam howl—and Elliot's growl of reply. Opening his front door, he stepped into a tension that had him fighting not to shift and force both Wolves into submission.
Tossing the carryall toward the stairs, he stepped into the living room's archway, treading snow on the wood floor. Elliot whipped around to face him, teeth bared, the canines too long to pass as human. Sam gave Simon one accusing look, then sat in a corner of his cage, his back to both adults.
<Sam?> Simon said.
No answer. Not even a grumble.
Looking oddly uneasy, Elliot turned his head and snapped at the pup, "Stop this foolishness, and come out of that damn cage! You don't need to be in there!"
<In the kitchen,> Simon growled. Blood and anger. He could smell both.
"At least take off those snowy boots," Elliot said snippily. "You're tracking the wet all over the—"
Simon grabbed Elliot and pushed him against the hallway wall. "I'm not some human you can intimidate. And I'm not a pup anymore. You don't tell me what to do. No one tells me what to do."
He lengthened his fangs and waited.
Elliot stared at him for a moment. Then he closed his eyes and raised his head, exposing his throat to his leader.
Simon stepped back, not feeling sufficiently human or Wolf to decide how he should respond. Releasing Elliot, he walked into the kitchen, unlaced his boots, and put them on the mat by the back door.
Elliot fetched a couple of old towels and wiped up the floors. When he returned to the kitchen, Simon studied his sire.
"You stirred things up here," he finally said. "Why?"
"I'm not the one who—"
"You've angered the Sanguinati, and that's not going to help any of us right now."
"You don't know what's been going on here," Elliot snapped. "What that monkey-fuck female has done."
"She's not a monkey fuck, and she is not prey," Simon said, his voice a low, threatening rumble. "She is Meg."
"You don't know what she's done!"
"She gets mail and deliveries to the complexes on a regular basis. She has a routine with the deliverymen, so we get the merchandise we bought. And she got Sam out of that damn cage!"
"She put him on a leash, Simon. On a leash!"
"It's not a leash," a young, scratchy voice shouted. Or tried to shout. "It's a safety line. Adventure buddies use a safety line so they can help each other."
Elliot stared, frozen. Simon turned, barely breathing.
Small naked boy, wobbling on stick-thin legs. His hair was a gold mixed with Wolf gray that was rarer than a pure black or white Wolf . Gray eyes full of angry tears, and yet there was a dominance in that weak body that didn't match Simon's but was higher than Elliot's standing within the Lakeside pack. Or would be when Sam was an adult.
"Sam," Simon whispered.
Sam ignored him and glared at Elliot. "You made Meg cry, so I'm not sorry I bit you!"
Now Simon closed the distance between them and went down on one knee in front of the boy. "Sam." Fingers hesitantly touched those skinny, weak-muscled arms. A nose twitched at the odor of an unwashed body. "Hey. Sam."
Big eyes fixed on him now. He was the leader. He was supposed to make things better, make things right.
Just bite me, he thought. He understood pup. He wasn't sure what to do with boy.
<Elliot...> Simon glanced over his shoulder at his sire, who looked pale and shaken.
<Say whatever words will keep him with us,> Elliot said.
"This safety line for adventure buddies is a new thing you learned from Meg?" Simon asked.
Sam nodded.
"It's not something other Wolves have heard of. So Elliot thought the safety line was something else, something that might hurt you."
"Meg wouldn't hurt me," Sam protested. "She's my friend."
"I know that, Sam. I know." Another hesitant touch of fingers on the boy's shoulders. Compared to the human form of the other Wolf pups his age, Sam was small and too thin. But that would change if the boy didn't disappear again inside the Wolf.
"Is Meg going away?" Sam asked.
Simon shook his head. "No. She's not going away."
Elliot cleared his throat. "I will offer an apology tomorrow."
Sam swayed. His leg muscles trembled with the effort of keeping him upright. But the look he gave Simon, while shy, clearly had a focus.
"Simon?"
"Sam?"
"Can I have a cookie?"
He wasn't sure there was anything to eat besides Sam's kibble. He was sure of what he wouldn't find. "I'm sorry, Sam. We don't have any cookies."
"Meg does." Sam licked his lips. "They smelled really good, but she didn't know if Wolves could have chocolate, so we didn't eat any. But I could have one now."
Oh, chew a tail and spit out the fur. Sure, the boy could have one if the man was willing to knock on Meg's door and beg for it.
Right now, he would do a lot more than beg in order to get the cookie Sam wanted.
"I'll go ask her." He wrinkled his nose and smiled. "Maybe you should take a bath before you have a treat."
"I can help Sam," Elliot said quietly.
Simon rose and stepped back. "Then I'll get the cookie." And while he was there, he'd find out if Meg was planning to run away.
Thinking about her dark apartment and wondering whether any of the terra indigene would be welcome tonight, he took the spare set of keys for her apartment before going upstairs to the back hall door.
A quick knock. "Meg?" Another knock, louder. "Meg? It's Simon. Open the door." When he didn't get a response, he used the key, breathing a sigh of relief that she hadn't used the slide lock as well.
She was sitting at the kitchen table in the dark, her arms wrapped around herself.
"I don't want company," she said, not looking at him.
"Too bad." He reached for the ceiling light's pull string, then considered the brightness and flipped on the light over the sink. Going back to the table, he looked at her face and couldn't stop the snarl when he saw the bruise. That explained why Vlad was threatening to go after Elliot.
He leaned down, capturing her chin between thumb and forefinger in order to turn her head and get a better look. He leaned closer, breathing in the scent of her. The smell of sickness lingered on her clothes. Not sure what to do, he gave her cheek a gentle lick.
"Snow," he said, easing back. "Snow will help."
"What?"
Her eyes looked bruised. Not physically, which somehow made it worse. "Stay there." He found a kitchen towel, then went down the back stairs to the outside door. Leaning out enough to reach the snow, he packed a ball of it in the towel and brought it to her. "Put this on your face."
When she obeyed, he picked up the other kitchen chair and set it down so he could face her.
"I didn't mean to cause trouble," she whispered. Tears filled her eyes and rolled down her face. "I wasn't trying to hurt Sam."
"I know." Taking her free hand, he petted the soft skin, that delicate, strange skin that was the gateway to prophecy. "Elliot didn't understand, and he's sorry he hurt you. I'm sorry he hurt you."
"He said..." She shuddered.
Simon shook his head. "It doesn't matter what he said. You're safe here, Meg. You're safe with us. I'll make sure of that."
She lifted the towel away from her face. "The snow is melting."
He took the towel and dumped it in the sink. Then he turned to look at her. What was he supposed to do with her? What was proper to do with her? He knew how to deal with human females when they were customers in the store. He knew what to do when they wanted the heat of sex and he was in the mood to provide it. And he knew what to do with prey. But he didn't know what to do with Meg.
"Do you want food?" he asked, studying her back.
She shook her head.
"Tea?"
Another head shake.
He'd come here to get something for Sam, but that didn't feel right anymore. And yet how could he disappoint the boy?
Returning to the table, he sat in the chair. The bakery tin was right there in front of him, taunting him. Until she had shown up half frozen and changed some of the rules, it had been so much easier dealing with humans.
"Meg?" he asked softly. "Could I take a cookie for Sam?"
She blinked. Brushed away tears. Then she looked at the bakery tin and frowned. "Those are chocolate chip cookies. Can Wolves eat chocolate?"
It hadn't occurred to him to wonder. "He shifted, Meg. He's a boy." He couldn't meet her eyes, and he heard his own whine of confusion. "He hasn't shifted to human since his mother was killed. He hasn't talked to us in any way since the night Daphne died. He's been afraid to be outside, and he hurt himself a couple of times. That's why I had to get the cage. But you changed that. He couldn't have a cookie as a Wolf, so he shifted to a boy. I couldn't reach him, but you did—with a leash that isn't a leash and a cookie."
"You took care of him and you loved him and you kept him safe," she said. "Even if it didn't show, he was learning from you." She sniffed, then got up and rummaged in the cupboard until she found a small container. After placing a few cookies in the container, she gave him the bakery tin. "Do you have any milk to go with the cookies?"
"I don't know."
She opened her fridge and gave him an unopened quart.
The quick glance in her fridge didn't reassure him that she had enough to eat—especially if they were snowed in tomorrow.
Awkward, this sniffing around a female's personal life. Awkward, this no longer being sure how far he could push her when he hadn't hesitated to push before he'd left on that trip. Awkward, because somehow she was starting to matter to him the way his own people mattered.
He backed away. "Thank you."
"Don't let him eat all the cookies," she said. "Even as a boy, it would make him sick."
Nodding, he let himself out and fled back to his own apartment.
Sam was sitting at the kitchen table, explaining about safety lines to Elliot, who was listening as if every word was desperately important. The words dried up as soon as Simon put the bakery tin on the table.
"One," Simon said firmly. He poured a glass of milk for each of them and opened the tin.
Sam took small bites, savoring the taste while he eyed the bakery tin until Simon put the lid back on, confirming that one meant one.
"The Wolf cookies are good, but these are better," Sam said.
"Wolf cookies?" Elliot asked.
Sam nodded. "Meg got them special for me."
<What are Wolf cookies?> Elliot asked Simon.
He shrugged. Something else he needed to find out.
Sam yawned.
"Long day for all of us," Simon said.
Sam struggled to sit up. "I'm not tired. Meg would let me watch a movie."
<Is Meg going to be the stick he tries to use on us from now on?> Elliot asked.
<Only until I find out what Meg really allowed him to do,> Simon replied. "All right. Go pick out a movie."
Wobbling. Using the walls for support. But still holding on to a shape that had been a recent discovery before fear had frozen Sam into Wolf form.
Simon drained his glass, then finished off Sam's glass of milk. "Roads to the Wolfgard Complex aren't passable. You should stay here."
"All right." Elliot hesitated. "I'd rather not stay in this form."
He wanted to shed the human skin too. "We'll wait until Sam is asleep."
It didn't take long. Tucked on the couch, wrapped in a blanket to protect that small, shivering body, Sam was asleep five minutes into the movie. Simon checked the doors, turned off lights, and made sure everything was secure. By the time he returned to the living room, Elliot had already shifted.
Leaving the movie on, Simon stripped off his clothes. Then he shifted and settled beside Elliot on the living room floor. If the floor wasn't as warm or comfortable as the beds upstairs, the boy sleeping on the couch provided a different, and deeper, contentment. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 15 | "But I wanna go with Meg!"
As he toweled himself dry, Simon gave his nephew a hard stare and had a totally inappropriate wish that for one more day, he could chuck the puppy in the cage instead of dealing with a wobbly boy who was more stranger than family and was acting annoyingly human.
"You can't go with Meg today," he said firmly. He felt like he'd been saying the same words from the moment Sam woke up. "You're going to stay here with Elliot while I go to this meeting."
"But who's gonna be Meg's adventure buddy if I'm not there?"
"Someone else will have to be her adventure buddy." Preoccupied with the personal hygiene checklist he followed when he had to deal with humans, he didn't realize how badly he'd erred until Sam gave him a tear-filled, horrified look.
"But I'm her adventure buddy. She said I was!" Sam wailed.
Before Simon could reach for the boy, Sam stepped back from the bathroom doorway and darted out of Simon's bedroom.
Wobbly legs. Stairs.
Springing into the bedroom, Simon grabbed the jeans he'd laid out on the bed and ran into the hall. When he didn't see Sam on the stairs, he pulled on the jeans, then tried to zip and button while he rushed after the boy, expecting to find Sam hiding in the living room or in the kitchen, whining at Elliot about not being allowed to go with Meg.
But when Simon got down the stairs, the front door was open, Sam's clothes were strewn all over the floor, the damn leash was gone, and there was evidence in the foot-deep fresh snow of a bounding puppy making his escape.
Simon leaped out the door and snarled when his bare feet sank into snow. A few steps gave him a clear view of Meg's porch—and Sam standing on his hind legs, his forelegs shifted into furry arms that could reach the doorbell, and his front paws changed just enough to have fingers that could press the doorbell And press it and press it.
"Shit. Fuck. Damn damn damn. " Swearwords were one of the best things humans had invented, Simon thought as he took the stairs in leaps. He was almost within reach when the door opened and Sam bolted inside, the red leash trailing after him.
Meg stood in the doorway, trying to scrunch herself into the bathrobe that didn't cover her lower legs. At another time, he would have given those legs a better look—just to check the visible skin for scars. Now, with Sam all furry and talking back at him and Meg looking like a bunny who had been dodging a Hawk, only to run smack into a Wolf, he did what he figured was the polite human thing to do and kept his eyes on her face.
Didn't stop him from grabbing her hand before she regained enough of her wits to shut the door in his face.
"Meg."
"Mr. Wolfgard, what...?"
"Can you watch Sam for a while? I have a meeting this morning. I'll pick him up at lunchtime. But this morning, you can be adventure buddies."
"But... I was getting in the shower," Meg protested weakly. She shivered. "I have to go to work."
"Then the two of you can be adventure buddies at the office. Just don't get buried in the snow." A weak effort at humor, since that was a possibility.
<That's why we have the safety line!>
He was so startled to have Sam communicate with him in the terra indigene way after so long a silence, he squeezed Meg's hand hard enough to make her yip.
"Mr. Wolfgard," Meg said, pulling her hand out of his. "You're not dressed."
And neither was she. "Please, Meg. Just for the morning." He put some bite in the last words and looked past her to Sam.
Sam wagged his tail, not the least bit sorry—or worried—about how he got what he wanted.
When Meg didn't say anything, Simon nudged her back a couple of steps. "Get in the shower. It will warm you up."
Closing her door, he hurried down the stairs and back to his apartment. Elliot stood in the entryway, staring at the clothes on the floor and the open door.
"Blessed Thaisia, what is going on?"
Damn, his feet were cold, and the jeans were wet. "Meg's taking Sam with her for the morning. Put his clothes in a carry sack. I'll leave them with Meg when I go back out for the meeting. And call Nathan. See if the streets around the office and our stores have been plowed. There's no point having Meg try to get to work if there aren't going to be deliveries."
He headed upstairs, intending to take another hot shower and get fully dressed before he ventured outside.
"Simon?" Elliot called, stopping him at the top of the stairs. "Since I won't be watching Sam, I'd like to attend that meeting. If that's acceptable to you."
While there were specific individuals he wanted at this meeting, any leader of a gard or other group of terra indigene was allowed to sit in on the Business Association meetings. Today there were things to discuss about the past week in the Courtyard. There were also things they needed to consider about what happened in Jerzy, and Elliot should hear what was said about that.
And maybe Elliot should be told some things about Meg.
"All right. Check with Nathan first, then call Blair and tell him we'll be meeting in the Green social room."
He didn't wait for Elliot's reply. He went into his bathroom, stripped off the wet jeans, and stood in the shower long enough to warm up. While he got dressed, he considered the new challenge of weaning Sam away from his adventure buddy.
But first he would have to figure out a good reason why he would want to.
It didn't look like they were going anywhere.
Meg stared at the snowdrifts beyond the archway that led to the parking area and garages for the Green Complex. Paths had been cleared around the interior of the complex so that the residents could reach the laundry room, mail room, social room, and the apartments, but there was no way she was going to get her BOW out of the garage, let alone reach the road.
"Come on, Sam. We'll take a quick walk and go back inside." She shifted her grip on the carry sack that contained a complete set of boy's clothing and turned back toward her apartment, pondering how she would get to work. Businesses did open after snowstorms. Deliveries would be made. The mailman would bring the mail sack and pick up the mail deposited in the blue post box that was tucked against the wall of the consulate. People went about their business in the winter, even if it took them a little longer than usual.
As she and Sam walked toward the other end of the complex, she heard bells.
Sam lifted his muzzle and howled.
"Come on," Meg said, walking as quickly as she could.
They reached the road in time to see the sleigh pulled by two brown horses. One horse had a black mane and tail; the other's mane and tail were pale gold.
Tornado and Twister in their other equine forms.
And there, in the front seat, were Winter and Air, still looking like young women instead of girls. They wore no coats, no hats, no gloves. Their gowns were layers of fluttery material that looked like it had been woven from clouds that ranged in color from white to a dark, stormy gray.
"Are you playing today?" Winter asked once the sleigh stopped beside Meg.
"Not playing so much as not working," Meg replied. "I can't get my BOW out of the garage, so I'm not sure I'll be able to reach the office."
"Is reaching the office important?" Air asked.
"It is if we want our mail today or any of the packages that are on the delivery trucks."
Winter stared at the social room's second-story windows. Then she smiled. "We can get you to your office. It won't take long."
Meg looked over her shoulder, then back at the Elemental. "Are you sure you won't be late for the meeting? I think Mr. Wolfgard and some of the others are already there."
Winter gave her a smile that was chilling but, Meg was certain, was not meant to be malevolent.
"I won't be late for the part of the meeting that is of interest to me and my sisters," Winter said.
"Then, thank you. I appreciate the ride. And I've never ridden in a sleigh before." This one was longer than her BOW and had two bench seats.
She picked up Sam, grunting at the unexpected weight. Could he have gotten that much bigger in a week's time? She put him on the floor of the backseat, then scrambled up to sit behind Air. As she got herself settled, she saw Jester standing in his apartment doorway, watching them.
Winter lifted the reins. "Give the snow a spin, my lovely boys. Our Meg wants to get to work."
As Tornado and Twister trotted along at a speed that made Meg's eyes water from the wind and stinging cold, the snow in front of them spun into funnels, leaving enough snowpack on the road to provide a good surface for the sleigh's runners. She had to admit, they moved on the snow far better than her BOW, and Winter delivered her to the back door of the office sooner than she expected.
An area around the back of the Liaison's Office had been cleared, and there was a path to Howling Good Reads, A Little Bite, and Henry's yard. After thanking Winter and Air, Meg followed the path to the front of the building.
She didn't recognize the man wielding the shovel, but since he wasn't wearing anything over his flannel shirt, she figured he wasn't human. She was sure of it when he glanced her way and stiffened the moment he saw Sam and the red harness and leash.
For his part, Sam arroooo ed a greeting and leaped into the untouched snow.
The Wolf watched the pup for a moment before walking over to Meg and tipping his head in what might have been a greeting.
"I'm Nathan Wolfgard," he said, some growl under the words as he kept glancing at Sam. "Stayed above stairs last night."
She looked at the second story of the building. "There are apartments upstairs?" She'd noticed the staircase behind the building and the second-story door, but what was above the office wasn't any of her business. "You live there?"
He shook his head. "Stayed there. Blair wanted eyes on this part of the Courtyard."
Why? Not a question she could ask him, but her skin was suddenly prickling so much she wanted to dig her fingernails into it through all the layers of clothing.
"Got a path dug from street to door," Nathan said. "Not going to get vehicles in or out until our plow comes up from the Utility Complex, but the monkeys can reach the building if they've a mind to." He didn't look happy about that.
"Thank you for clearing paths to the doors," Meg said. "Come on, Sam. Shake off the snow. It's time for me to go to work."
Sam, now snow crusted and happily panting, gave himself a vigorous shake before following Meg back around the building. She got them both wiped down before she unlocked the front door and flipped the sign to OPEN. The snow along the wall of Henry's yard looked like a ramp, making her wonder if the snow was packed up the same way on the other side.
Five Crows settled on the wall. They didn't caw at the Wolf . After watching Nathan through the window, she decided nobody taunted a Wolf who was holding a snow shovel—or one who could pack a mean snowball and fire it at black-feathered targets if the targets became annoying.
She put fresh water in one of Sam's bowls, poured a little kibble in the other bowl, and made herself a cup of peppermint tea. Leaving Sam to gnaw on the last piece of stag stick, she took her tea and two editions of the Courtyard newsletter to the front counter. It was colder out there than in the sorting room, but she didn't have anything to sort yet and she wanted to keep an eye on the street.
She saw Nathan head for the back of the building, the shovel over his shoulder. A minute later, she heard the floor creak above her head. Then the quiet, steady sound of voices. Not conversation. After a moment, she concluded that Nathan must be listening to the television or radio while he, too, kept watch out a window.
Was there another reason Blair—and Simon?—wanted eyes on this part of the Courtyard, or was it simply a matter of having someone around if the stores didn't open today?
Since it wasn't likely that she would get an answer from any of the Wolves, Meg opened the first newsletter to find out what had been going on in the Courtyard.
"Got the Utilities gate dug out and closed," Blair said as he took a seat in the Green social room. "Got the plow out and starting on the business areas. Truck and bucket loader are following. We'll have to shift the snow to the mounding sites to clear some parking spaces in the lot and clear the area for the consulate and Liaison's Office. Nathan shoveled a path from street to office. He'll stay above stairs for a while, unless you want him elsewhere."
"Have him stay there," Simon said. Sam shifting to a boy last night and the ruckus this morning had kept his mind occupied. Now he wondered if Blair was being so cautious because of some vague threat that might come from humans or because he wanted to show other residents in the Courtyard that the Wolves were looking after the Liaison properly. Or was Blair trying to avoid any incident that would start a fight between the Wolves and the Sanguinati?
He didn't have to wonder for long. He just had to watch the Courtyard's enforcer when Vlad walked into the room and noticed Elliot.
So. The vampires were serious about killing a Wolf.
Jester and Henry walked in together. The Coyote looked a little too gleeful. The Grizzly just looked sleepy.
Tess walked in with her hair coiling and completely green. As soon as she spotted Elliot, broad red streaks appeared along with threads of black.
"There is a new danger to terra indigene and humans alike," Simon said. He waited until Tess took a seat before continuing. "So far, there have been no reports of strange killings in the eastern part of Thaisia, but there have been several odd deaths or queer attacks in the west. A pack of dogs attacked a pack of Wolves. The dogs were killed, but the Wolves then ran down several deer and savaged them without stopping to feed. In another village, a pack of human males attacked three females and two subordinate males with such violence, the police thought at first it was an animal attack. Three of the prey died during the attack. The other two died in the hospital. There have been more attacks—a double handful in all that occurred over several months. Since more of the attacks were human against human, there was no reason to think it was a sickness that was spreading from the humans to us."
"Until the deaths at Jerzy," Henry said quietly. "Until leaders among the terra indigene gathered to talk, and began to see a pattern."
Simon nodded. "Most of the attacks hardly touched us at all, except for the police sniffing around for some way to blame us. In a few cases, the sickness started in a village of humans that is enclosed by our territory, and no one can say how it reached one village when other villages on that same road were not touched. Sickness should have spread from village to village, leaving a trail, but that hasn't been true this time."
Vlad sat back and crossed one leg over the other. "The leaders from the Courtyards that were affected are satisfied that this sickness begins with the humans?"
"Yes. But the human leaders believe just as strongly that we're the cause."
"Doesn't matter what they believe," Jester growled.
"If the humans are spreading a new sickness to us, there is a way to fix the problem," Blair said, staring at Simon.
"That's not the answer," Henry said, shifting in his chair. "Not yet. First we or the humans must find the root of this sickness. Then we decide what needs to be killed."
"Agreed," Simon said. "Especially since there has been no sign of this sickness in the east." He sighed. "One thing ties each of these attacks to us: some Crows were killed near each of the villages a day or two before the attack took place. I'll talk to Jenni Crowgard. If Crows begin to die without reason, we need to take that as a warning that the sickness has reached Lakeside."
He waited a moment. "Now. What's been happening here?"
He wasn't sure if it was just timing or if Vlad had sent a signal, but as soon as he asked the question, the door opened and Winter walked into the room, followed by Erebus Sanguinati. After a moment of startled silence, two chairs were added to the circle.
Elliot was sitting close enough to him that Simon could smell his sire's fear. Bad enough to have Erebus come to this meeting, but one of the Elementals? They rarely concerned themselves with anything but their connection to Namid. And when they did, the results were unpredictable—and usually devastating.
"Meg had a prophecy while you were gone," Henry said, his abrupt words changing the direction of the discussion before it began.
Elliot gave Simon a startled look. "Prophecy?"
"Meg is a cassandra sangue," Simon replied.
Winter had no reaction. Erebus simply nodded.
"What do you know about blood prophets?" he asked Erebus.
"Very little. Meg is the first of her kind I have ever seen, so I did not know the cassandra sangue and the humans who have the sweet blood were the same," Erebus replied.
"What is the sweet blood?" Henry asked, his eyes narrowing in thought.
"They have adult bodies, but they retain the sweetness of a child's heart," Erebus said.
Simon thought about the old woman who had cut her face to see his future. A sweetness in her eyes, in her smile, despite her age. Not a feeb, like some of the adolescents had called her. No, there was nothing wrong with her mind. But perhaps that childlike innocence provided a veil against the terrible things the prophets sometimes saw in the visions.
"Not prey," Henry said, looking at Simon. "We've recognized something different about some humans without realizing what it was."
Simon nodded. "Meg."
"The Sanguinati do not feed on the young," Erebus said. "And we do not feed on the sweet blood, because they are both wondrous and terrible. That forbidding was done long ago, and it is still passed down from one Sanguinati to another, even though we had forgotten the reason for it."
"Why terrible?" Tess asked, leaning forward. Her hair was still colored, but it was relaxing into loose curls.
Erebus shrugged. "Prophecies swim in that blood. I do not think I would like to see such things if I drank from a cassandra sangue."
"Our Meg is going to stay, isn't she?" Winter asked, sliding a look at Elliot that chilled the air. "My sisters and I would be unhappy if someone made her leave."
How did she know about the argument between Meg and Elliot? More to the point, what would she do with that knowledge?
He didn't want to think about that, so he focused on Henry. "What prophecy?"
Tess, Vlad, Jester, and Blair already knew about Sam somehow being connected to men coming into the Courtyard with weapons. That explained Nathan being assigned to keep watch at the Liaison's Office and why Blair had spent the night keeping watch on the open Utilities gate. The men Meg had seen had come in during a storm.
"We have been vigilant," Henry said. "The pup has not been alone. Meg has not been alone. They have both grown stronger in the past few days."
Despite the potential threat seen in the prophecy, Simon relaxed a little as each member of the Business Association gave him a report. He even laughed during Blair's account of Boone's dealings with the Liaison and her request for special meat. There had been no clashes with humans in general or the police in particular while he'd been gone, no clashes among the terra indigene except for the misstep Elliot had made that angered the Sanguinati. But that wouldn't happen again. He'd banish Elliot from the Lakeside Courtyard before he let the other Wolf — or anyone else—harm Meg in any way.
And Meg. Making deliveries, making friends, making a life among them in such a short time.
Meg. One of Namid's creations, both terrible and wondrous.
That was something he was going to have to think about.
Dear Ms. Know-It-All,
The other night, I had a friend over for dinner and a walk on the wild side (if you know what I mean). Everything was going fine until the kissing and petting part. I got a little excited when he began to play push-away after I nipped him and, well, I ended up biting him on the thigh. It wasn't a big bite—didn't even need stitching—and despite what he claimed, it really wasn't all that close to his chew toy. Now he won't return my calls. What should I do?
Signed,
Puzzled
========
Dear Puzzled,
First, young terra indigene often get confused when food provides more than one kind of stimulation. But when you invite a human over for dinner, he expects to be served dinner, not be dinner. Second, even though humans claim to enjoy biting as foreplay, they only mean it when their partners don't have teeth of any significance. Third, no male, human or Other, feels easy when teeth get too close to the chew toy. So chalk this up to experience, and the next time you invite a human to take a walk on the wild side, stick to a jog in the park.
Trying to breathe and swallow at the same time, Meg spit peppermint tea all over the counter.
Ms. Know-It-All. The newsletter's dispenser of advice for interactions between humans and the terra indigene.
Gods above and below.
She wondered whether Lorne found the column humorous, or if knowing the Others thought this was sound advice for dealing with humans was the reason he preferred to keep a counter between himself and most of his customers at the Three Ps.
She was still wiping the tea off her counter when she spotted Harry walking up the narrow path from the street. She opened the go-through and reached the door at the same time he did. Pushing it open until he could brace it with his shoulder, she grabbed the top package and hurried back to the counter.
On second thought...
Putting the package on the handcart, she waited for him.
"Had a spill, Miz Meg?" Harry asked as he set the rest of the packages on the cart. There was an odd tone in his voice.
"Enough of one that the counter is still wet," she replied, looking over her shoulder, then back at him. "You go ahead. I'll fill out my notes as soon as I finish wiping the counter. I've seen cars slipping and sliding out there this morning, and you don't want your truck to get hit."
"That I don't. You keep warm now, you hear? And watch out for those spills."
"I will. Drive safe. See you Moonsday."
Harry waved at the Crows as he pushed open the door and headed for his truck. Meg finished wiping the counter, folded the newsletters, and put them in the paper-recycling bin in the back room.
When she went into the bathroom to wash her hands, she looked in the little mirror over the sink. Then she stood there, stunned.
Harry hadn't been commenting about the wet counter. He'd been staring at her face when he'd asked about a spill.
She'd forgotten about the bruise. She'd been so rushed to get ready for work, with Simon and Sam showing up and disrupting her routine, she hadn't looked in a mirror that morning, not even when she dragged a comb through her hair.
If Harry or one of the other deliverymen called the police and told them about the bruise...
She had to tell someone. Had to tell Simon. Just in case.
As she passed through the sorting room on her way to use the phone at the front counter, she glanced at Sam, who was still happily gnawing on his stag stick.
Meg's stomach did a funny little flip. While she waited for someone to answer HGR's phone, she promised herself that, from now on, she would make sure the stag sticks Boone was leaving for Sam really were made from deer.
Monty stood outside the Chestnut Street station, waiting for Kowalski to bring the patrol car around. Last night's storm provided a good excuse to make a courtesy call at the Courtyard without being too obvious that they were checking up on the Courtyard's leader—and hoping for some information about what happened in Jerzy.
"I could use some coffee this morning," Monty said after he got in the car. "Do you think the Courtyard stores will be open?"
"Hard to say," Kowalski replied, pulling into traffic. "The Others don't run their stores for profit. It's more of a hobby and experiment for them, and it's a way to get merchandise and services without going to human-run businesses."
No, they wouldn't need to be concerned about profit. When you were the landlord and an entire city was your rental property, any other business run by a Courtyard was an accommodation.
But when they reached the Courtyard, Monty saw the Others busily removing the snow from their parking lot, using a small bucket loader to scoop up the snow and dump it in the bed of a pickup truck. There were some lights on in A Little Bite and Howling Good Reads, but not enough to give an impression that the stores were open.
"Let's check the Liaison's Office," Monty said.
Meg Corbyn was open for business. Judging by the lights in the windows, so was the consulate. And this access to the Courtyard was already plowed.
"Wait here."
Entering the office, he walked up to the counter. The Wolf pup stood in the Private doorway, watching him.
"Good morning," Monty said. "Is Ms. Corbyn around?"
Since he didn't expect an answer, he stepped back, startled, when the pup suddenly shifted into a naked boy who shouted, "Meg! The police human is here!"
"Who...?" Meg came into view and stared at the boy. "Ah... Sam? It's cold. You should put on some clothes."
The boy looked down at himself. Then he looked at Meg and grinned. "Don't need clothes. I have fur!"
And he did. He also had four legs and a tail when he darted past her and out of sight.
Meg looked a little wobbly when she approached the counter.
"A new development?" Monty asked, staring at the doorway. He'd seen one of them change from Wolf to child once before. Then, like now, seeing how fast they could shift made his heart race.
"Very new," Meg said. "I haven't sorted out the rules yet. Or even figured out if there are rules."
He looked at her face and felt a hard anger, but he kept his voice soft. "And that? Is that also a new development?"
She sighed. "It was a misunderstanding. It won't happen again."
"Are you sure?"
Simon Wolfgard stepped into the Private doorway. " I'm sure."
He didn't touch Meg, but he used his hips and shoulders to crowd her into stepping aside, ensuring he was the one standing directly in front of Monty.
"Mr. Wolfgard," Monty said. "I was hoping to have a word with you if you have a minute."
A long look. What did Wolfgard see? An enemy? A rival? Maybe an ally?
Noises coming from the next room, like someone jumping and huffing with the effort.
Meg started to turn to see what was going on, but Simon shook his head.
"HGR isn't open yet," Simon said. "But Tess just made some coffee." He looked at Meg. "Yours is on the sorting table, along with a cup of hot chocolate and some muffins." He raised his voice. "The muffins and hot chocolate can only be eaten by a boy wearing clothes."
A yip followed by the click of toenails on floor.
"Is there some kind of rule for when Sam should be a boy and when he's a Wolf?" Meg asked.
"A Wolf lifts his leg and yellows up snow. A boy has to use the toilet," Simon replied.
"And that will work?"
"Only if he needs to pee."
Monty coughed loudly to cover up the chuckle.
"Have your officer bring the car around to the back," Simon said. "We cleared a lot of the snow, but not having the car parked in front of Meg's office will make it easier for the delivery trucks. I'll wait for you at the back entrance to A Little Bite."
"Ms. Corbyn." Monty tipped his head and left. When he pushed the door open and looked back, Simon Wolfgard was staring at him—and there was nothing friendly in those amber eyes.
Hurrying to the patrol car, he instructed Kowalski to drive around back.
Thinking of that stare, he wondered if there would be another "misunderstanding" that would end with Meg Corbyn carrying another bruise.
As soon as Montgomery was out of sight, Simon turned on Meg. "Has that monkey been bothering you?"
Bunny eyes, all startled by the unexpected.
"No," Meg stammered.
"He makes you nervous." He smelled that on her.
"I—" She hesitated. "When I see the police, it's hard to remember that I can't be taken away, that they won't make me go back...."
He snarled. Couldn't help himself. "They won't take you away. What else? He was angry. He has no right to be angry with you."
Another hesitation. Then she lifted a hand toward the left side of her face. "Does this make you angry?"
"Yes!"
"It made him angry too."
It took effort, but he took a step back. Montgomery was angry about the bruise? A reaction that matched his own. That was good. That was something he understood about the human.
"Lieutenant Montgomery is waiting for you," Meg said.
"You called the store. To talk to me."
"To tell you the deliverymen have seen the bruise and some of them might call the police to report it."
"Humans do that?"
"Sometimes."
And sometimes they didn't. That was the unspoken truth he saw in her gray eyes. He studied her face and the weird hair that had a line of black near the scalp.
"Mr. Wolfgard?"
A creak of the floor above him. <Nathan?>
<Here.>
<Keep watch.>
"I'll be back for Sam at lunchtime," he told Meg.
Then he left, passing Sam as he went to the back door. The boy's clothes weren't buttoned right, but he'd let Meg deal with that, since he and Sam would have something else to deal with once he got the pup back home.
As he walked up to A Little Bite's back door, he noticed how Officer Kowalski had parked the patrol car so that it was pointed out, and the police wouldn't lose any time turning around when they wanted to leave.
Montgomery watched him, a lot of things going unspoken behind those dark eyes. Seemed like a lot of things weren't being said today.
He led them into the shop. Tess's hair was still green, but now there were brown streaks showing, which meant she was getting calmer. She gave them all coffee and a plate of pastries that, even warmed up, tasted a little stale. Not that any of them commented on that. You either ate what Tess offered or you didn't.
He and Montgomery circled each other using polite words as they realized neither had much to tell the other. But listening to what was said under the spoken words, Simon understood that Montgomery had more interest in keeping the peace than he did. His only interest was in keeping his own kind safe by whatever means necessary.
And as they talked and circled, he understood that his own kind now included Meg.
Asia pulled her car into the delivery area in front of the Liaison's Office.
"Thanks for giving me a ride," Darrell Adams said. He fiddled with the door handle but didn't open the door. Instead he glanced toward the wall lined with Crows.
Freaking spies. She knew Darrell wanted to give her a kiss, knew he wanted to do a lot more. She'd had dinner with him a couple of times now. Didn't take much to prime his conversational pump, but despite working at the consulate, his well of information was pretty shallow. Okay, he was a human working for the terra indigene, so it figured they wouldn't tell him anything important . Still, he was a different way into the Courtyard. Problem was, if she was going to keep him interested and sufficiently agreeable to granting her a tiny little favor, she was going to have to give him sex. Not that she minded using sex as part of a job, but the men she'd slept with up until now had social clout. On the other hand, she needed to send her backers some fresh information soon.
But those black-feathered freaks were watching, and giving someone a ride on a snowy day wasn't as interesting to report as giving someone sloppy tongue.
"Guess I'd better go in," Darrell said.
"Guess so," Asia agreed. "You take care." She didn't offer to give him a ride home. She wasn't about to let him into her apartment, and she didn't want an awkward scene if he invited her up to his. Besides, as soon as he went inside, she wanted to pop in to see Meg—and hopefully get another look at that Wolf pup.
Before Darrell reached the consulate door and she shut off her car, a patrol car came out of the access way between the buildings, and she was right in its path. Her car wasn't unusual, but it was parked in the lot often enough that someone might notice it.
So she gave the men in the car a brilliant smile and a cheery wave before she headed for the exit. And she didn't breathe easy until she was driving away and was certain the police had turned in the other direction.
When Simon picked up Sam, his nephew was back to being furry. Blair had brought Meg's BOW to the office. Since she planned to shop in the Market Square during her midday break, he took the BOW and drove back to the Green Complex.
Parking in a visitor's space, he carried Sam across the road, then let the pup lift a leg before they went inside.
He closed the apartment door and locked it.
Being locked in fear for two years made a difference in a lot of ways, but for both their sakes, he couldn't let it make a difference in the most important ways. Not when Elliot had called to tell him Lakeside's mayor was still whining about the police's inability to apprehend the dangerous thief who looked like Meg Corbyn. Not when someone had brought an unknown sickness to the western part of Thaisia. Not when it was so vital to their own well-being that he remain the leader of this Courtyard.
Which meant nothing and no one could be allowed to challenge or undermine his leadership in any way.
It was the cocky way Sam held his head, so sure he was going to get anything he wanted from now on, that snapped Simon's temper. He was on the pup in a heartbeat, pushing him to the floor before rolling him on his back. One hand pressed down on Sam's chest while he leaned over the youngster, his fangs growing, his eyes fixed on the vulnerable throat.
<I am the leader, not you,> Simon snarled. <I give the orders, not you. I let you get away with disobeying me this morning, but not again. Not again, Sam. If you won't obey because you're living here, you'll have to live with Elliot in the Wolfgard Complex. If you still can't obey, you'll be sent to live with a pack beyond the Courtyard.>
Sam shifted to boy. Simon pressed harder on the chest and brought his fangs closer to that vulnerable throat.
"Why can't I stay with Meg?" Sam whined. "I wanna stay with Meg."
"You are a Wolf. Meg is human. There are many things you need to learn that she can't teach you. And you don't get to choose. " Simon waited, but the boy offered no defiance. "You need to be with other Wolves again. You need to learn again."
Tears filled Sam's eyes. "Meg?"
"Meg will be the reward for good behavior." He was pretty sure that would put him in the wrong with Meg, but he wasn't going to worry about that. Meg, too, needed to learn. She hadn't seen an adult Wolf . He would have to change that.
As soon as Simon released Sam, the boy shifted to pup and darted into his cage.
That, too, was going to change.
But as he heated up food for both of them, he wondered if he was trying to take away Sam's adventure buddy because he truly believed it was best for Sam and Meg, or if he was doing it because he felt excluded. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 16 | On Watersday, Simon put the cash drawer in the register and opened HGR for business. He wasn't in the best frame of mind to deal with customers, but paperwork wouldn't have distracted him from thinking about what he was going to do when Meg closed the office for the midday break.
Yesterday had been sunny, and the city plows had cleared Lakeside's main roads as well as the residential streets. So today all the humans were out and about, as if Windsday night's storm had closed them in for a week instead of slowing them down for forty-eight hours at the most. The Courtyard's customer parking lot was full. There were humans working out at Run & Thump, including the Ruthie, who was Officer Kowalski's mate. Most of the tables at A Little Bite were full, and now that HGR was open, he anticipated many of those customers would be coming through the connecting door to shop or browse or just have a reason to be somewhere that wasn't home for a little while longer.
Cabin fever, humans called it. A phrase that made no sense to the terra indigene. When there was a storm, you slept or stayed quiet somewhere that was dry and warm. When the storm stopped, you went out to hunt and play. There was no need to be frantic about it. Wanting to do one and then the other was wisdom Namid imparted to all her creatures.
Most of her creatures anyway.
Not that he cared. The humans would end up buying a book or one of the limited number of magazines the store carried, and then they would be gone, out in the shock of the cold, heading for the next place where they would flock for a while before eventually returning to their roosts.
John approached the checkout counter, a worried look on his normally cheerful face. "Morning, Simon. I saw Sam at the Wolfgard Complex. Is everything all right?"
"He's playing with some of the other pups this morning."
"As a pup?"
Ah, that was the reason for the worry. The Wolves had been told that Sam had finally shifted to human, but most hadn't seen the boy, hadn't had a chance to identify by sight or scent who Sam was in his other skin.
"Probably," Simon replied, keeping his voice mild. "He was supposed to stay human for half the morning, but I think he wore out Elliot's patience by the time they were done with breakfast, and he received permission to shift." He couldn't blame Elliot for making that choice. Letting Sam shift back to Wolf was easier than listening to the continual Meg did it this way and Meg doesn't do that.
Meg was now the yardstick by which they were supposed to measure all things human. Of course, the boy had also campaigned for Meg to go with him to puppy school because there were things she didn't know.
Simon didn't think Meg really wanted to know how to eviscerate a rabbit. He could be wrong about that, but he just couldn't picture Meg pouncing on a bunny and ripping it open with her teeth.
Maybe if he tried harder to picture it?
"Looks like there's a gaggle of college girls next door," John said. "Do you want me to add more stock to the quick-buy table up here or shift and do security?"
He caught the scent of two other Wolves before he saw them. When they reached the front of the store, Nathan was in human form, and Ferus approached as a Wolf.
Simon watched Ferus take the corner spot that gave the Wolf on watch a clear view of the door and the whole front area of the store. Since he or Vlad were usually in the store when it was open, they typically didn't have more than one Wolf as added security. It was Ferus's turn to be the watch Wolf, so why was Nathan with him? "Is Blair expecting trouble?"
Nathan shook his head. "Henry said there should be a box of books here for our library. He wants to work with the wood this morning, and I wasn't doing anything particular, so I told him I'd pick up the box and take it over to the Market Square." He grinned at Simon. "Besides, tomorrow is Earthday, and I'm looking for some quiet. If I help with setting out the new books, I get first pick."
"You could always buy one," John said.
Nathan just laughed.
Since Nathan's presence gave him an extra enforcer in this part of the Courtyard, Simon didn't see any reason not to use the Wolf. "Before you pick up the box, step in at Run and Thump and the social center. Check the upstairs rooms; get a look at everyone who's there today. The Ruthie was there when I looked in the window. She's mated to one of the police. Keep an eye on her. We gave him—and her—a pass to shop in the Market Square. She knows the rules, but that doesn't mean someone won't try to slip in with her if she decides to shop before going home."
"I'll look in, let everyone see the Wolves are watching. Marie is keeping watch from above, but most humans don't think about the Hawks when they try to do something stupid."
Most humans didn't think about the Crows either, or how effectively they could sound an alarm that could travel all over the Courtyard faster than most humans could cause trouble.
Nathan walked out the front door. John went into the back room to fetch some books. And Simon watched the first customers enter HGR from A Little Bite. He tried not to snarl when he noticed Asia Crane among those customers. He didn't have the right temper to deal with Asia this morning and hoped she would buy a book and go away.
"Hello, handsome," she said as she sidled up to the counter. "Haven't seen you in a while. You been hiding from me?"
Another scent on her. Something familiar, but it was faint enough and not familiar enough to be instantly recognizable. He wanted to lean over the counter and get a better sniff, but she might mistake that for interest in her breasts, which was usually followed by an invitation to have sex. Since he wasn't interested in breasts or sex, he chose a different way of finding out what he wanted to know.
<Ferus. Come here and find out who she's been rubbing against.>
"Looking for something in particular, Asia?" Simon asked.
She leaned on the counter, giving him a clear view down her sweater. "Did you have something in mind?"
She let out a very satisfying squeal and almost leaped high enough to land on the counter when Ferus shoved his muzzle between her legs.
<The Darrell is on her coat but not in her sex place,> Ferus reported. Then he sneezed and went back to his spot in the corner.
"Freaking fuck!" Asia shouted. "What was that?"
Simon took his glasses out of their case and put them on. "Curiosity. At least he didn't find anything he wanted to bite." He bared his teeth in a smile and raised his voice. "Kind of crowded in here today. Lots of people looking to stock up on books in case we get another storm. Can my assistant help you find something?"
She looked like she wanted to tear his throat out, and at that moment, he had no trouble picturing her ripping a bunny apart.
"I don't want anything from you." She strode out of the store.
He hoped that was true. He hoped she'd have sex with Darrell and stop sniffing around him.
He stared at the gaggle of college girls who were standing nearby with their mouths open, watching the drama. "What about you? Are you interested in buying books?"
Many assurances that they were there to buy books. They fled to the shelves that would take them out of sight. He cocked his head, listening to John talk to the girls as he came back from the stockroom, catching the tone but not the words.
The girls had gotten what they came for. They would buy a few books as payment for being able to relate to their friends that they had seen, for real, a Wolf sniff a woman's crotch in public.
Sighing, he pulled the stack of book orders from beneath the counter. Before, he hadn't had enough to occupy his mind. Now he had too much.
Despite her blatant efforts to flirt with him, Asia was rubbing against Darrell, a human who worked at the consulate. Elliot had voiced no complaints about the man, which meant Darrell was a good worker, but he wasn't the kind of male Simon would have expected Asia to run after. He seemed too ordinary for a female who wanted to walk on the wild side.
Simon growled in frustration. He was missing something. He didn't think like a human, so he was missing something.
Unfortunately, he didn't trust any humans enough to ask one what it was about Asia's interest in Darrell that wasn't right.
Freaking Wolf! He used to let her flirt with him. Now he treated her like a rattlesnake he wanted to stomp under his boot. And now that she thought about it, Simon Wolfgard had started being mean to her around the same time the new Liaison showed up.
But he couldn't be humping that no-looks feeb! From what Darrell had told her—in confidence, of course—Simon Wolfgard hadn't entertained a female guest since his sister was killed. When Asia had learned that, his refusal to respond to her invitations made more sense. But the way he brought all the wrong kinds of attention to her now could turn into a professional fuckup. And, damn it, she didn't want to settle for Darrell because Meg was somehow screwing up her chances with Simon.
As Asia reached her car, she glanced toward the street and saw a white van drive by. And she smiled.
Meg looked at the empty dog bed, then looked away and told herself to focus on sorting the mail. She'd already had to go through a couple of stacks twice when she realized she had put some of the mail for the Chambers in with the mail for the Crowgard. If that mail had gone to the Corvine Complex, the odds of the Sanguinati getting it back unopened... Well, there really weren't odds sufficient for that.
Sam needed to socialize with his own kind, needed to spend time with the other Wolf pups. He'd already lost two years, and she had the impression that there weren't many youngsters his age in the Courtyard, regardless of species. So he needed to be with Wolves, and she was happy to work alone without interruptions.
Sure she was.
She hadn't known him a couple of weeks ago. How could she feel their—his!—absence when she'd known him for so short a time?
Pay attention, she scolded herself. The ponies will be here soon, and they'll expect you to have mail for them to deliver.
She focused on the work and tried to ignore the silence even the chatter on the radio couldn't hide.
Simon glanced at the wall clock behind the checkout counter and tried not to snap at Vlad for being late.
The Sanguinati studied the Wolf . "Something wrong?"
Simon shook his head. "Just have something that needs to be done."
Vlad looked around. "Are we providing shelter, or are the humans actually buying books?"
"Little of both. Sales have been pretty good today. Heather campaigned for some books that I normally wouldn't have in the store because it gives humans too many wrong ideas."
Vlad looked amused. "You mean the kinds of stories where the Wolf doesn't eat the female after he has sex with her?"
"After Asia and I snapped at each other this morning, and Ferus shoved his nose into her privates, we sold out all the Wolf-as-lover books. If you drink one of the customers pale, we should sell out the stack of vampire-as-lover stories."
"Heather should know better," Vlad muttered.
Simon slipped past Vlad and said nothing. There would be a spike in the number of girls who went out for a walk in the woods and were never heard from again. There always were when stories came out portraying the terra indigene as furry humans who just wanted to be loved.
Most of the terra indigene didn't want to love humans; they wanted to eat them. Why did humans have such a hard time understanding that?
"Are you going to come back?" Vlad asked.
He hesitated. "Not sure."
A lot was going to depend on how Meg responded to seeing a full-grown Wolf.
Almost time to close for the midday break. According to the grapevine—which, in the Courtyard, meant Jenni Crowgard and her sisters—the new library books would be available today. Since tomorrow was Earthday, Meg expected to have a lot of time on her hands, so she wanted to pick up a couple of books. Maybe she would also stop at Music and Movies for a movie. And she needed to pick up a few things at the grocery store on her way home. Maybe she would call Hot Crust and have a pizza delivered to the office before she left for the day.
Lots of things she could do tomorrow. Lots of things.
Meg turned off the radio and heard the quiet sounds coming from the back room.
"Merri Lee? Is that you?" She had been stopping in at A Little Bite for the past few days, but Tess might have sent someone over with her meal. "Julia?"
What pushed open the door and came into the sorting room wasn't a human or a Hawk.
The Wolf was a terrible kind of beauty, and so much more than the pictures she'd been shown of the animal, who paled in comparison to what the terra indigene had made of that form. Big and muscled, the Wolf approaching her had a dark coat shot with lighter gray hairs. Meg wasn't sure if it was the coat or something else about his nature that made him seem less substantial when he moved, made the eyes struggle to see him.
How many people had thought they were hallucinating right up until the moment they were attacked?
The amber eyes held a feral intelligence—and an annoyed frustration she recognized.
"Mr. Wolfgard?"
The Wolf cocked his head.
"Simon?"
He opened his mouth in a wolfish grin.
She recognized him. Points for her.
Then she looked at him again. Sam was going to grow up to look like that? "Wow."
He wagged his tail and looked pleased. Then he began sniffing his way around the room, making happy growls when he poked around in the corner that used to have a nest of mice. She stepped aside when he got to her part of the room, and she had the impression the passing sniff he gave her would have been much more thorough if she'd stood still. So she took another step back and didn't say anything when he poked his nose around Sam's bed.
He headed for the back room, his shoulder brushing her waist as he passed her.
She stayed where she was.
That was what was hiding inside the human skin? That strength, those teeth? No wonder the Wolves hadn't let her see them until she got used to living in the Courtyard. Sam running toward her for a pretend hunt had been scary enough. Being chased by a pack of grown Wolves...
People who entered the Courtyard without an invitation were just plain crazy! Wolves were big and scary and so fluffy, how could anyone resist hugging one just to feel all that fur?
"Ignore the fluffy," she muttered. "Remember the part about big and scary."
Then she heard sounds that had her rushing into the back room.
"What are you doing?" she yelped.
He had opened all the cupboards and found the puppy cookies. The ripped top of the box was in pieces on the floor. He grabbed one side of the box and shook his head, dumping a few cookies on the floor.
"Stop that!" Meg scolded. "Stop! You'll set a bad example for Sam."
She didn't think, didn't even consider the stupidity of what she was doing. She just grabbed the other side of the box and tried to pull it away from him.
Never play tug-of-war with a Wolf who weighs twice as much as you do, she thought as it became clear to her that her shoes had better traction, but he had more feet and more experience playing the game.
Before she could figure out how to gracefully end the contest, the box ripped and cookies went flying.
Simon dropped the box and dove for the cookies. Licked one off the floor— crunch, crunch —then swallowed before going after the next one.
"Don't eat off the floor!" Meg shoved him away from the cookies, surprising a growl out of him.
They stared at each other, him with his lips raised to show her an impressive set of teeth, and her realizing that it had probably been a lot of years since anyone had dared push him away from food he wanted.
She stepped back and tried to pretend she was dealing with a big version of Sam the puppy, since that felt safer than dealing with Simon the dominant Wolf... and her boss.
"Fine," she said. "Go ahead and stuff yourself with cookies. But you're going to be the one who explains why there aren't any left when Sam comes to visit."
Turning her back on him, she strode into the sorting room and kept going until she reached the counter in the front room, her legs shaking more and more with every step.
"Let him have the cookies," she muttered as she watched a white van pull into the delivery area. "Maybe they'll fill him up enough that he'll forget about wanting to eat the annoying female."
Pulling her clipboard from the shelf under the counter, she waited for the last delivery of the morning.
Henry stepped into his yard and reached back to shut the workroom door. The wood had stopped speaking to him a few minutes ago, so he had put his tools away and tidied up. He would get something to eat at Meat-n-Greens, then take care of the new library books—however many were left. Fortunately, there would be a list so he would know what books were supposed to be on the shelves.
The Crows on the wall were uneasy—and silent.
<What?> Henry asked.
<Stranger went inside with a box. He talks with the Meg.>
Nothing unusual about that. Now that they finally had a decent Liaison, they were getting more deliveries.
He breathed in cold, clean air—and breathed out hot anger as the scent from over the wall reached him. It belonged to the intruder who had broken in when Meg had first come to work for them and was living in the efficiency apartment.
An intruder who was now inside the office, talking to Meg.
<Simon?> he asked the Crows.
<Inside with the Meg,> Jake replied.
<Stay quiet.> He opened the workroom door, then pulled off his boots and socks. Putting them inside, he closed the door.
Between was not encouraged in the Courtyards. Between disturbed humans too much, stirred up too much fear. Right now, he didn't care. He shifted what he needed. His feet changed shape and acquired footpads, fur, and claws. His palms grew a pad, and his fingers changed to stubby, clawed digits.
The snow packed against the wall of his yard formed a ramp. He scrambled over the snow and down the other side of the wall, crouching beside the snowpack while he studied the van. Then, staying low, he crossed the open area and reached the passenger's door.
A glance into the office. Meg talking to the intruder.
She didn't look like she wanted to talk to that monkey. But he did. Oh yes. He did.
Simon chased a cookie across the floor, enjoying the silly game.
Meg hadn't been upset when she saw him as Wolf . She had, in fact, been foolishly brave, daring to push the leader away from food. And they had played. He couldn't remember ever playing with a human.
Chasing one you were going to eat didn't count.
Did she play tug with Sam? What about throw? He didn't think she was strong enough to throw anything very far, but it could still be an enjoyable game. The three of them could play. They could...
Simon raised his head, growling softly but not yet sure what he was sensing that had him primed to attack.
He stepped into the sorting room, sniffed the air... and knew.
Meg wasn't just uneasy. Meg was afraid.
Her skin prickled so fiercely, it was everything she could do not to drop the clipboard and pen and pull out the razor to ease the awful feeling that had started as soon as the man walked into the office. Everything about him was wrong, but he hadn't actually done anything.
"Must get lonely, working here all by yourself," he said.
"Oh no. There are people coming and going all day." Not to mention the Crows who kept track of who came and went.
Trying to ignore the prickling, Meg frowned at the back of the van. Not enough information and far too many blanks. Who was this delivery service anyway?
Giving up on the van, she turned toward the package, sliding her eyes to get another look at the man. Big. Rough-looking. No name stitched on the shirt pocket. No company logo or identification on the jacket.
"There's no company name on this label," she said. The box was tall enough that she could see the label but not read it easily. Another black mark for this delivery service that their driver didn't think to tilt it for her. "Who sent this?"
He shrugged. "Couldn't say."
"It should be on your paperwork." Her voice turned sharp. There was something about the look in his eyes that reminded her of the Walking Names when one of the girls dared to ask a question that wasn't about a lesson. "Who is it for?"
"For one of them. What difference does it make?"
Something ugly in his voice now. But he was more frightening when he tried to go back to friendly, as if she couldn't hear the ugliness under the words.
"Sorry," he said. "Had a couple of rough deliveries earlier. Complaints about things I can't fix. You know?"
That was possible, although she suspected he deserved the complaints. Setting her pen and clipboard on the counter, she reached for the box, intending to turn it in the hopes she could at least make out which complex it should go to. If she couldn't read that much, she would refuse the delivery and write a memo to Simon and Vlad in case someone was looking for the package.
The man moved fast, clamping one hand on her wrist.
"Why don't you come with me?" he said, smiling when she couldn't break his grip. "We'll get something to eat and get acquainted."
"No." She twisted, trying to break free. "Let go of my wrist!"
"Whatcha gonna do? Bite my hand off?"
Simon exploded out of the sorting room. He didn't bother with the hand. His lunge took him over the counter far enough that his teeth just missed the man's face.
The man let her go and scrambled back toward the door. "You fucking bitch! I was just asking you out for a meal. You didn't have to sic your fucking dog on me!"
The "dog" snarled so savagely, the man bolted out of the office and scrambled into the van, his movements so violent the driver's-side tires actually lifted off the pavement for a moment. But there wasn't time to wonder about that, because Simon used his body to shove her into the sorting room.
He rose on his hind legs and shifted, but he didn't revert back to human completely before he grabbed her, and his fury, like the look of him when he was a queer blend of human and Wolf, was a chilling heat against her skin.
"Where is it?" He pulled her close and began sniffing her. "Where is it?"
She tried pushing him away, disturbed by the sensation of fur covering a human chest. "Where is what?" When he bent to sniff at her waist and hips, she squealed and struggled to get away.
"Where is the cut, Meg?" he snarled.
"I didn't cut!" She began fighting him. He was something out of nightmares now, and he terrified her. "Stop it, Simon! Let me go!"
She pulled away from him, smacking against the counter as a hand that wasn't quite a hand yanked on her sweater. She heard the sound of material ripping at the seams. And she heard his harsh breathing as he stared at the upper part of her left arm.
"I didn't cut," she said, trying not to cry. "I was in the back room with you, and then I was trying to deal with that deliveryman."
"But you knew he was bad," Simon argued. "You knew."
"Not because I cut myself! Not because of a prophecy. Did you hear me describing a vision?"
"You don't have to say the words out loud!"
She didn't understand why he was so angry about the possibility of a cut. It was, after all, her choice now. But she realized there were things he didn't understand about the cassandra sangue, and judging by the way he kept looking at the scars, he knew they weren't right. He knew that much.
"Most people hear only about the euphoria, the ecstasy that blood prophets feel from a cut."
He cocked his head to show he was listening.
"And there is euphoria. There is ecstasy that is similar to prolonged sexual pleasure. But first, Mr. Wolfgard, there is pain. When the skin is first cut, in those moments before the prophet begins to speak, there is a lot of pain."
He didn't like that. She could judge how much he didn't like that by the red flickering in his amber eyes.
"Do you know how a girl like me is punished?" She raised her right hand and traced the diagonal scars on her left arm. "She is strapped to the chair, as always. Then she is gagged. And then the Controller sits in his chair while one of the Walking Names takes the razor and slices across old visions, old prophecies, and makes something terrible and new. All those images jumbled together with no reference point, no anchor. And because she is gagged, the girl can't speak. The words need to be heard, Mr. Wolfgard. When a prophecy isn't spoken, isn't shared, there is no euphoria. There is only pain."
He took a step closer to her, his eyes still on her arm. He raised a hand, but the fingers still ended in Wolf claws that hovered over her fragile skin.
"Why did they punish you?"
More than once. He could count the number of times she had tried to defy the Controller and Walking Names. One section of her arm was a crosshatch of scars. What she had seen and endured could have driven her insane. Instead, the images had come together in a pattern that had shown her how to escape.
"I lied," she said. "There was a man. A very bad man. He was a favorite client of the Controller who ran the compound where I was kept. This man did bad things to little girls. He traveled a lot for his business and he had found two girls he liked in different cities. One prophecy told him he could take one of the girls without anyone knowing. But if he took the other girl, he would be found and caught and he would die. He paid for another prophecy that would tell him which girl he could take and avoid being caught."
"You gave him the wrong images, the wrong place, led him to the wrong choice."
She nodded. "Before he could hurt the girl, the police found him and caught him—and killed him." She tried to cover the scars with her hand, but there were too many of them. "The Controller received a lot of money from this client, so he was very angry when the man died. I was strapped to the chair and punished several times because the client died." She swallowed a feeling of sickness. "The pain is terrible. I have no images that could convey to you how terrible it is. So I wouldn't have cut myself and kept silent, Mr. Wolfgard. Not without a good reason."
He looked less angry, but she didn't think he was convinced yet.
"If you didn't cut, how did you know the deliveryman was bad?"
Now she allowed herself a little of her own anger. "I pay attention, and he didn't behave like the other deliverymen who come here!" Because the feeling worried her enough that she wanted someone else to know about it, she added, "And that awful prickling started under my skin as soon as he walked into the office."
Simon cocked his head again. "Prickling?"
"I don't know how else to describe it. It's maddening! It used to be I felt this prickling only just before I was going to be cut. Now I feel it every day, and I want to cut and cut and cut to make it stop!"
He studied her. "Maybe this is natural for your kind when you're not caged. Maybe this prickling is your body's way of warning you that something is wrong. If I hear a rattling near a game trail, I don't have to get bitten to confirm there's a snake there. Maybe now that you're living outside the compound, your instincts are waking up. To a Wolf, that's a good thing."
She hadn't considered that.
"So what did your instincts tell you about that man?" Simon asked.
His face had shifted all the way back to human. Except the ears. They were smaller than they'd been a minute ago, but they were still furry Wolf ears, and it was hard to concentrate on words when the ears swiveled to catch sounds outside the room and then pricked toward her when she spoke. And something about the way he looked at her told her he wanted to test the soundness of her instincts.
"All the delivery trucks or vans have the company name on the side or on the back, and they park in a way that I can see the name before the driver comes into the office," she explained. "The men have their names sewn on their shirts or have a badge with their picture, and their jackets usually have a company name or logo. They want me to know who they are and where they work. That man didn't have a badge or even a logo on his uniform. There was no name on the van. The back license plate was packed with snow and couldn't be read. And the package!" Now that she was warming up to all the things that weren't right, her voice began to rise. "He couldn't tell me the company that had shipped it, couldn't tell me who it was for. The label didn't have a company name, and the writing was so bad, I couldn't tell who was supposed to receive it. No company who did business with the Courtyard would have sent a package like that!"
She thought about what she'd just said. "Simon," she whispered. "No company who does business with the Courtyard would have sent that package."
Simon didn't need to see her pale to know what she was thinking.
Bomb.
He leaped into the front room and vaulted over the counter. Grabbing the box, he ran to the door, shoving it open with a shoulder. Then he took a few steps away from the office to give himself some room and threw the box.
It flew over most of the delivery area and landed close to the street entrance. Skidding on the remaining layer of snow, the box finally came to a stop at the edge of the sidewalk, almost tipping into the street.
Pedestrians stumbled back. Drivers honked their car horns and swerved when they saw the box sliding into their path.
Then people caught sight of him and started screaming. Some simply turned and ran. Others bolted into traffic and narrowly avoided being hit.
The consulate door was flung open. Elliot, looking pale, shouted, "Simon! You're between forms!"
He didn't respond. Instead he lifted his head and howled a Song of Battle.
The Crows exploded off the stone wall, cawing their warnings.
He howled again. Answering howls came from the Market Square, from the Utility Complex, and, a few seconds later, from the Wolfgard Complex. Crows and Hawks and even some Owls were in flight, spreading the warning, sounding a call to battle.
And the Wolves continued to howl.
<Simon.> Elliot's voice sounded more controlled but still shocked.
<Call the police. Call Montgomery. Tell him to come here now.>
Elliot went inside the consulate.
Had to get control. Had to get out of sight and shift to one form or another.
He wanted to be Wolf . The Courtyard—and Meg—needed him to wear the human skin for a while. And he needed to find out what happened to that van and the intruder.
As he turned to go back inside, he noticed the Bear tracks.
<Henry?> he called.
<I have the intruder. I will deal with this. You take care of Meg.>
Only a foolish leader challenged an angry Grizzly without good reason.
He headed for the front door, then caught sight of Vlad in the access way that led to the Market Square and the rest of the Courtyard. Changing direction, he reached the Sanguinati and continued on to the back of the building.
"What happened?" Vlad asked. "I locked HGR's door and put Ferus on guard in front of it. No one is leaving until we have answers. Tess has locked everyone in too."
"A monkey touched Meg," Simon growled. "Tried to take Meg."
"Is she hurt?"
He didn't think she was hurt, but he knew something that needed to be done before anyone else saw her. "Wait. Tell Tess to meet us out here. The police are coming."
"Human law doesn't apply here," Vlad said coolly.
"No, it doesn't. But we're going to let the police deal with whatever is in the box the intruder brought into the office."
He went into the office through the back door, then stopped. Meg was still in the sorting room. In a few more minutes, there would be Crows and cops all over this part of the Courtyard. And there would be Sanguinati and Wolves . He hoped the girls at the lake would be content with a report from Jester.
It took effort to shift to fully human. Human wasn't as useful as Wolf.
He got back most of the way. He had a mantle of fur across his shoulders that ran down part of his back and chest, and he couldn't get his canines down to human size.
It would have to do. He pulled on his jeans and the lightweight sweater he'd been wearing when he first came in. Going to the back room's bins, he pulled out the gray sweatshirt he kept there and went into the sorting room.
Meg leaned against the counter, her arms wrapped around herself.
"Was it a bomb?" she asked.
"Don't know. The police will figure that out. Here." He held out the sweatshirt. "Going to be a lot of people around soon, and the police will want to talk to you." She looked pale, and it bothered him. "If you put this on, no one will see the scars."
She pulled off the sweater and put on the sweatshirt over the one-sleeved turtleneck.
The sweatshirt was big on her and she looked ridiculous. He liked it. And he liked that she was wearing something that carried his scent.
"Stay here," he said. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
She looked toward the back room. "I'm cold. I was going to make some peppermint tea."
He nodded. He was going to have his meeting outside anyway. "That's fine. Just stay in the building." Taking the sweater and the torn sleeve, he went into the back room. Pushing his feet into his boots, he stepped outside.
Vlad and Nyx were there. So was Tess, whose hair was coils of red with streaks of black.
"Meg is fine," Simon said.
Tess looked at the sweater he held in one hand and the torn-off sleeve in the other. "That doesn't look like she's fine."
"She is," he snarled.
"Why did this man try to take Meg?" Nyx asked.
"Henry will find out, and then we'll all know."
A dozen Crows sounded an alarm at the same time Simon heard sirens coming toward the Courtyard from several directions.
<Many monkeys,> Jake told him moments later. <Know some faces, but not all.>
"The police are here," he said.
"Might as well unlock HGR's door," Vlad said. "The customers aren't going to go far with this much excitement going on."
Tess sighed and held out a hand. "Give me that. I'll send Merri Lee to the Market Square to replace it."
His hands fisted in the material that held Meg's scent. "Merri Lee doesn't need this one to fetch another sweater."
Tess gave him a long look. Then she walked back to A Little Bite.
Nyx shifted to smoke below the waist and drifted up the access way. The Sanguinati were less concerned about being seen in a between form than the Wolves . Perhaps because humans didn't understand the danger and weren't sufficiently afraid.
"I'll look after the store," Vlad said after a moment.
"I'll deal with the police," Simon said.
"Montgomery isn't a fool. You called him, let him in that much. He'll ask questions."
Simon nodded. "He isn't a fool. Hopefully that means he'll know when to stop asking questions."
Monty's heart banged against his chest, and his mind wouldn't let go of the story of the Drowned City.
A possible bomb left in the Liaison's Office. An attack against the Others? Or against Meg Corbyn? Either way, the backlash could cripple the city if the Courtyard's leaders decided to punish all humans for the actions of one.
Police cars blocked the intersection of Crowfield Avenue and Main Street, redirecting traffic away from the Courtyard. The bomb squad was already there, along with a fire truck and an ambulance. Another half dozen police cars were parked haphazardly on Main Street. As Kowalski pulled up and parked, Monty spotted his other team, officers Debany and MacDonald.
Cops everywhere, but not one of them with so much as a toe inside the Courtyard.
"Gods above and below," Kowalski breathed. "What happened here?"
"That's what we're going to find out." Monty opened his door, then signaled for Debany and MacDonald to join him. "You two go around and talk to whoever is running A Little Bite and Howling Good Reads today. See if they know anything, and try to confirm that the human customers and employees are all accounted for." And unharmed, he added silently. That wasn't something he needed to tell his men.
Once they were on their way, Monty stepped up to the barricade erected by the bomb squad. "Louis?"
Louis Gresh, the squad's commander, spoke quietly to his men, then walked over to the barricade. "Monty." He nodded at Kowalski. "Not a bomb. Just a box full of rags and a telephone directory to give it some weight. I'll take it in and hand it over. Our people might find something useful."
Crows winged in. Some settled on rooftops. Others flew across the street to perch on streetlights. They cawed to one another and preened feathers—and noticed everything.
Louis watched them. "There are probably plenty of witnesses who could tell you what happened here, but I doubt you'll find one who will tell you anything."
Depends on how I ask the questions, Monty thought. "Appreciate the fast response."
"Any time." Louis looked at all the Crows watching the police, then looked up.
Following his gaze, Monty saw the Hawks soaring over the Courtyard. And deeper in the Courtyard, he heard Wolves howling.
"Good luck," Louis said before he walked away.
Taking a deep breath, Monty summoned the officers who had responded to the call. He gave them the task of checking the businesses across the street from the Courtyard. It was possible someone saw something and would be brave enough to admit it.
Slipping around the barricade, Monty stepped into the Courtyard, Kowalski beside him. "Karl, go see if there's anyone working at the consulate."
"Yes, sir."
He didn't look at the Crows gathered on the wall or the woman in the black dress standing next to the office. He just opened the door and walked up to the counter.
When Meg Corbyn stepped out of the other room, she looked pale and was wearing a gray sweatshirt that was too big for her.
"Are you all right, Ms. Corbyn?" Monty asked quietly. That's as far as he got before Simon Wolfgard appeared in the Private doorway. He would have preferred talking to her alone. He still had a question about that bruise on her face, and a woman wouldn't usually ask for help with the abuser listening to every word.
No, he reminded himself. Wolfgard didn't put that bruise on her.
"Shaken up, but I'm fine," Meg replied.
He studied her for a moment and decided that was close enough to truth, so he pulled out a notebook and pen. He'd ask anyone else to come to the station to make a statement. No point asking when he knew she wouldn't come, and if she did, he didn't want to consider who would be coming with her. "Can you tell me what happened?"
She told him about the white van and all the details that weren't there and should have been. She pushed up one sleeve and showed him the dark bruise on her wrist where the man had grabbed her, and then told him how the man had run back to the van when Simon appeared.
But she couldn't tell him where the van went, which way it turned when it left the Courtyard. She had been in the sorting room when the van drove off.
She didn't say it, but he'd be willing to bet she had been helped into the sorting room precisely so she couldn't see where the van went.
One glance at Simon Wolfgard was enough warning to ask about something besides the van.
The next question treaded close to danger, but he asked it anyway. "Do you need medical attention, Ms. Corbyn? Do you have any other bruises besides the one on your wrist?" He was looking at her face, but he didn't bring up that bruise. "There's an ambulance outside, and medical personnel. You don't appear to need a hospital—" He hesitated when Wolfgard started growling.
Meg shook her head. "I'm feeling a little stiff, but otherwise, I'm fine."
He had to accept her word for it.
"Is that all, Lieutenant?" she asked. "I'd like to sit down."
"That's all. Thank you. The information you provided will help us." He saw something in her face. "Anything else?"
The words weren't meant to alarm, but Simon immediately shifted to block the doorway, his amber eyes focused on Meg.
"Meg?" Simon said. "Is there something else?"
She sighed. "It's nothing. Foolish under the circumstances."
Human and Wolf just waited.
She sighed again. "I have this silly craving for pizza. Before this happened, I was going to call Hot Crust and order one, and now it's hard to think of anything else."
Hardly the expected response from someone who had just escaped an attempted abduction. Then again, the mind protected itself in all kinds of ways—including becoming focused on a treat—and maybe this was a typical way cassandra sangue reacted to frightening experiences.
"You're hungry?" Simon asked, some of the tension leaving his body as he studied her.
Meg nodded, then added hopefully, "They'll deliver to the Liaison's Office."
Not today, Monty thought. "Special circumstances. I'll call in the order for you and send a car to pick it up." When she started to protest, he lifted a hand. "I'll order a couple for the squad as well. Even policemen need to eat."
He saw a flash of something in Simon's eyes. Feral amusement? Or did the Wolf appreciate the courtesy he was showing to the Courtyard's Liaison?
"Pepperoni and mushrooms?" Monty asked. "Or would you prefer something else?"
"That's fine," Meg said. "Thank you."
Simon stepped aside and let her slip into the other room and out of sight.
"That's kind of you," Simon said.
"I'm here to help." When the Wolf didn't respond, Monty turned to go. Then he stopped and added, "A man who is running away might drop his wallet or even just a driver's license. Wouldn't notice if it fell in the snow. If we found where the man lived, we might find something that could tell us if he was working for someone—or with someone."
He didn't want the Others looking at every human as a potential threat, but the possibility of a partner meant Meg wasn't safe yet.
A thoughtful silence that held so much weight he could feel it settle on his shoulders.
"Something might have been dropped," Simon said. "And we can pick up the scent of something even if it's hidden in snow. If we find anything, I'll let you know."
Monty nodded. "I'll have one of my officers bring in that pizza."
"Better if it's a face we already know."
Another nod, and Monty walked out of the office. Kowalski fell into step with him.
"Anything?" Monty asked.
Kowalski shook his head. "First they were aware of trouble was when Simon Wolfgard sounded the alarm. After that, everyone went nuts."
"Nuts meaning 'primed for battle'?"
"That's how I read it."
As soon as he crossed the line that separated human land from the Courtyard, Monty stopped to assess the street. The bomb squad was gone, along with the fire truck, ambulance, and half the police cars. The intersection was still blocked, keeping traffic away from the Courtyard's entrance.
But the arrival of the shiny black car and the man leaning against it had occurred while he'd been talking with Meg and Simon.
As he walked over to where Captain Burke waited for him, Monty spotted the officers he had sent to canvas the businesses across from the Courtyard. He stopped and waited for them. "Anything?"
"Nobody remembers anything about the vehicles that were in and out of there today," Officer Hilborn said. "But everyone who had a window seat at the Stag and Hare saw the wolf man."
Monty frowned. "Wolf man?"
"Half man, half wolf. Or a furry man with a wolf's head. Until we all showed up, most thought it was a gimmick for a horror movie or some kind of stunt of the dumb and daredevil kind, being dressed like that and standing where the Others could see him. When they realized he was real, it scared the crap out of all of them."
Those images in horror stories and movies had to come from somewhere, Monty thought. "So, nobody saw a white van leave the Courtyard?"
Hilborn shook his head. "All they remember seeing is something a lot scarier than they thought lived in the Courtyard."
Too much fear makes people stupid.
Monty glanced at his captain. Burke was watching the Crows watch him. The man wouldn't stay patient for long, but there would be enough time to hear from Debany and MacDonald before he had to give his own report.
"Write up your report," he told Hilborn.
Hilborn tipped his head to indicate his partner and the other two officers who had been canvassing businesses. "Not sure how much good it will do. Everyone agreed on something that was a wolf and a man at the same time. After that... Well, pick your favorite scary movie."
"Understood." With a nod of dismissal, Monty turned to Debany and MacDonald.
"Nobody at A Little Bite knew there was trouble until Tess locked the front door and ran out the back, leaving the Hawk as guard and Ms. Lee to deal with customers," Debany said.
"Pretty much the same story at Howling Good Reads," MacDonald said. "Locked door, Wolf standing guard, no explanation." He looked at Kowalski. "Ruth was there. Apparently, humans who have been given a pass to the Market Square can be tagged as temporary employees. Or maybe she volunteered to help. That part wasn't clear. Either way, she ended up working the cash register and having an ongoing discussion with a Crow about the necessity of giving people correct change, even if that means giving them coins that are shiny."
After Debany and MacDonald had the pizza order and were on their way, Monty turned to Kowalski. "Take five minutes and have another look around HGR."
"Thank you, sir."
When he and Burke were the only ones left, Monty walked over to his captain.
"Any reason to keep the intersection blocked?" Burke asked.
"No, sir. I don't think there will be any more trouble here today."
"Today," Burke said heavily. "Seems that someone is still whispering in the governor's ear, and he's still leaning on the mayor to find that stolen property. You think this is connected?"
"Yes, sir."
"So do I. What have we got?"
Monty told him about the unmarked van and the suspicious behavior of the man posing as a deliveryman. Then he told him about the reports of a wolf man, and watched Burke pale.
"You've seen one of the Others like that?"
Burke nodded. "Early in my career, I worked in a village smack in the middle of wild country. Most of Thaisia is wild country, but we said it like that to indicate the village wasn't close to a bigger city. The Others who live in the wild places... Nobody knows if they can't shift into the human form well enough to pass for human or if they just don't want to. But you'll see those blends if you have to go out and visit their settlements, and they truly are the stuff of nightmares." He blew out a breath. "You think that van and driver left the Courtyard?"
"No, sir. But I'm hoping Simon Wolfgard will feel obliged to us enough to 'find' the man's wallet and hand it over."
Burke didn't say anything. Then he pushed away from the car and opened the door. "You're managing to keep things smooth, Lieutenant. Good work." He got in, started the car, and drove off.
And a handful of Crows went winging into the Courtyard to report.
Monty got into his car. While he waited for Kowalski, he took an envelope from the coat's inside pocket. The envelope was in Elayne's handwriting, and the pressure of pen on paper told him she had been cornered into sending it. The handmade card inside was from Lizzy, his darling girl. Hugs and kisses for her daddy.
He put the card away and closed his eyes. Keep things smooth. Besides all the lives at stake here in Lakeside, he had one very good reason for keeping things smooth.
With a little effort, Asia picked the lock on the apartment door and slipped inside. By the time she was done with this assignment, she would have some serious skills for her TV series. Asia Crane, Special Investigator, would be a native of Toland.... No. Most of the PIs currently on TV were from the East Coast's Big City. She would be a specialist brought in from the Cel-Romano Alliance of Nations to uncover corporate intrigue in Thaisia, or unmask a threat to the human government, or even deal with problems between humans and the terra indigene. Maybe her character could have an ongoing romance with an officer on the ship that routinely traveled across the Atlantik, providing transport between Cel-Romano and Thaisia. Maybe she could have a tame Wolf as an assistant, who could sniff out information other investigators wouldn't be able to find. Wouldn't that be a kick in Simon Wolfgard's ass?
One way or another, this assignment was going to make her a very hot property who could write her own ticket—and name her own price.
Thank the gods she'd parked on a side street when she returned to the Courtyard. She had wanted to be around when Simon Wolfgard realized Meg the feeb was missing. Instead, she'd found cop cars all over the place, the intersection blocked, and all kinds of talk about someone trying to do something suspicious at the Liaison's Office. Something to do with a box or a van or... something.
Everyone who had a mobile phone was chattering nonsense, but it was enough to tell her that White Van had failed big-time.
The idiot not only bungled the snatch; he got caught. She wasn't worried about him coming back here and finding her searching his apartment. Even if he managed to get out of the Courtyard, he was gone, gone, gone. But she had left a couple of printed notes under the van's windshield wiper, providing information about Meg's routine. A pro would have disposed of the notes.
A pro wouldn't have gotten caught.
As research for her upcoming role, she'd followed White Van one night to find out where he lived. His location had been a tidbit of information for her backers and not of much interest. However, she figured it would come in handy if she needed to point the cops toward a convincing suspect. But the fool had done that himself. Worse, he'd thrown himself to the Wolves, and the gods only knew what he would tell them before they killed him.
So she was here, doing a fast search to make sure the police—or someone worse—wouldn't find anything that would come back and bite her.
Nothing.
She found the magazines under the mattress and rolled her eyes. But she flipped through them, hoping pages wouldn't be stuck together, and found a slip of paper with a phone number.
Not a local number. And considering what White Van had been trying to do, that number could be lucrative.
Asia pocketed the slip of paper, put the magazines back under the mattress, and left the apartment.
Late afternoon. Debany and MacDonald had delivered the pizza, and it had eased something in Simon's chest when Meg showed enthusiasm and appetite for the food.
Not really hurt. Not if she was eating with such obvious pleasure. No longer afraid because an intruder entered the office. And not afraid of him, not when she was willing to tease him about being too full of cookies to want pizza.
Happy Meg made him calmer.
Happy Meg was willing to share food. She even tore off the top of the pizza box, put two pieces on it, and took it outside for the Crows.
He knew enough to insist she put the pieces behind the office instead of out front, where humans could see. Humans had already seen enough of between forms. It was better if they didn't see Crows with little hands at the ends of their wings, pulling food apart.
While the Crows were distracted, he took his pieces of pizza and ate at the front counter, watching the street.
Merri Lee had brought new sweaters for Meg and persuaded her to see Elizabeth Bennefeld for a massage to relax. So Meg was in the Market Square, being pampered, by the time Simon finally locked up the Liaison's Office. When he stepped out the back door, he noticed Blair leaning against the garage, waiting for him.
"Henry is very angry," Blair said quietly. "He shifted and wants to be left alone until tomorrow."
"Did he say anything before shifting?" Simon asked.
"Someone hired the intruder to take Meg away from us. They gave him a number to call but nothing else. He also said someone left him messages, telling him where Meg lived and when she was in the office. He didn't know who was helping him."
"Someone who knows where Meg lives." She was protected in the Green Complex, but in the office? "Someone stays with her from now on. More than Crows keeping watch. More than someone upstairs who might not reach her before she's hurt."
Blair hesitated.
"She saw me as Wolf, and she wasn't afraid. So there will be one of the Wolfgard in the office when she's working."
Blair nodded. "Boone wants to know if he should put out the sign and let everyone know we have special meat."
Simon almost agreed. Then he thought about the police. He had let them in, and Montgomery was going to come sniffing around for a while. And he thought about Meg asking for meat for Sam, and he thought about the Ruthie shopping in the Market Square. Sooner or later, both females would see the sign and have to accept what it meant. But this time it would be too obvious where the meat came from.
"No sign," he said. "Pass the word that there is meat available for whoever wants it. And make sure at least some of the blood is offered to Erebus."
"That part was already done. Nyx came by and collected it."
Yes. Erebus would want blood from the man who tried to take Meg, who touched Meg.
"You want us to save any meat for you?" Blair asked.
He wasn't human. Would never be human. "I want the heart. I'll come by for it later."
When Meg was asleep. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 17 | By the time Meg woke up the next morning, the sun was shining and the sky was a clean blue. Poking her nose out her front door convinced her that, despite the blue sky and sunshine, it was still wicked cold. Since there was nothing she had to do and nowhere she had to go, she warmed up the last piece of pizza and ate it for breakfast while she read a few more chapters of the book she'd borrowed from the Courtyard library.
The last two Earthdays in the Courtyard had been full of turmoil of one kind or another, but just by looking out her window, Meg sensed a difference. Today the Green Complex, maybe even the whole Courtyard, felt quieter.
When she got tired of reading, she dusted the furniture, swept the floors, and ran the sweeper over the carpets. By the time she took a shower and wiped down the bathroom, she was also tired of domesticity, and feeling a little uneasy about the lack of company.
Was she the only one in the complex? Was everyone else off doing something in another part of the Courtyard?
You're safe here, she thought. No one is going to come this far into the Courtyard, looking for you.
Even so, by the time she'd eaten the stew Meat-n-Greens had sent home with her yesterday, she wanted to get out of the apartment, despite the cold. So she gathered up her clothes and towels, then bundled herself up for the short walk to the laundry room. Once she had the washers going, she went upstairs to the social room.
Henry looked up and smiled when she entered.
"Didn't expect to see you up and about today," he said.
She shifted her feet, suddenly wishing she'd stayed downstairs. "Humans aren't that fragile. I was scared yesterday, and my wrist got bruised. It's not like I fell off a cliff or something."
He laughed, a warm sound. "You are the first human to live among us here, so there is much for us to learn."
She came closer to the table where he was sitting. "But you have those apartments that you let people use. And you have people working for you and shopping at the Market Square."
"We have those things," he agreed, "but that's not the same as living among us the way you do now."
She didn't know what to say, so she focused on the colored bits and pieces on the table. "A puzzle?"
"A pleasant diversion on a winter afternoon." He gestured to the other chair. "Sit and join me if you wish."
She sat and picked up several pieces, one after another.
"You have never put together a puzzle?" Henry asked.
Meg shook her head. "I've seen pictures of games, including puzzles like this, but there was no need for us to play them in order to recognize them in a vision."
"Then it's time for you to experience the world instead of just identifying its pieces."
She watched him work for a minute before she began to look for connecting pieces. There was an easiness to the silence between them. In fact, they didn't speak until she returned from the laundry room, having put the clothes and towels in the dryers.
"Are we the only ones in the complex?" she asked when she took her seat at the table.
Henry nodded. "Most are spending the day with their kin in the other complexes. The Coyote is enjoying a run."
"And Tess?" Meg put four puzzle pieces together before picking up her thought. "I've seen her only in her human form."
"None of us have seen her other form. We know she is terra indigene. We know how to read her warning signs. But what she is when she sheds her human skin—that is something known only to Namid."
Deciding she'd asked enough questions, Meg worked on the puzzle with Henry until her laundry was dry. She packed up her laundry bag, bundled herself for the quick walk, and headed back to her apartment.
Halfway there, she saw the Wolf rushing toward her in the fading afternoon light.
"Sam! No!" Simon's voice.
The pup ran past her instead of leaping on her, then turned back and tried to grab a corner of the laundry bag.
"If you rip the bag and I have to wash all these clothes again, I'll wash you with them," Meg warned.
His head cocked. His tail wagged. And she wondered if she had just put a very bad idea in a puppy's head. But he wouldn't actually try to climb into a washer. Would he?
Sam spun around and rushed toward Simon, who was standing near his own apartment door. The pup leaped up, barely giving Simon enough time to catch him before leaping down and running back to Meg.
Once she was close enough that he was bouncing between them, he began talking at her.
Smiling, she shook her head. "I don't speak Wolf."
"No shifting out here," Simon said firmly. "It's cold."
Sam talked back at his uncle.
As a reply, Simon opened his apartment door. "Go inside, and I'll ask her."
Sam bounded into the apartment, sliding as his wet feet hit the bare floor. Shaking his head, Simon closed the door and looked at her.
"Everything all right today?" he asked.
"It was quiet," she replied. "Peaceful."
He shifted his feet and looked uncertain. In fact, he seemed reluctant to look directly at her.
"Mr. Wolfgard?"
"After Sam has his bath, we're going to watch a movie, and he was wondering— we were wondering—if you would like to join us."
Emotions were harder to define on a real face than on a labeled picture, so she wasn't sure which message she was supposed to reply to. He had invited her to join them, but... "You would prefer if I found a reason to decline?"
"No." The word was snapped out. Then he took a step back, and she heard the soft, frustrated whine.
Simon must have gone to school at some point, must have received the kind of education that enabled him to run a business and a Courtyard, but she suddenly understood what Henry meant about the difference between dealing with humans and having one live among them. Having one they treated as a friend.
He wanted her to come over and watch the movie, but something was making him unhappy about it.
"I spend a lot of time in this skin on the other days." Simon thumped his chest and looked at the snow piled in the center of the complex's courtyard. "Earthdays are the days I can be Wolf. But I want to encourage Sam to shift, and that means wearing the human skin for a while every day now."
She took the words apart, as if they were images that would be put back together to make a prophecy—and understood. "You'd like to spend the evening in your other form."
"Yes."
"Well, after you make the popcorn and put the movie on, why can't you do that?"
Now he looked at her. "You wouldn't mind?"
"No, I wouldn't mind."
"Seven o'clock?"
She smiled. "I'll see you at seven."
She felt Simon watching her as she climbed the stairs to her apartment. She heard Sam howl. And she wondered how many residents of the Courtyard knew she was going over to her neighbor's place to watch a movie.
Simon washed the dishes and swallowed impatience. He couldn't wait to get out of this skin, this shape. It had a few advantages over the pure Wolf form, but it wasn't natural, and having to remain in that skin after it began to scrape on the heart and mind could push a terra indigene into a crazed rage.
Not all that different from what had happened out west, except the crazed rage had occurred while the Others were in animal forms.
Not something a leader who had to look human so much of the time wanted to consider might happen to him.
He shook his head, as if that would send the thoughts flying.
Meg said she was all right with him being Wolf while she watched the movie with Sam. He didn't think she was lying.
He went upstairs and got Sam out of the bath, half listening to the grand plans the boy thought would fit into the couple of hours before bedtime. He let Sam dither over which movie to watch while he went into the kitchen and made the popcorn. Even in this form, the stuff didn't have any particular appeal for him, but it was a traditional human treat when watching movies, so he made a big bowl of it for Meg and Sam to share.
He had just finished pouring the melted butter over the popcorn when someone knocked on the front door. Sam let out a sound that was part boy squeal and part Wolf howl as he rushed to the door and pulled it open.
The boy's words tumbled over one another so fast, they made little sense except to convey happy excitement. Then Meg's voice, still close to the door.
Simon cocked an ear. Why was she still close to the door? Had she changed her mind about spending time with them?
No, he realized as he heard her voice in the living room now. She had stopped to take off boots and coat. Why hadn't she used the back door? Was front door a different message than back door?
He'd worked hard to learn the rules of doing business with humans, but there could be a whole other set of rules for personal interactions.
Frustrated now—and suspecting he was making a simple thing complicated—Simon brought the popcorn into the living room. He went back to the kitchen for two large mugs of water. Placing everything on the table in front of the sofa, he greeted Meg and retreated to the kitchen to shed the clothes and shift.
He crept toward the living room, silent and waiting. Sam and Meg put the movie disc in the player and got it started. He listened to the bits and pieces about other movies, listened to boy and woman settling down on the sofa. He waited a couple of minutes longer, then slipped into the living room.
They were tucked at one end of the sofa, the bowl of popcorn on Meg's lap, their eyes focused on the television.
A dart behind the sofa to come around the other side.
A moment's tension. A moment's fear. Then Meg patted the cushion and said, "I think we left enough room for you."
He climbed up on the sofa, filling the remaining space.
"Popcorn?" Meg asked, tipping the bowl toward him.
As an answer, he turned away from the bowl, lightly pressing his muzzle and forehead against her upper arm. More tension, but when he did nothing, she slowly relaxed and began eating the popcorn.
Simon closed his eyes. Keeping his head against her arm, he breathed in the scents that were Meg. The hair was still stinky, but not so much now, and the rest of her smelled good. Pleasing. Comforting.
After a few minutes, he nudged her arm until his head rested on her thigh. Another moment of tension. Then, making no protest, she shifted the popcorn so she wouldn't keep bopping him with the bowl.
A few minutes after that, he felt her fingers shyly burrowing into his fur.
The first time she sucked in a breath, he almost sprang up, thinking she'd heard something outside. Then he began to understand the rhythm of her touch and Sam's comments about the story. Dozing, he could follow the story through Meg's fingers and breathing, only half listening to the boy's "This is a scary part, but they'll be all right," and "Watch what happens now!"
Pleasure. Comfort. Contentment.
Except for the hair, she really did smell good.
Simon came fully awake when Sam said, "We can watch another one."
"You can, maybe," Meg replied. "But I have to work tomorrow, so it's time for me to go home."
"But—"
<Enough, pup,> Simon said. <Brush your teeth as I showed you. I will see Meg home and check the ground around our den. Then I will come back and read you a story.>
<Meg could read me a story.>
Simon raised his head and looked at the boy.
Sam slid off the couch. He gave Meg a shy smile and Simon a wary glance.
"I can come to work with you tomorrow," Sam said.
"You have school tomorrow," Meg replied, smiling. "And I'm not going to agree to something without talking to your uncle first. So good night, Sam."
He poked out his lower lip, as if trying to see what kind of reaction he would get. When Meg and Simon both stared at him, he sighed, said good night, and went upstairs.
Meg set the bowl on the table, then looked at her hand. "Guess I should have gotten some napkins at some point."
He stretched his neck and swiped a tongue over her palm. When she didn't pull away, he took another lick, and kept licking until he cleaned the salt and butter off her skin.
She smelled good. She tasted even better.
"That's good. Thanks," she said. She picked up the bowl and mugs, pushed to her feet, and walked out of the room.
Getting off the sofa, he yawned and stretched, then followed her into the kitchen.
"I'm not sure if popcorn goes in with the compost or in the incinerator bag," Meg said. "So I'll leave that for you."
Retracing her steps, she put on her coat and boots.
It was hard not to crowd her, hard not to jump, hard not to invite her to play. But it was almost time to sleep, and he didn't want Meg to get riled up or worried about being around a big Wolf . He could go for walks with her and Sam if she wasn't afraid of the Wolf.
He went out with her and walked her up to her own door. He waited until she was inside, then took a thorough sniff around her porch before going down and checking the rest of the complex.
As he reached the road, Allison hooted a greeting and glided past him on her way home. Lights were on in Vlad's apartment, which meant the vampire had returned from his evening in the Chambers.
No unfamiliar scents. No sign of danger.
For tonight anyway, they were all safe.
Satisfied, Simon trotted back to his apartment and the boy who was waiting for a story.
"Hello?"
"The messenger you hired to retrieve your property got careless. The Wolves got him before the police did."
"Who is this?"
"Someone who has a better chance of helping you reacquire your property—for the right fee."
"How did you get this number?"
"Like I said, your messenger was careless." A pause. "And I thought it might be inconvenient if the police found this number when they searched the man's apartment."
"There are several messengers looking for my property. Which one got careless?"
"The one in Lakeside."
"Are you sure you've found my property? Describe her."
A hesitation. "Short, delicate, has gray eyes."
Silence. Then, "How long will it take you to retrieve her?"
"A few weeks."
"Unacceptable. Too much profit will be lost in that amount of time."
"Your property is stashed in a very inconvenient place."
"I can help with that by providing some muscle and accessories."
"I prefer to rely on my own accessories, but the muscle will come in handy."
Another silence. "I'll give you a week to come up with some useful information that will assist me in reacquiring my property. If you prove to be a valid source, we'll discuss fees and bonuses."
Click.
Asia listened to empty air for a few seconds, then hung up the phone and watched her hands shake. She'd pulled it off, made the contact, sounded like a pro who reacquired property every day. Sounded like someone who wouldn't flinch about reacquiring living property when it was necessary.
So no-looks Meg wasn't just the thief; she was the stolen property? Someone worth enough that several people had been hired to find the feeb?
"If Asia Crane, SI, had this information, what would she think?" Asia muttered.
She picked up the phone and called Bigwig. "What kind of person could be stolen property?" she asked as soon as he answered the phone.
A crackling excitement filled the phone line. "We've picked up a couple of whispers that a blood prophet wandered off," he said. "Men have been searching the Northeast Region for some sign of her. You think you've found her?"
Asia's thoughts spun so fast, she could barely think at all. Meg was a cassandra sangue? No wonder White Van had tried to grab her. No wonder someone had pressured the Lakeside government to help find her. That skin must be worth thousands and thousands of dollars. Maybe even a million!
And it was surrounded by fangs, claws, and beaks that could render it useless.
"Do you think you've found her?" Bigwig asked again.
"I don't know. Maybe." Asia hesitated, trying to figure out who would give her the best offer for her help. "Someone tried to abduct the Courtyard's Liaison today, so I'm going to have to be careful about asking questions."
"You think she's there? In the Courtyard?" A pause. "Yes. Yes, that makes sense. The mayor has been quite frustrated by the lack of progress the police have made with regard to the thief I told you about. So the prophet and thief are one and the same."
Have to decide now, Asia thought. Gamble on someone who might make good on his offer, or stick with the men who can guarantee I'll have a show that lasts enough seasons to make me a very rich woman? "Yes, I think they are."
"Even if we can't find the original owner, there are others who—"
"I already found him." There was a weight to the silence that followed her words, so she pushed on. "I did some investigating and searched the apartment of the would-be abductor. I found a phone number. I got off the phone with the interested party just before I called you. He's sending in his own people, but we'll receive a finder's fee and some compensation for continued assistance."
"I guess you do want to star in your own TV show."
She grinned. "I guess I really do." After promising to give him daily updates, she hung up and moved around her apartment, unable to relax.
Something in his tone of voice. A lack of confidence that hadn't been there until she told him she'd already made contact with the man she assumed was Meg's Controller.
Had Bigwig hoped to sell Meg to the highest bidder? Or had he hoped to tuck the feeb away somewhere, to be used exclusively by his chosen few?
Didn't matter now. The hired muscle was heading for Lakeside. Time to change her focus. And that meant Darrell was going to get lucky after all.
And her luck was changing too. Bigwig and the other backers might be unhappy about a blood prophet slipping through their fingers, but she would bring them something even better: a small, furry bargaining chip. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 18 | When Meg stepped into the office's front room on Moonsday morning, she found a Wolf staring at her from the other side of the counter. A glance at the go-through confirmed the slide locks were still in place. That didn't instill any feeling of safety, especially when the Wolf stood on his hind legs and plopped his forelegs on the counter in much the same way a man would rest his forearms.
Backing through the Private doorway, she eased the door closed, turned the lock, and bolted for the telephone in the sorting room. Her hands shook, making it harder to dial, but she got through to Howling Good Reads.
"There's a Wolf in the Liaison's Office!" she shouted.
Bewildered silence filled the phone line before John Wolfgard said, "Isn't there supposed to be?"
"Not a furry one! Where's Simon? I need to talk to Simon!"
More silence. Then, warily, "He's there, at the office."
"No, he's not. I know what Simon looks like as a Wolf, and that's not Simon!"
"That's Nathan," Simon said, walking in from the back room. "He's on duty this morning."
Meg hung up the phone, then picked up the receiver, said, "Good-bye, John," to the dial tone, and put the receiver back on its cradle.
"Did you open the front door?" Simon asked, fishing in a drawer for the office keys. Finding them on the counter next to the phone, he picked them up and took a step toward the Private door.
"No, I didn't open the door. There was a Wolf in the way!"
He stopped and studied her. Gave the air a little sniff. "You're acting strange. Is it that time of the month?"
She shrieked. His human ears flattened in a way human ears shouldn't, and he backed away from her.
In the front room, the Wolf howled.
Then Simon seemed to remember who was the leader. He stopped backing away, and his amber eyes suddenly had that glint of predator.
"You weren't afraid of me when I was Wolf," he said. "Why are you afraid of Nathan?"
"He's got big feet!" Which was true, but beside the point. It was just the first thing that popped into her head.
"What?"
An insulted-sounding arrrroooo came from the other side of the door, a reminder that Wolves also had big ears.
Meg closed her eyes, then took a deep breath and let it out. Took another one. She wasn't going to get anywhere with either one of them if she kept sounding like a ninny. And she was having some trouble explaining to herself why she had that moment of panic. "A strange Wolf is scarier than a familiar Wolf, especially when you're not expecting any Wolf at all."
Simon waved a hand, dismissing what she thought was a perfectly logical point. "That's Nathan. He's staying. As the Courtyard's leader, I made that decision."
"As the Liaison, I should have been informed before a change was made to this office."
Simon took a step toward her. She took a step toward him.
"Arrrooooo?" queried Nathan.
"Someone paid that man to take you away, Meg," Simon growled. "Someone tried to hurt you. So a Wolf will be on guard when the office is open. Nathan is an enforcer for the Courtyard. He's one of our best in a fight."
"But—"
"It's decided."
She wasn't going to win, wasn't even going to sway him enough to have Nathan stay out of sight. She glanced at the Private door and lowered her voice. "What happens if he bites a deliveryman?"
"That'll depend on whether he's hungry."
She wanted to say, Ha, ha. Very funny. But she was pretty sure he wasn't joking.
And she was sure he was right about the man who grabbed her. Sometimes dealing with the Others filled up her head so much, she forgot about the Controller.
"I should have been consulted." She tried that tack one last time.
His only answer was to open the Private door, then unlock the front door and flip the sign to OPEN.
At least he had to use the go-through, since there was a Wolf clogging up the counter. When he came back into the sorting room, he tossed the keys in the drawer—and tossed her a look that made her want to slug him.
"Mr. Wolfgard..."
He turned on her, baring teeth that lengthened as she watched.
"If you say another word about this, I will eat you, and I won't leave so much as an ear for him. " He jerked his head toward the front room.
Then he was gone. She flinched when the back door slammed.
She peered into the front room. Nathan was no longer hanging over the counter. He was lying on the floor, staring at the Crow perched on the wooden sculpture outside. As soon as she stepped into the front room, he looked at her.
She tried a smile. "Good morning, Nathan. Sorry about the confusion."
He lifted a lip to show her some teeth, then pointedly turned his head and went back to staring at the Crow.
Yep, Meg thought. He's insulted, and I'm not going to be forgiven anytime soon.
Retreating to the sorting room, she flipped through the Pet Palace catalog to see if there was anything she could order that would change that.
"Harry, Nathan. Nathan, Harry."
The deliveryman looked at the Wolf and paled. The Wolf looked at the deliveryman and licked his chops.
Meg figured the morning was going to go downhill from there. But Harry surprised her.
"Heard on the news that there was some trouble here," Harry said. "No details, but there never are about such things when it involves the Courtyard." He studied her. "That trouble was here, in this office?"
For answer, she pushed up her sleeve enough to show him the bruise on her wrist. "A man pretending to make a delivery grabbed me. Mr. Wolfgard showed up before he could do anything else."
Harry pursed his lips and made a peculiar sound with his teeth. Then he huffed out a breath. "The Crows out there are good for warning you about trouble, but they don't have the muscle to take care of trouble once it gets through the door." He rapped his knuckles on the counter. "You take care, Miz Meg."
He left, giving Nathan a brisk nod on his way out.
The rest of the morning went along much the same way. There was a knee-jerk reaction when a deliveryman walked in and spotted Nathan. Most said something along the lines of, "You got a new helper? What happened to the Crow?" Meg took this to mean that dealing with a Crow might be peculiar, but it was much preferred to dealing with something that weighed as much as you did and growled at you.
Only one deliveryman refused to come inside once he spotted Nathan, and that was the man who had paid too much attention to Sam and the harness the pup was wearing. She ended up calling Lorne at the Three Ps to run over from his shop and take the packages, because Nathan blocked the door, preventing her from going outside while that particular man was there.
After the mail was delivered, Meg checked her list against the previous week's. She looked at Nathan, who was sniffing around the front room in a way that made her hope he knew the difference between a counter and a tree.
"That's the last of the regular morning deliveries," she said, hoping she sounded bright rather than demented. "I'm going to be working in the sorting room for a while. You want to go outside for a few minutes and stretch your legs?"
He didn't respond, so she went into the sorting room to deal with the mail and other deliveries. A minute later, she heard the Crows. When she peeked through the doorway, she saw Nathan outside, moving back and forth in the delivery area, nose to the ground. Then he raised his head and howled.
"Well, that will help traffic," she muttered as answering howls penetrated the building from several directions.
We are here.
That was always the message. But she had the feeling people wouldn't have to go into Howling Good Reads anymore to catch sight of a Wolf.
<Nathan?> Simon called. He looked out his office window while he listened to the Wolves who responded to Nathan's howl. <Where are you?> That first howl hadn't been muffled by enough walls or glass.
<Outside.>
<You're supposed to be inside, guarding Meg.>
<The Meg said to go outside.>
<You don't take orders from Meg.>
<She'll feel easier about me being in the office if she thinks I do.>
Nathan had a point. Meg's peculiar reaction to seeing a Wolf in the office kept scratching at him. Most humans who had seen one Wolf didn't get upset about seeing another one, as long as it wasn't attacking someone. At least, that was true of the customers who came into Howling Good Reads. To them, a Wolf was a Wolf was a Wolf . On the other hand, he liked that he wasn't interchangeable with the rest of the Wolfgard and that Meg knew him on sight, even the first time she'd seen him as Wolf.
He spotted Nathan when the other Wolf rounded a corner to sniff around the back of the office.
<Anything?> Simon asked.
<No scents that shouldn't be here,> Nathan replied, lifting a leg to yellow up some snow.
It took a little too much effort to stop himself from running over to the office and marking his territory. Not that he should consider the Liaison's Office as being more his territory than the rest of the Courtyard.
He shifted his feet and whined softly.
Have to stay human and do my own work—and trust Nathan to do his.
He heard the Crows, watched Nathan head for the back door and slip inside the office.
<Delivery?> he asked the Crows.
<A female,> was the reply. <We know her face.>
A familiar female who would go into the office to talk to Meg. Someone who wasn't terra indigene. The Crows would have said if the female was Other. That narrowed the possibilities. But Heather was downstairs, shelving stock. Merri Lee wasn't scheduled to work at A Little Bite until lunchtime. The Ruthie? Maybe, but he didn't remember seeing her around the store in the mornings, and she usually spent time at Run & Thump later in the day. Which left Asia Crane.
Simon pictured Asia alone with Meg—and snarled. No reason. Asia hadn't done anything except be too pushy about wanting the Liaison's job and wanting him to take her for a walk on the wild side. But she didn't seem that interested in either of those things anymore.
And if she was, she wasn't saying anything to him.
<Nathan? Stay close to Meg.>
He didn't get a response and didn't expect one. Going back to his desk, Simon looked at the telephone. With Elliot at the consulate, there were five Wolves in this part of the Courtyard, but only two were in Wolf form—Nathan and Ferus, who was on duty at HGR. It wouldn't hurt to have a couple more Wolves close by, especially because he'd promised Sam that the pup could spend the afternoon with Meg.
Maybe he should mention that to Meg?
He picked up the phone, but he didn't call Meg. Instead, he called Blair and arranged for an increase in the Wolfgard presence in the Liaison's part of the Courtyard.
Asia strolled up to the Liaison's Office, hot chocolate in hand. On previous dates with Darrell, she had hinted that Simon might be a wee bit jealous about the time she was spending with another man. Now that plans had changed, she wanted everyone in the Courtyard to know she was Darrell's girlfriend.
She didn't think Simon would give a damn one way or the other, but she hoped he would lower his guard some if she no longer paid attention to him and didn't have much time for Meg.
"There you are!" Asia said when Meg stepped up to the counter. "I was whittling my way down to nothing with worry, but this was the first chance I had to check on you." A quick look over Meg's shoulder. She didn't see the Wolf pup, which was a disappointment, but she did see the box of sugar lumps on the big table. Confirmation enough that Meg brought out the sugar on Moonsday.
"Check on me?" Meg said.
"I heard the police were here and there was some big commotion. And then I heard you were injured, maybe even in the hospital, so I just had to see for myself that you were all right. Here. I brought you some hot chocolate." Darrell hadn't actually said anything about Meg. He'd just mentioned the ambulance being on the scene—and he told her some freaky story about a wolf man standing right out where everyone could see a lot more than they wanted to see.
"Thanks." Meg took a sip and set the cup on the counter. "I'm fine. Someone brought in a suspicious box, that's all."
Not by a long shot, Asia thought. That little incident had the whole Courtyard buzzing right along with the cops. "Well, I'm glad to hear you didn't take any harm." Now she made a show of looking past Meg. "Say. Where is that adorable puppy that was with you the other day? He was just the cutest thing."
"He's not here today."
Before Asia could push to find out where the puppy was when he wasn't at the office, a full-grown Wolf appeared in the doorway, startling her into taking a couple steps back. Despite their size, the damn things were so quiet. After that Wolf rammed his nose into her crotch, she was a lot less interested in being around any of them unless she could pick them up and carry them away.
Meg looked at the Wolf, then said to Asia, "I have a different office buddy now."
"All the time?" Asia asked.
Meg hesitated. "The incident on Watersday... It was alarming at the time, and with so many police officers responding, it caused a lot of fuss. So Mr. Wolfgard decided to add some security in the office during business hours—the same kind he has at the bookstore."
She hadn't appreciated how badly White Van had bungled the snatch, but this just confirmed how pointless it would be to continue hanging around Meg. Anything she said from now on would be reported to Simon.
A chorus of neighs gave her an excuse to leave.
"More friends?" she asked.
"The ponies are here for the mail."
"And the sugar."
"That too. Thanks for the hot chocolate."
"I'd still like to go out to lunch one of these days," Asia said. "You let me know when we might be able to do that."
Not that it's going to happen, she thought as she left the office. She looked toward the consulate, spotted Darrell in one of the upstairs windows, and blew him a kiss. I am going to be all kinds of distracted with my new boyfriend.
She sauntered to HGR and stayed long enough to make sure she'd been spotted. Then she picked a book at random, relieved that it wasn't Simon manning the register when she went up to pay for it.
As soon as she returned to her car, she called Darrell. He was thrilled to have the opportunity to invite her out on another date.
Meg didn't know where Nathan had gone when she went to A Little Bite for lunch and then walked over to the Market Square to browse in the library for a while, but he was waiting for her at the back door when she returned for the office's afternoon hours. She wondered if he was making an effort not to startle her again, since his appearance that morning made it obvious that he could get into the building by himself.
She opened the doors and spread the Lakeside News on the sorting table to skim the paper for whatever might be of interest to the Others. Nathan was in the front room, sniffing everything.
When the Crows started fussing, she went to the counter, tensing when she saw an unscheduled delivery truck. Then it turned enough for her to read the Everywhere Delivery name.
"It's Harry," she said to Nathan as she hurried to open the door for the deliveryman.
"Was asked to make a special afternoon delivery," Harry said when he put the box on the handcart. "Got the other piece to bring in, but you might want to make sure the floor is dry wherever you want to put it."
"Good idea." Meg hurried into the back room and fetched a towel. While Nathan paced, clearly not sure of where he should be, she wiped down the floor where he'd been lying that morning. "Right over here, Harry." Since his boots were snowy, she took the bulky stuffed fabric from him and positioned it herself.
"Need your signature, Miz Meg," Harry said.
She signed his slip, made her own notation on her clipboard, and waited until Harry drove off before she smiled at Nathan. "Go ahead. Take a look."
He moved forward cautiously. He circled it, sniffed it, whapped it with a paw. Then he found the product tag and stared at it for a moment. Turning toward her, he lifted a lip in something that might have been a sneer.
"I know it says it's a dog bed, but I'm sure a Wolf can use it," Meg said.
Nothing but grumbly sounds from the Wolf.
"Fine. If you want to lie on a cold, hard floor instead of something comfy and warm just because Wolf is spelled d-o-g, you go right ahead." She went into the sorting room and shut the door. Then she remembered the other box and opened the receiving door long enough to pull the handcart into the sorting room. If he was going to be so churlish about her trying to do something nice for him, she sure wasn't going to leave six defenseless boxes of dog cookies alone with him.
She tucked the boxes—three boxes for puppies and three for large dogs—in the cupboards under her sorting table. Then she went back to reading the paper until the Crows announced the next delivery truck.
Simon walked into the front room of the Liaison's Office and stared at the Wolf curled up on...
"What is that?" he asked, stomping snow off his boots as he stepped toward Nathan.
<Mine,> Nathan replied.
"How did it get to be yours?"
<I am guarding, so it is mine.> Giving Simon a smug look, Nathan added, <I got cookies too.>
Ignoring the warning growl, Simon ran a hand over the fabric, squeezed the stuffing, and looked at the tag.
"Where did you find this?" Not only did it look comfortable; it would look neater than the pile of old blankets he now had in his office for the times when he wanted to shift to Wolf and nap for a while.
<Meg found it.> Nathan put his head on his paws and watched Simon.
The leader always had first choice of food, of females, of anything that came to his attention. A leader who always took what another had was a leader who ended up constantly fighting to retain the leadership.
"This one stays here for whoever is on guard. I'll ask Meg to order another one for me." He glanced at the closed door and wondered why Meg hadn't come out, since even human ears should have heard him talking to Nathan. <Any trouble?>
<No, but a Hawk told me the Darrell asked Elliot for permission to use one of the above stairs places. I think he found a female for sex.>
He had a good idea which female Darrell had found.
The first time Asia came in to Howling Good Reads and indicated she'd like to have sex with him, he'd tried to imagine being with her. Something about her interest hadn't felt right, and all he could picture was a trap with steel teeth hidden under leaves and twigs. But that was his reaction to her, and, to be honest, he was relieved she'd turned her attention to a human male and would leave him alone now.
He didn't like her, so he didn't trust her. He didn't care if that was fair or not. Just like he didn't care if it was fair to wonder if the Others should continue to trust Darrell once he began having sex with Asia. After all, males did plenty of foolish things when they wanted sex.
He didn't say anything to Nathan. His new reservations about Darrell were a discussion to have with Henry and Vlad. But right now, he had to face another discussion.
Using the go-through, he went behind the counter, studied the closed door, debated a moment, then knocked before opening it just enough to say, "Meg?"
No answer. Walking into the room, he didn't find a woman. Before he had a chance to howl about her being gone, he heard the toilet flush. Her whereabouts discovered, he opened cupboards until he found the cookies. He had his hand in the box when Meg walked into the room.
He stuffed a couple of cookies into his coat pocket, then closed the box and put it back where he'd found it.
"Where did you get the bed for Nathan?" he asked.
She sighed. "Does it really matter that the tag says dog instead of Wolf?"
It would if they decided to send some into the settlements, but he could ignore the words here in the Courtyard. "I wondered because I would like to get one for my office. And maybe a couple of extras to put in our general store."
"I ordered it from the Pet Palace."
He winced, thinking of what Elliot would say about purchasing anything from such a place. Well, he just wouldn't tell Elliot where the beds came from.
"Order more."
"All right." She gave him a puzzled look. "How did you know about the bed?"
"I didn't. I came over to see if Sam can stay with you for the rest of the afternoon. I'll fetch him from school. He can go with you on your deliveries, or you can leave him with Henry."
"All right." Now she looked uneasy. "Simon? Asia asked about Sam. She saw him while you were out of town, when he was here with me."
"What did you tell her?"
"I told her he wasn't here today. Then she saw Nathan. She and I talked for a couple of minutes, and she left. Sam is cute, and humans do like cuddling puppies and kittens." She shrugged. "I don't think she meant any harm by asking, but I thought you should know."
"Good." He nodded. "It's good you told me. I'll take your BOW and go get Sam now."
He went out the back door. As he crossed the space to the garage, he looked back at the stairs that led to the two small apartments over the Liaison's Office. A meeting place. An overnight place. A sex place for those among the terra indigene whose status in the human world required more privacy than was available in the rooms above the social center.
A trap with steel teeth. He needed to figure out what he didn't understand about Asia being with Darrell before that trap snapped shut. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 19 | With Sam beside him in the front seat, Simon drove away from the Courtyard's school and headed for the Liaison's Office. The school was tucked near the center of the Courtyard, well hidden from prying human eyes.
It wasn't safe for terra indigene youngsters to go to school with human children, so Courtyards provided their residents with an education similar to what humans received. A human couldn't cheat a Wolf who could add and subtract like anyone else. Two plus two equaled four, no matter what species you belonged to.
Thaisia's history, on the other hand, was a different matter altogether. Humans and Others held very different opinions about that subject.
But that day's report of arithmetic, reading, and writing had been covered in the first two minutes of the drive. Now Sam was back to a more important topic.
"But Nathan isn't doing anything," Sam said. "Why can't he play with me?"
"He is doing something," Simon replied. "He's on guard, so he can play only during the midday break when Meg isn't in the office."
"How come Meg needs a guard now? Nathan wasn't guarding when I was with Meg before."
He didn't want to tell the boy about the intruder, but if he didn't say something, the pup would keep on pestering him and Nathan about why the Wolf on guard couldn't play.
"A man came into the office. He was mean to Meg. We didn't like that, so Nathan is there to make sure nobody else is mean to her."
Sam looked out the window. Then he asked in a small voice, "Is he the man who hurt Mom?"
"No. Those men ran away. We'll find them one day, Sam. We will. But the man who came into the office wasn't one of them."
"I want to be Wolf when I'm at the office."
Simon glanced at the boy. "Meg can't communicate the way the terra indigene do. You won't be able to tell her what you learned in school today if you're Wolf."
"I can tell her when we get home. I can't wear the harness in this form, so I have to hold the safety line in my hand, and sometimes I forget and drop it."
"You don't have to wear the harness anymore." He wished the boy wasn't so focused on that harness and leash. It made the other Wolves uneasy. Well, it wouldn't bother any of them much longer. The pup had grown sufficiently in just a few days' time that the harness wouldn't fit him in another week.
Sam gave him an incredulous look. "If I don't wear the harness, how am I supposed to pull Meg out of a snowbank when she falls in?"
Simon kept his eyes on the road. The boy had said when, not if. Just how often did Meg fall into a snowbank? Was she clumsy, or was it play? Or did she end up in the snow after getting tripped by a puppy?
"And Meg isn't a good digger," Sam continued. "As Wolf, I'm lots better at digging."
"Is that why you were the one digging out the BOW when it got stuck in the snow yesterday?" Simon asked mildly.
Sam scooted down in his seat and mumbled, "You weren't supposed to know about that."
"Uh-huh." He had fielded a dozen calls from Hawks, Owls, Crows, and a couple of Wolves who had watched that piece of idiocy and couldn't wait to tell him about it. He found it interesting that none of them had offered to help. In fact, the Wolves told him they had deliberately stayed out of sight, letting Meg and Sam work it out for themselves. And they had. Between them, they had gotten the BOW unstuck and continued with the deliveries.
It also explained why, when he'd returned from an hour's run with Blair and a few other Wolves, he'd found the television on and pup and prophet sound asleep on the living room floor.
Since she was spooned around Sam to keep him warm, Simon had figured it was only sensible to stay as Wolf and tuck himself against her back to keep her warm.
The fact that tucking up against her made him feel content had nothing to do with that decision. Nothing at all.
When they arrived at Meg's office, Simon helped Sam fold his clothes and place them in one of the back room's storage bins, then opened the door to the sorting room after the boy shifted to Wolf. The pup gave Meg an exuberant greeting, arrooo ed at Nathan, then began sniffing around the room for the cookies Meg had hidden.
"You have anything you want me to walk over to the consulate?" he asked.
"No, thanks," Meg replied. "Darrell came by and picked up the mail." She paused, looking puzzled.
He caught a whiff of uneasiness in her scent and took a step toward her. "Something wrong with him coming by?"
She shook her head. "Just that no one from the consul has come for the mail before this week."
He debated about whether to tell her about Darrell's scheduled monkey fuck, but he didn't say anything because she suddenly yelped.
"Your nose is cold!" she said, looking down at Sam. "And don't think I'm buying that 'I was just checking for cookies' look as an excuse to stick a cold nose against my ankle!"
Sam talked back at her, sounding quite pleased with himself, then trotted around the sorting table to resume his quest for cookies.
Grinning, Simon left the office and walked over to the consulate.
Darrell was at a desk, looking like he'd already caught the scent of a female in heat and was about to lose his brains over it. Giving the human a nod, Simon went up the stairs to Elliot's office.
"You wanted to see me?" he asked when his sire looked up.
"Yes."
Elliot gestured to the visitor's chair, and Simon wondered which politician he was mimicking. He also wondered why the other Wolf looked uncomfortable.
"Everything still going well with Ms. Corbyn?" Elliot finally asked.
"Some reason it shouldn't be?"
"I saw Nathan and Sam chasing her yesterday afternoon behind the office. They seemed... serious... in their pursuit."
Ah. "Henry talked Meg into playing deer hunt, claiming that Sam needed to work on his skills in chasing game. I think he was mostly making sure that she got some exercise. Meg is convincing in her role as designated prey, which is why Henry wanted to keep them in sight—in case Nathan became too enthusiastic or another Wolf mistook the game for a real hunt. In the end, it will build up Meg's muscles and stamina, and build up Sam's muscles and stamina, and Nathan will have a good time romping with them as a reward for guard duty."
Of course, listening to John whine yesterday about not being allowed to go out and play hadn't done anything for his own eroding self-discipline—especially because he could tell just by watching that Meg really did make a good squeaky toy.
Elliot smiled. Then he chuckled. "It's good to see the pup playing again. Now, if we can just get him out of that harness."
"He says he needs it to pull Meg out of snowbanks," Simon replied, his voice bland.
Elliot laughed. As the laughter faded, he sobered. "I'm sorry I struck her. Her instincts are odd but from the heart, I think."
Simon nodded. It was a little annoying to have Sam quoting Meg about human things when she actually knew less about the regular human world than every member of the Business Association, but her lack of knowledge about the Others was working to their advantage. What other human would accept the label of prey in order for a little Wolf to chase her?
"Darrell is having his assignation this evening," Elliot said.
"We agreed to let him use one of the rooms above the Liaison's Office," Simon said.
"He also wants permission to bring his companion to the Meat-n-Greens for dinner."
"Why? It's not a fancy place, if you want to impress a woman. You go to a human-run restaurant for that."
"But it is in the Market Square, a place very few are allowed to see. Some women become quite stimulated by the thrill of the forbidden."
"Do you know who he wants to bring in?"
"It's the female who was sniffing around you. At least, Ferus said he smelled Darrell on her."
Simon nodded. "Asia Crane." Forbidden thrill. That explained why youngsters from the university or the business and technical college were always sniffing around HGR and A Little Bite, or spending an evening in the social center in the hopes of rubbing up against the terra indigene. But he'd had the impression Asia had been sniffing around for something more. Did humans gain some status among their own kind if they were allowed in the Courtyard's Market Square? Maybe he would ask the Ruthie the next time she came into HGR. She was proving to be quite reliable for a human.
"Give him a guest pass for the Market Square," Simon said. "Tell Darrell he can take his female into any stores that are open. But make sure he knows it's a one-time pass."
"I'll tell him."
Simon pushed out of the chair. "I have to go. Vlad is handling the store today, but I promised to deal with some of the paperwork."
He walked back to HGR, detouring at A Little Bite for coffee and a fruit tart that he'd sniffed earlier in the day. Taking his treat up to the bookstore's office, he growled his way through some paperwork—and tried to shake the uneasiness he felt about giving Asia Crane any kind of access to the Courtyard.
Meg kept her eyes on the road as she followed the familiar route to the Chambers. "Today you are not going to jump on me and scare me into driving into a snowbank because you saw a deer and wanted to get out and chase it. Right? Because we do not need to get stuck two days in a row."
She had really, really, really hoped that Simon—and Blair—hadn't heard about the snowbank. Finding a short-handled shovel in the back of the BOW next to the snow brush and ice scraper had been proof enough that one—or both—knew about yesterday's adventure.
Sam grinned at her and wagged his tail.
No help there.
Of course, she had never seen real deer before, and seeing a handful in what looked like a snow corral had been the other reason she hadn't focused on the road those few seconds too long.
Not that she was going to admit that.
As she drove past Erebus Sanguinati's marble home, she glanced to the left. Then she stopped and stared at one of the interior roads. Most weren't plowed with any consistency, and the few that were led to buildings that had no designation. Since she didn't need to drive along those roads to make her deliveries and didn't think the BOW could muscle its way down them anyway, she stuck to the outer ring and the interior roads that provided access to all the complexes, as well as the Pony Barn and the girls at the lake.
Maybe in the spring, when those unmarked roads were accessible again, she would drive around the interior of the Courtyard and find her own little spot where she could go when she wanted some solitude.
But as she looked at that narrow, snow-covered road again, the skin just below the newest scars—the ones that had shown her where her life would end—began prickling so fiercely she wanted to scream. If Simon was right and this was some kind of instinctive defense the cassandra sangue possessed, then that road represented some kind of danger.
When she drove past the road, the prickling didn't fade. In fact, it got worse, becoming more concentrated under the skin below those new scars.
She turned on the BOW's headlights, wondering how she could have forgotten that she needed lights to drive at night.
Except it wasn't night. She and Sam were making the afternoon deliveries, and she didn't need the lights to see the road.
Shaking, Meg stopped the BOW and put it in park, ignoring Sam's whining as he tried to climb into her lap and lick her face.
The prickling turned into a harsh buzzing under her skin.
It had been more than a week since her last cut, and that one had been a paper cut, an accident. Maybe that's why she felt so edgy, so desperate to relieve the prickling.
Maybe that's why she had just slipped into something that wasn't quite a vision. Or wasn't a vision in the same way she had been trained to see them.
This was new, unknown, frightening. This was worse than being distracted by a deer for a few seconds. If she hadn't remembered when she was driving, would that weird vision have continued until she crashed the BOW?
She'd been driving alone. At night. So whatever this was, it was personal. It was about her. And there was only one way she was going to find out more.
This wasn't about a physical craving. There wasn't going to be any euphoria. But she had to find out why she'd reacted so strongly to a road that she'd experienced inside a vision for a few seconds.
Have to wait, she thought, gritting her teeth as she put the BOW in gear. Have to wait until I finish the deliveries and get Sam home.
"Not many packages today," she told Sam as she drove to the last section of the Chambers. She left him in the BOW while she tucked a couple of items in the delivery boxes outside the fence, but she clipped his leash to the harness when she reached the Hawkgard Complex and let him come with her to the mail room.
Two packages to the Wolfgard Complex, then four boxes of another building-block toy for the Corvine social room. She had no idea what the Crows were building, but based on the comments made by Jenni and Crystal when she saw them in the Market Square, the Crows gathered each evening to work on these constructions and were having a great time.
By the time she reached the Green Complex and parked her BOW in the garage, her emotional need to make the cut was as fierce as her need to relieve the prickling in her skin. She tried to sound and act normal, but Sam's anxious whines told her plainly enough that the pup knew something was wrong.
And if Sam sensed it before she did anything, she was going to have to avoid Simon until the cut scabbed over. She just didn't know how to do that when he would be here soon to fetch the puppy.
When they were inside her apartment, she hung up her coat, took off her boots, and smiled at Sam. "I have to use the bathroom. Do you want to change while I'm doing that?"
It didn't surprise her that he followed her to the bathroom and tried to go in with her instead of going into her bedroom to shift and put on the clothes she had ready for him.
She locked him out, then stripped off her sweater and turtleneck. Taking the razor out of her jeans pocket, she opened it and laid the blade flat on her arm, its back against the previous scar. Then she turned her hand, bringing the honed edge against virgin skin—and pressed down lightly.
The sensation of skin parting, as if it were fleeing from the steel.
Lifting the blade, she placed the razor on the sink and braced for the pain. It flowed up from some dark place inside her while the blood flowed from the wound.
That interior road, just past Erebus's home. Not much snow on the pavement, but snow falling, heavy and fast. Dark outside, but she couldn't tell if it was early evening or late night. A sound like a motor mated to hornets. Driving alone in the dark at a reckless speed, no lights to give away her position. That sound closing around her. And behind her, Sam howling in terror.
But safe. This time, he was safe.
Coming out of the prophecy, Meg braced herself against the sink and swallowed the need to scream from the pain. So much worse than that little cut on her finger. Maybe even worse than the cuts that had shown her the Courtyard and Simon Wolfgard.
At least the prickling under her skin had stopped. She had gotten that much relief from the cut.
Gasping and crying, she washed the cut before putting on antiseptic cream and taping a thick pad over it, hoping to hide the smell of blood. Then she cleaned the razor and made sure she wiped the sink. As a last step, she used the toilet, not sure how long scents could be picked up by a Wolf nose.
She put on the turtleneck, careful not to pull the bandage, then the sweater, and left the bathroom. She expected to find Sam dressed, more or less, and waiting for her in the kitchen with his list of desired snacks. She found him still in Wolf form, huddled by her front door. He looked at her and whined but wouldn't come to her, wouldn't move away from the door.
Uneasy, she didn't push him. She brought him a couple of puppy cookies, which he refused to eat. He just huddled by the door, shivering.
She knew the moment Simon started up the stairs to her front door. Sam alternated howling and clawing at her door.
"Get out of the way, Sam," she said. "I can't open the door with you standing there."
As soon as the door was open, he bolted out of her apartment and down the stairs, racing past Simon.
"He's upset," she said. She tried to shut the door in Simon's face, but she wasn't fast enough. He didn't force his way in, didn't make any demands, but she was sure that the flickers of red in his eyes and the way he sniffed the air meant he knew exactly why Sam was upset.
Returning to the kitchen, she poured a glass of orange juice. Then she sat at the table and waited for whatever Simon was going to do.
He had washed the cage and put it in one of the basement storage bins. He was willing to look the other way about the harness and leash for a while longer, especially now that he knew why Sam wanted to keep wearing it, but he couldn't tolerate looking at that cage anymore.
And yet, when he opened the door to their apartment, Sam ran for that spot and huddled where the back corner of the cage used to be.
Simon removed his boots, went into the living room, and knelt beside the shivering pup.
<Sam? What's wrong?> Besides the smell of blood on Meg.
Whining, Sam climbed into Simon's arms.
<Did something happen when you and Meg were making deliveries?>
<Don't know.> Barely a whisper, but at least Sam was responding. <The bad happened after.>
<Where did you go after?>
<Meg's den.> Whining and shivering. Then, <I remember that smell. When Mom... Something in the bathroom hurt Meg, and there was that smell.>
Stupid bitch, Simon thought as he cuddled Sam. Why slice herself when the pup was still with her? Why couldn't she wait until he'd gone home and wouldn't pick up the scent of fresh blood?
Why indeed?
As the scent of her blood faded, replaced by the familiar scents of his own den, Simon's anger also faded.
No euphoria if the words of a prophecy weren't spoken. Only pain.
There were other reasons for a blood scent, especially in a female's bathroom. Could have been an accidental nick. Could be a different kind of blood that a pup wouldn't know about yet.
No. That kind of blood wasn't mixed with a medicine smell.
He didn't realize he was growling until Sam began licking his chin and making anxious sounds.
He'd been wrong the last time he accused her of cutting herself. He wouldn't make that mistake again.
<Henry?> Simon called.
<Here.>
<I need guidance.>
<I am almost home. Meet me there.>
Relief washed through him. Maybe his own memories of finding Daphne and Sam that terrible night made it hard for him to be rational about Meg being hurt. Maybe he was just as vulnerable as Sam in that way.
"Sam? I need to talk to Henry. Can you stay by yourself, or do you want me to ask... Elliot or Nathan to stay with you?" It told him how much she had become one of them that Meg was his first choice to stay with the pup.
Sam shifted. Simon enclosed the naked boy in his coat, letting his own heat warm cold skin.
"Can I watch a movie?" Sam asked.
"You can watch a movie."
"Can I have a snack?"
"You can have a snack that I will make for you."
Worried gray eyes looked into his. "Simon? Is Meg going to die and leave us?"
Simon shook his head. "If Meg was badly hurt, she would tell us. And she didn't look hurt, Sam." Actually, she did. Her face, her eyes, still showed signs of pain when she answered the door and tried to pretend everything was fine. "I'll check on her after I talk to Henry."
He couldn't do more than that for boy or woman, so he made a snack for Sam and put in the movie before he went over to Henry's. The Grizzly had returned and was making tea when Simon walked into the Beargard's kitchen.
He waited until they were seated at the table, the tea steaming in cups, before he told Henry about Sam and the scent of blood.
"Did she look wounded?" Henry asked.
"She's not wounded," Simon snapped. "She cut herself. You know it and I know it. But I don't know what to do about it."
"It's not your decision."
"I'm the leader. It is my decision."
Henry sipped his tea and said nothing for a minute. Simon struggled to keep his canines the proper human size while he waited, understanding that Henry was making him wait.
"How many humans do you trust?" Henry finally asked.
"Not many. Hardly any."
"I think our Meg trusts even less than you. In her own way, she is even more private than terra indigene, and I think she has been allowed so little privacy. Will you be like the human who used her and thought he owned her, or will you be a friend she can trust?"
Simon bared his teeth and snarled at Henry. Then the snarl faded because the Beargard had revealed the trap. If Meg cut herself, she saw a prophecy. If he forced her to tell him what she saw, she might believe she had traded one kind of controller for another. She might run again.
He sighed, a sound full of frustrated acceptance. "If she averages one cut a week for fifty-two weeks, how many years can she survive at that rate?"
"I don't know," Henry replied quietly. "The question to ask is, Where do you want her to spend those years?"
"With us. I want her to spend them with us." He pushed away from the table. "Thanks for the tea."
On the way back to his apartment, he climbed the stairs and knocked on Meg's door. She answered so promptly, he suspected she'd been waiting for him.
"Sam thought you weren't feeling well," Simon said. "That's why he was upset."
"I'm fine."
She didn't sound fine, and she looked tired. He didn't like her being alone when she looked that tired.
Wasn't his place to push or demand. He didn't like that either.
"Anything you want to tell me?" he asked.
She hesitated, then shook her head.
"All right. See you tomorrow."
He went down the stairs, alert for the slightest sound from her, the softest call to come back.
All he heard was the gentle closing of the door.
Asia closed her eyes and thought of elegant dining, polished hotel rooms, and men who knew more about sex than that widget A was supposed to go into slot B. That most of the people she'd seen eating at Meat-n-Greens were actually enjoying the food was reason enough to call in exterminators—the kind that had the hardware to eliminate all manner of pests. She'd had no complaints with her fillet until she made the mistake of asking what kind of beef it was, and learned it was horse.
Except for the picture it put in her head, horse wasn't as bad—or gamy—as Darrell's fillet of moose. Apparently, one description fit any meat.
And the apartments the Courtyard's upper echelon used for intimate entertaining! She couldn't imagine women wanting to spend an hour here for anything but bragging rights—or a lucrative ulterior goal.
As for the sex, the less she thought about it the better, especially when she was going to have to accept another invitation from Darrell. She'd seen just enough tonight to have a plan, had been risqué enough to have Darrell panting for more without coming across as too knowledgeable. That alone should be worth a bonus—and prove the caliber of her acting skills.
Asia Crane, Special Investigator. She could imagine Darrell in a couple of years, bragging about having slept with Asia, superstar of a hit TV series.
She sighed, kissed Darrell's chest, and started to wiggle out of bed.
"Where are you going?" he asked, trying to draw her back to him.
"Honey, it's late. I have to go."
"I thought we were going to spend the night together."
"Oh no. I can't do that. Not the first time. It wouldn't be right. And my car's in the Courtyard parking lot. What if someone notices it was there overnight?"
Darrell frowned. "Are you still worried about Simon Wolfgard being jealous? Because he knows about us. He gave his approval for the guest pass I got for you."
Sure, she'd wanted people around the Courtyard to know Darrell was her boyfriend, but it hadn't occurred to her that Simon would know she was the woman up here with Darrell tonight. But Asia Crane, SI, would have expected Simon to know about this romp and figured out a way to use it.
Yes. Simon knowing she was here tonight was good. Better than good, because now he wouldn't have any reason to question her scent being somewhere he might not expect.
She gave Darrell's chest a quick kiss. "No, honey. I'm not worried about Simon Wolfgard in any way. I made it clear the other day that I'm looking for a real man, not a Wolf pretending to be something he's not and never can be." Okay, she hadn't said it in those words when she took that last shot at flirting with Simon, but she didn't think Darrell would ask the Wolf, so no one would know.
She felt a change in Darrell, felt the possessive way his hands now stroked her body.
"Then what's the problem?" he asked.
"I already told you. I might not be able to resist being passionate with someone special, but I'm not the kind of girl who has dinner and breakfast on the first big date." She stroked his chest. "Besides, I didn't bring anything with me for overnight." She pressed a finger against his lips before he could argue. "Don't spoil it. Please. Just tell me how soon I can pack that overnight bag."
"Just as soon as I can arrange to have the room again." He rolled, pinning her. "But we have time for one more. Don't we?"
"Oh yes." She wrapped her arms around his neck as he settled between her legs. "We surely do." |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 20 | "Hello?"
"Did you get my present? The items were selected just for you."
"A special messenger delivered it, even though I never gave you my address."
"Information can be acquired if one knows who to ask."
"Well, I love my present. I can use a number of these items on my date tomorrow evening."
"Would you like some company? That special messenger has a variety of skills. In fact, two dozen messengers from that company are now in the city. They're trained to handle delicate or volatile packages."
A light laugh. "No, thanks. I'll do just fine on my own. And I expect to find a little bit of something to send back as a thank-you."
"In that case, I'll look forward to our next conversation."
Asia hung up the phone and put on the thin gloves used in a hospital's contagious ward. As she examined each vial in the carefully packed box sent by Meg Corbyn's owner, she silently thanked Bigwig for all the information she'd been given about various drugs and the penalties for possessing them. At the time, she'd thought of it as useful information for her TV role. Now it was vital information for real life.
Some of the items in the box were easy enough to come by, because there were few, if any, aftereffects on the person who was dosed. Some were worth several years in one of the rough prisons just for possessing the stuff, and a life sentence if you were caught using it. One item was something she'd never heard of, something called gone over wolf. Until she found out what it did, she wouldn't ignore the warning to use it sparingly.
Asia lifted the last vial, read the label, and put it back very carefully.
And some items would earn a person a one-way trip into the wild country. No prison. Nothing so kind. Just a long ride into the Others' territory, and then you were set loose with no food, no water, no shoes.
There was no record of anyone surviving that particular punishment.
Her new benefactor, as she'd begun to think of Meg's owner, might be able to pull enough strings to keep himself safe from the penalties for having any of these items, but she was under no illusion that he would be that protective of her. And she had no doubt Bigwig and his group of backers would distance themselves from her if she was caught with any of the prison-worthy drugs, let alone the one that carried an automatic death penalty. So it was in her own best interest to use that last vial as soon as possible.
And she knew just how it would do her the most good.
"You know what I would really like to do?" Asia said to Darrell as she drove down the access way and parked her car behind the Liaison's Office. There it was protected from potential thieves and out of sight of patrol cars who might take too much notice of a car left in the Courtyard parking lot overnight. On Sunsday, the car being in the lot had been her excuse to leave. Tonight, having it tucked away meant Darrell was the only one who knew for sure she had come back to the Courtyard with him.
"I've got a pretty good idea," Darrell replied with a grin that looked a tiny bit off, just a little mean.
"Before that. " She turned off the car's headlights and could barely make out the shape of the man in the other seat.
If any of the Courtyard businesses had outdoor lights by their back doors, no one had remembered to turn them on—not even the one she knew was at the top of the stairs she would be climbing shortly. Was a light too much courtesy to show a human, or had the Others assumed Darrell would take care of it?
That thought made her wonder if there would be clean sheets on the bed, and if anyone else had used the room yesterday.
"What do you want to do?" Darrell asked, that hint of mean gone as if it had never been there.
She leaned toward him, found the zipper on his trousers, and tugged it down an inch. "Take a little drive."
"A drive?" His voice rose, almost cracking as she pulled the zipper down another inch. "Where?"
"To the Green Complex and back."
His hand clamped over hers. She didn't think his panting was solely due to lust.
"Asia, are you crazy?"
"Humans are allowed in the Green area."
"Only if they have a pass! And even then it's risky once you're away from the Market Square."
"But you do have a pass," she said, putting a heavy dose of honey in the words while her fingers worked his zipper down another inch. She had slipped a few flakes of gone over wolf into his last drink at the Saucy Plate, just to see what would happen. And so far, the answer was nothing at all. Maybe she had used it a little too sparingly. "And I want to be the kind of woman who is brave enough to do something a little risky. Like spend the whole night with a man," she finished as she tried to move her hand away from his zipper.
His hand tightened on hers almost painfully before he let her go. Withdrawing her hand, she sat primly, her eyes looking straight ahead.
"I just thought we could have a little adventure before..." She moved her body to convey embarrassment. "I wanted to do something special for you tonight. Something like that girl was doing in the movie we watched the last time. That you wanted me to do but I couldn't. I even bought a book. You know. One of those manuals. Went to a bookstore clear across the city to buy it. But I guess you don't want..."
He gulped air, and she knew she had him.
"We aren't getting out of the car," he said, a tremor in his voice.
"Oh, no," she agreed. "That would be too risky."
"We can't take your car," he said after a moment. "They don't use cars like this inside the Courtyard. We'd be spotted a minute after we got past the Market Square. But anyone could be driving a BOW up to the Green Complex for a visit."
Good to know, Asia thought. "Then what should we do?"
"Wait here. I need to get a key from the consulate."
After Darrell left the car, she counted to twenty before she opened her door and got out. She unbuttoned her coat and reached for the camera she had hidden in an interior pocket. Then she looked around. No point trying to get photos of this area. Even the camera's flash wouldn't give her anything useful.
Darrell returned, puffing as if he'd run a marathon. Or had been running from a pack of Wolves.
"I'm not sure which BOW might be available, but the key fits any of them," he said.
Also good to know, Asia thought as she watched him open and close the door of an empty garage slot.
"Here's one." He waved at her to join him.
She took her keys and locked her car. Her overnight case—and the special accessories—were in the trunk. She wasn't planning to wear any of the clothes, so it didn't matter if they were stiff from cold. And the powders in the vials wouldn't freeze.
Hurrying across the snowy pavement, she slipped into the BOW's passenger's seat. She wondered whether the thing had a motor and hoped it had a heater.
It had both, more or less.
She clenched her teeth while Darrell backed out of the garage, then spent time closing the garage door.
"If an Owl spots the open door, it will sound the alarm," Darrell said as he drove out of the Courtyard's business district.
"Oh. I'm glad you thought of that." They were still in sight of the business district when she spotted a yellow tube of light next to the road. "What's that?"
"Solar light," Darrell replied. "The Others put them at forks in the roads. The Green Complex is on the outer ring."
"Where does the left-hand fork lead?"
"The interior of the Courtyard. Or maybe it goes to the Corvine gate. I don't know."
He sounded too nervous, so she stopped asking questions.
There were no streetlights, so there was damn little to see and no landmarks she could describe to someone else. As far as she could tell, there was a whole lot of nothing in the Courtyard until they reached the Green Complex, where Simon Wolfgard lived. When Darrell backed into one of the visitor's parking spaces across the road from the complex, Asia swallowed her disappointment. It was just a U-shaped apartment building that didn't even have symmetry to give it a finished look. This is where the members of the Business Association, the movers and shakers among the terra indigene, lived?
Plenty of lights here. Plenty of Others at home?
"Humans are so much better at this stuff," Asia said.
"What stuff?"
"Buildings and cars and everything."
Nodding, Darrell made a disparaging sound. " They think they're living fancy because they have running water and central heating and don't have to take a shit in the woods if they don't want to."
Such language from Darrell? Asia studied him with more interest. Where had that spark of anger come from? "I thought you liked working at the consulate."
"Working for a consulate looks good on a résumé," he replied. "And with the credit at the Market Square that employees get on top of the wages, I'm paid almost twice as much by working for the consulate as I would receive from an equivalent position in human government. But this is just a stepping-stone, a way to something better."
Which was the real Darrell Adams: the sexually inept milquetoast she had slept with the other night, or this angry man who probably spent his evenings fantasizing about putting a bullet through Elliot Wolfgard's brain?
"You hate them, don't you?" she asked.
Just as Darrell was about to reply, Vladimir Sanguinati stepped out of one of the apartments. The vampire glanced their way and paused, then seemed to focus on them too much for her liking.
"Have you seen enough?" Darrell asked, his bravado deflating as the vampire walked toward them. He put the BOW in gear and drove away, spinning the tires in his effort to put some distance between them and the Green Complex before Vlad got close enough to identify them.
She hadn't seen enough. She still didn't know which apartment belonged to Meg Corbyn and which belonged to Simon Wolfgard. But at least she had some of the information the special messenger would need.
And she needed to think about how a substance called gone over wolf had changed milquetoast to angry man, even if the change had lasted only a minute or two. A lot of things could be achieved in a minute or two if they were the right minutes. It might be worth another experiment, depending on whether she had to accept another date.
For now, she needed to finish this evening's plans. So when they got back to the room, she was going to give Darrell the kind of sex he didn't have balls enough to even dream about.
Asia watched Darrell for another minute before she slipped out of bed. There had been just enough gone over wolf left in his system to make him interesting once he got aroused, but twice was more than enough. The knockout drops would keep him under for at least an hour, and that was plenty of time.
She put on Darrell's trousers, cinching them with a belt she had bought yesterday so that the scents of all the other people who had touched it in the store would still be fairly fresh. She put on his shirt, even his socks. She put on his winter coat. Pulling the wool cap out of one pocket, she tucked her hair under it. She transferred her camera and a small flashlight from her coat to his, then put on her own boots, because she didn't want to risk a fall.
Her hand hovered above her overnight case. There were all kinds of ways this could go wrong. But when she succeeded, the payoff was going to be sweet enough to make her the hottest star in Sparkletown.
She selected a vial and slipped it into the coat pocket. Taking the keys off the bedside table, she let herself out of the room and made her way to the back door of the Liaison's Office.
Three keys on the ring. One was for the room they were using. One was for the other abovestairs room. And the third...
Yes! Asia thought as she opened the office's back door. She removed the boots, then twisted her feet to press Darrell's scent into the floor. She took out the flashlight, turned it on, and looked around.
Typical back room of an office. A table and two chairs, the pseudokitchen with its mini fridge and counters. A washroom, and a storage area full of bins of clothes, some clean and some just this side of ripe.
Nothing in the fridge that was useful to her plans. But in the cupboard under the counter, she found what she was looking for: a partially used box of sugar lumps.
Wishing she could turn on a light, Asia put the flashlight on the floor and took the vial out of her pocket. The crystals didn't look any different from sugar crystals, and from what she'd learned about this stuff, it didn't taste much different either, which is why it was so effective and the penalties for using it were so high. She tapped crystals over the top layer of sugar lumps, then gently shook the box to coat more of the lumps. She continued doing that until she poured the last crystals over the sugar.
Putting the empty vial back in the coat pocket, she replaced the box of sugar, picked up her flashlight, and went into the next room.
Not much to look at. Who could stand working in such a boring room day after day? There wasn't even a stack of mail that would give her a few names she didn't know from the bookstore and coffee shop.
She opened a cupboard and found boxes of dog cookies. For a moment, she regretted using all those crystals on the sugar, then realized it was just as well she hadn't been able to give in to impulse. If anything happened to a Wolf, it could be seen as an act of war. But she had never heard of Others named Ponygard, which meant the stupid ponies were just animals. They would be a distraction, a way to stir things up, nothing but collateral damage in the overall scheme.
Opening a drawer under the counter, she stared at a sheet of paper for a long moment. Then her heart bumped with excitement. She had found a map of the Courtyard. Gates, roads, buildings—everything the extraction team would need.
Payday!
Pulling Darrell's shirt over her hand, Asia picked up the map with two fingers and put it on the big table. Then she took out her camera... and swore under her breath.
A flashlight and the flash on the camera weren't going to do it. If she wanted pictures that would be useful, she was going to have to turn on the lights, just for a minute.
No curtains on the window. Nothing she could use quickly to block the light.
Stop stalling, she thought as she waved the flashlight over the walls until she found the light switch. The faster you take the pictures, the faster you can get out of here.
Flipping on the lights, she hurried back to the table and took several shots of the map as the full page, then several more in zoom mode to provide more details. She put the camera in the coat pocket and the map in the drawer, flipped off the lights—and heard an Owl hoot.
Damn, fuck, sh it. Was one of them perched on the wall next to the office? Or, worse, perched on the railing of the stairs she needed to climb?
She crept to the back room, put on her boots, opened the outside door, and listened hard. No feathers rustling overhead, no more hooting.
Slipping out the door, she locked it, then turned off the flashlight. Her foot was on the first stair when she thought about the empty vial in her pocket. According to Bigwig, the police presence and the speed in which they responded to anything involving the Others were unusual. That meant an empty vial could be as good as a confession if they found it on her.
Taking the vial out of the coat pocket, she walked a few feet from the stairs and shoved the vial into a snowbank as far as she could. Then she pushed the snow around to cover the hole, brushed off the coat sleeve, and hurried up the stairs.
Stripping out of Darrell's clothes, she took the clothes she'd worn that evening into the bathroom, along with her overnight case. She had taken a shower with Darrell as part of the foreplay, using the soap and shampoo the Others insisted their employees use. Now she gave her clothes and body a light spritz of the floral scent the Others associated with Asia Crane because she always wore that scent when she went into Howling Good Reads or A Little Bite.
And that scent wasn't in the Liaison's Office.
She put everything away and slipped into bed, grateful for the trapped body heat. Darrell was still in a heavy sleep and didn't do more than grunt and turn away from her when she tried to ease her cold body closer to his warm one.
An hour passed. Then two. She thought about that vial hidden in the snow, where it would hopefully remain until spring. She thought about the camera and the incriminating photos on the camera's storage card. She thought about how to sever her relationship with Darrell.
She thought about what Asia Crane, SI, would do.
She slipped back out of bed, got dressed, gathered her things, and left. She didn't give her car enough time to warm up, and she didn't brush enough snow off the back window before she drove out of the Courtyard. It was late, and there was hardly any traffic. That didn't mean a cop wouldn't tag her.
She drove another block before she pulled over and properly cleaned off all the windows. Then she dug her mobile phone out of her overnight case and made a call, but it wasn't to Bigwig.
"Hello?"
"I need one of your special messengers. Someone who can print some pictures and can also take more personal instructions."
"He can be at your residence in thirty minutes."
"I should be back by then."
Asia ended the call, tucked the phone back in the overnight case, and drove to her apartment. She had chosen the university district because it was close enough to the Courtyard but not one of the neighborhoods that rubbed against the land controlled by the Others. It wasn't likely that any of them had seen her, except when she visited the stores, so they wouldn't know where she lived.
It was now very important that they didn't know where she lived.
When she got home, she barely had time to turn on a couple of lights before there was a soft knock at the door.
The same special messenger who had delivered her present.
"You have something for me?" he asked after he closed the door.
She shucked off her coat and took the camera out of the interior pocket. "I have pictures that can't be seen by anyone working in a photo shop."
He waggled the black case he was carrying. "And I have a private way of printing photos." He walked over to her dining table and began setting up.
She watched him hook up a miniature printing center. "I've never seen anything like this. Must cost a bundle."
"Costs an arm—literally—if it's lost or damaged, but the benefactor who finances these assignments believes in giving his people the highest-quality equipment, since there are rarely second chances."
"How can something like this be manufactured without the Others knowing about it?" Asia asked.
He gave her a feral grin. "You can hide all kinds of things from them if you know how. Now. Give me that storage card, and let's see if what you've got is worth that late-night phone call."
Stung by the implied criticism that she had annoyed an important man for a pittance of information, she popped the storage card out of the camera and handed it to the messenger. He slipped it into one of his little boxes, then clicked on the program that would open the pictures.
He studied them for a minute. Then he whistled softly. "I stand corrected. These are worth a late-night call." He looked at her with new interest. "Where did you find this?"
"In the Liaison's Office."
"How fast do they respond to threats?"
"Fast. And the police respond almost as fast."
"Damn. They usually drag their heels when a call is about a Courtyard."
"Not here." She hesitated. This whole assignment was a lot riskier than anything else she'd done for her backers, and doing work for this benefactor and her backers had its own kinds of risk. But, damn, it was exciting and just the kind of thing Asia Crane, SI, would do.
"I think some distractions, some false alarms, would be smart," she said, slipping into the role of her alter ego. "Give the police a reason to slow their response time. Create distractions that are nothing but annoyances."
He began printing the pictures, studying the overall map of the Courtyard while the enlarged images printed. "Small distractions and annoyances close to the gates." He moved a finger around the area that contained the shops, consulate, and Liaison's Office. "Activity mostly during the day?"
"And early evening. They don't keep regular hours like a human business, but most of the businesses are closed by nine p.m."
"What about this place? The Utilities Complex."
Asia shook her head. "Don't know. I'd guess more activity during the day, but I'm not sure if humans are allowed in there."
"We can find out," he said absently while he continued to study the map. "Distractions. We can keep them stirred up so they don't recognize the real threat when it comes."
"But nothing until after Moonsday."
He turned his head and studied her. "Why is that?"
"Because I already put the first distraction in motion. And I figure it will happen on Moonsday."
He finished printing the pictures, even printed out one extra of the overall map for her to keep. After putting his equipment back in its case and sliding the pictures into a manila envelope, he gave her a thorough look—and smiled. "I was told you also needed something more personal."
"Not that," she said. "I don't want anyone's scent there except the man I was with tonight."
"Then what are you looking for?"
"Rough me up. Not enough to need a hospital or report it to the police, but enough that other women would understand me wanting to break up with this man—and not come around where he might see me. I need a reason not to be around the Courtyard on Moonsday."
He narrowed his eyes. "You setting him up?"
"Let's say he's going to act as insurance for all of us."
The messenger gave her body a coldly professional study while he pulled on a pair of thin leather gloves. "Then let's get started." |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 21 | "Are you sure?" Simon asked, after closing his office door and returning to the desk.
"I'm sure," Vlad replied. "I followed them from the Green Complex. And this morning, Blair confirmed that the BOW should have been fully charged, since he connected it to the energy source yesterday afternoon, and it isn't."
"Then why didn't you take care of it last night?"
"Why didn't you take care of it this morning after Nathan told you he'd found Darrell's scent in the back room and sorting room?" Vlad countered.
Simon glanced at the comfy Wolf bed in the corner of his office—an item several of the Wolves now had in their work spaces—and knew he and Vlad had the same reason for not killing Darrell right away.
He didn't care what the police or the human government or the whole damn city of Lakeside thought about him tearing out the throat of a human who broke trust with the terra indigene. But there had been the possibility that Meg had asked Darrell to deliver something to her at the Green Complex, and he'd gotten scared when he saw Vlad because he'd allowed Asia Crane to come with him. And there was the slightest possibility that Meg had asked Darrell to help her with something in the back room or in the sorting room. The Business Association wasn't as strict about keeping known humans out of those rooms since Meg started working for them, mostly because she needed human company to be happy, and the Others wanted her to be happy so she would stay.
Couldn't eat Darrell if the man really had been doing something for Meg.
"We can't allow a monkey to break our rules," Vlad said.
"No, we can't. But Darrell works for Elliot. Since the man didn't do more than drive to the Green Complex without permission, I'll let Elliot decide how to deal with him." Simon thought for a moment. "After I talk to Elliot, I'll call Chris Fallacaro and have him change the locks at the consulate and on the Liaison's Office."
"What about that Asia Crane?" Vlad asked.
"She was with Darrell and she never left the vehicle. I'm not sure we can call that trespassing," Simon said. Especially since Vlad let her leave the Courtyard last night. "She's banned from the Courtyard, starting now. And that includes the stores, even HGR and A Little Bite." The relief that he had a reason to keep her far away from Meg was so sharp, it almost hurt.
If Meg got mad at him for banning Asia, he would accept it. He would. For a little while, anyway.
"All right," Vlad said. "I'll inform Grandfather of the Wolfgard's decision. You talk to Elliot."
When Vlad left, Simon stretched his neck and shoulders, feeling the pop of tight muscles loosening. That done, he called Elliot, then sat down and worked out the wording for the flyers Lorne would make for him as soon as the Three Ps opened.
Vlad flowed under the door of Elliot's office, a patch of smoke moving over the carpet, keeping close to the wall. He didn't care that Elliot saw him enter and knew he was going to listen to the Wolf deal with the human. He just didn't want Darrell to notice he was there.
While there was no doubt that the human would be dismissed from his job at the consulate, there was no certainty he would get out of the Courtyard, despite the short distance between the consulate's door and the delivery area's street entrance.
No matter how fast a human could run, the Sanguinati could move faster. And per Erebus's orders, unless Vlad was convinced that Darrell had done nothing more than act foolishly because of a woman, the man wouldn't get past Nyx when he bolted for the presumed safety of the human-controlled land.
"Mr. Wolfgard?" Darrell said as he fiddled with the knot in his tie. "You wanted to see me?"
"Yes," Elliot replied, his voice smoothing into a sound that gave nothing away. "Do you know why?"
"No, sir. But... someone emptied my desk and put some of my personal items in a box."
"No, we put all of your personal items in the box. The rest of the items in the desk actually belong to the consulate. Now you'll hand over the keys you were given, as well as your pass to the Market Square."
"But... why?"
"You're being dismissed for a breach of trust."
Rapid breathing. Pulse spiking. Face turning pale. And even with all those acknowledgments, the fool still tried to deny what the Others knew.
"I didn't," Darrell said.
"I hope for your sake that the breach begins and ends with you taking that female to the Green Complex. I hope you understand what will happen if you become indiscreet about what you've seen or heard in the consulate."
"Sir, I think I've done a good job here," Darrell began.
"You did. I was pleased with your work. But you broke the trust we had given you, and now you have to go. However, before I let you leave this room, I need one answer: What were you looking for in the Liaison's Office?"
"I wasn't in the office," Darrell protested. "I was in the abovestairs room I was told I could use last night. I was with my... friend... until I woke up this morning."
"So you were never in the office?" Elliot asked, his voice still smooth.
"Sure, I was in the office. Went to pick up the consulate mail a few times."
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Yes," Elliot said patiently. "Why? You've never done that before."
Darrell squirmed in the chair. "I wasn't comfortable being around the other Liaisons. But Meg is a pleasant girl, and she always has the mail bundled in an orderly manner. I just thought picking it up would be a friendly gesture."
And a way to set up Meg as the next potential friend if Asia Crane didn't work out? Vlad wondered.
"Whose idea was it to go to the Green Complex?" Elliot asked. "Your pass doesn't extend beyond our business district without permission, and your guest didn't have permission to go anywhere last night except the designated room for your... social interaction."
"She wanted to see it, as an adventure."
"See what? It was late. It was dark."
"I think she wanted to see where Simon Wolfgard lives." Darrell hung his head and talked to his tie. "She said she wasn't interested in him anymore, but I think she is. I think she pretended..."
<That's enough, Elliot,> Vlad said. <I'll inform Grandfather that this monkey tried to impress the female and is nothing worse than a fool. Since that Asia is being banned from the Courtyard, the explanation will satisfy him.>
Leaving Elliot to finish the dismissal, Vlad flowed under the door, shifting to human form when he was in the hallway. When he got outside, he stopped long enough to tell Nyx that Darrell was allowed to leave the Courtyard intact. Then he walked down the access way between the buildings and stopped behind the Liaison's Office.
The truck from Fallacaro Lock & Key was already there, and Chris Fallacaro was working on the office's back door. Blair was watching him, which was probably why it was taking the human so long to change a lock. Having youngsters watching in order to learn was one thing. Having the Courtyard's primary enforcer watching was something else altogether.
And there was Meg, pulling up and looking confused because the truck and Blair's BOW effectively blocked her ability to park her own vehicle.
They hadn't discussed what they were going to tell Meg, and he didn't want to push Simon—especially when they weren't on opposite sides. He would have preferred a more permanent solution to ridding themselves of Asia Crane, and he should have taken care of it last night. Since he'd made the wrong choice, he thought Simon should be the one to take the direct approach now—and provide them all with some blood and meat in the bargain.
But what would they have said to their Liaison? It's like this, Meg. We didn't like that Asia Crane, so we ate her.
When dealing with humans, honesty isn't always the best policy, Vlad thought as he walked over to the BOW and opened Meg's door.
"What's going on?" Meg asked as she got out of the BOW.
"Let's go inside. It's cold out here." He cupped her elbow as they walked to the back door.
Blair said something to Chris. The man jumped, whipped his head around in a way that must have made a few muscles twang, then pulled the door open wider for Meg to slip inside.
She swapped boots for shoes, hung up her coat, and went through to the other rooms to open up the office. Vlad followed her, then stood in the Private doorway while she leaned against the counter.
"What happened?" she asked.
"A breach of trust. Darrell broke one of the rules," he replied, wanting to be blunt and direct as he would be with one of his own kind. But he suddenly wondered how much blood prophets in general, and Meg in particular, knew about sex and felt the need for caution when explaining why the human was upstairs last night. "He's been dismissed. Since he had a key to the consulate as well as keys to this building, we're getting the locks changed."
"Do you do that every time an employee leaves?"
"Not every time."
She paled, which alarmed him.
"Is Sam in danger?" she asked.
Interesting question. "I don't think so."
Of course, Nathan chose that moment to open the front door. He paused when one of the Crows cawed at him, then raised an arm in invitation. The Crow flew over, and the two of them came inside. The Wolf shot one look at the bed, then stomped the snow off his boots and approached the counter. The Crow hopped from arm to counter, sliding a little.
Meg looked at the two of them. "Good morning, Nathan. Good morning, Jake." She slanted a look at Vlad. "Are you all going to stick around here?"
"Until the locks are fixed. Once the locks are changed, Blair will meet Chris at the Utilities Complex to make all the sets of keys. Front door lock will be changed too."
"All this because Darrell broke a rule?" Meg asked.
"It was an important rule," Vlad replied smoothly, trying to balance Nathan's growl.
The crunch of tires on snow made all of them look toward the delivery area.
Meg pulled her clipboard from under the counter and accepted the pen Jake offered. "Try not to scare the deliverymen, all right?"
"Caw," Jake said.
Vlad stepped into the sorting room, where he would be out of sight. It didn't escape his notice that Jake was the only one of them to offer her any assurance about that.
He didn't think it had escaped Meg's notice either.
After giving her approach a good deal of thought, Asia walked into Howling Good Reads, satisfied that she had hit the right balance: makeup just a little too heavy, as if she were trying to cover up something; hair styled but not as well as usual; a cowl-neck sweater that would show off the bruises on her shoulders when she moved in certain ways, but didn't shout that she wanted them seen.
The special messenger had done a good job pretending to be a milquetoast who suddenly turned rough. But if a Wolf shoved his nose where it had no business being, all he would smell was Darrell.
The girl at the register looked at her and paled. Asia thought it was because Heather had glimpsed the bruises. Then she caught her own name in big letters on some kind of flyer next to the register.
She took a step toward the register. The next thing she knew, Simon Wolfgard was blocking her, snarling in a way that destroyed any pretense of his being human.
"Asia Crane, you are banned from the Courtyard," he said in a voice filled with authority and anger. "That includes all the stores within the Courtyard." He took a step toward her, forcing her to take a step back. "That includes this one. You can leave this time, but if we see you on our land again, we'll kill you."
The customers at the front of the store froze.
Asia lifted her chin, switching her performance from rough-sex victim to defender of humankind. "You can't ban me from a store. That's discrimination. None of you would be able to buy any of your precious junk if human stores discriminated against you."
"They discriminate against us plenty. That's not the point. The point is, you went sniffing around where you don't belong, and we caught you, but we're going to let you and Darrell walk away this one time. Yes, we banned him too. As for the rest of you," he said, addressing the other customers, "if you want to shop at other stores because we banned the two people who broke our rules instead of banning all of you, that's your choice." He turned back to Asia. "And you're out of time. Get out now or die."
He grabbed one of the flyers and slapped it against her chest. "Take this with you so you don't forget."
She took the flyer, crumpling it in her hand. She considered making a parting comment, but she realized he was looking for an excuse to kill her right there, right now. He would splash her blood over half the store and count the loss of merchandise as worth it.
"What did I ever do to you?" she whispered, pleased with the natural quiver in her voice.
He leaned toward her, and his voice was just as low. "When I find out, I'll come hunting for you."
She walked out of the store, her mind racing. She'd always paid in cash for anything she'd bought at HGR or A Little Bite. Hadn't she? She was Margaret A. Crane on all the ID her backers had provided for her, and that was a common enough name. So she wouldn't be easy to find. Even Darrell hadn't known where she lived.
As she got in her car, a patrol car pulled into the Courtyard parking lot. The officer who got out and headed for HGR was one of the cops who dropped by daily.
Asia's stomach did a funny little flip. Was that Wolf going to hand out those flyers to the cops?
She was getting way too much attention, and all the wrong kind. If the special messenger got wind of this and informed his benefactor, it could be the end of a very lucrative arrangement. Even her backers now wanted her working in tandem with this benefactor's men and would be keenly unhappy if her actions blew the whole operation by making the Others too antagonistic against humans.
But the benefactor's special messenger had known what she was going to do today. After all, he'd helped her with this charade. So all she had to do was convince him that getting banned from the Courtyard had been part of her plan all along. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 22 | On Moonsday morning, Meg opened the office, prepared her clipboard, and breathed a sigh of relief. After Darrell's dismissal and Asia's public banning, all the humans who worked for the Others had been edgy, especially the humans who worked in the Market Square and would have a harder time escaping if the terra indigene turned savage. But with the exception of more patrol cars driving past the Courtyard, Firesday and Watersday were ordinary workdays. Earthday had been an enjoyable balance of chores and a long, fun romp in the snow with Simon and Sam in their Wolf forms. The romp had tired her out so much, she fell asleep while they all watched a movie that evening.
And Simon didn't say a word about her using him as a furry pillow.
She still wasn't sure why Darrell wasn't supposed to visit the Green Complex. He had worked for the consulate, after all. Surely there was more sensitive material in that office than whatever could be observed in the dark about the outside of buildings.
Except Darrell had brought Asia, who really wasn't allowed to be there.
Meg gave her arms a brisk rub, relieved when the prickling under her skin subsided. Going out at night to look at the Green Complex was odd, but she'd seen plenty of training images of someone sitting in a dark car, watching a building. Obsessed ex-lovers. Stalkers. Police. Asia didn't fit any of those labels, but Meg thought the other woman was impulsive enough to jump at a chance to see any part of the Courtyard. And since Asia had been so curious about Sam, maybe she'd hoped to get another look at the puppy.
Did Asia know Sam lived with Simon at the Green Complex? Meg shook her head, unable to remember. Well, it didn't matter anymore. Asia was gone and Darrell was gone, and neither of them had been part of her vision about men dressed in black.
Giving her arms a final rub, she dismissed thoughts of Asia and Darrell and went about her day. She chatted with Harry when he came in with his deliveries, laughing at his jokes even when she didn't understand them. She spent several minutes trying to convince Nathan that he couldn't have entire boxes of dog cookies and had to choose which kind of cookie he wanted for a snack. When he insistently pointed a big paw at each box, she ended up giving him two cookies of each flavor, which he took back to his Wolf bed to crunch.
Around midmorning, she got tangled in a bizarre game of tug between Nathan and Jake. She didn't know which of them had brought in the length of rope as a toy, but the Wolf, still lying on the bed, had his teeth in one end of it, and the Crow had his feet clenched around the other and was madly flapping his wings. Her mistake was thinking she could break up the game by grabbing the rope right in front of Jake's feet. Suddenly Nathan was on his feet, wagging his tail while he growled at her, and Jake's caws sounded suspiciously gleeful. Because the floor was a little snow-slick and her shoes didn't have enough traction, she was pulled from one end of the room to the other and couldn't figure out how to let go of the rope without falling on her butt.
She got out of the game only because Dan walked in with a delivery and started laughing so hard, he almost dropped the packages. After signing for the delivery, she retreated to the sorting room and pondered what game the Wolf and Crow really had been playing: tug the rope or trick Meg into playing with them.
It said something about human resilience that a week after Nathan had been assigned as the office's watch Wolf, most of the deliverymen were accepting of his presence, if still justifiably wary. A few tossed a "Hi, how's it going?" in Nathan's direction before they took care of business with her. Only one company had a new driver coming to the Courtyard, replacing the man who had refused to enter the office the first time he saw Nathan.
Once the mail was sorted and packages going out to terra indigene settlements were properly tagged for the earth-native trucks, Meg peeked into the front room. Jake was on the counter, fluffed up and dozing. Nathan was on his back, paws in the air, also snoozing. At that moment, they didn't look like much security, but she knew they'd be awake the instant they heard footsteps or tires in the delivery area.
Leaving them to their morning nap, she headed for the back room. The ponies would be here in half an hour, and she wanted to be ready.
When she stepped into the room, a sickening rush of images filled her mind. Old hands, young hands, male hands, female hands, dark hands, pale hands. All reaching for something and... Shrieks of pain. Cries of anguish.
Meg stumbled out of the back room, shaking. Was she sick? Was she going insane? Was this what happened to cassandra sangue when they didn't live in the compounds? Was this why they had originally been brought to live in such isolation? Maybe this was the reason the girls were allowed so little personal experience, why their lives were so sterile.
She rubbed at her arms, at her legs, at her belly, at her scalp, wanting to dig and scratch and claw until the painful prickling went away. It had never been this bad, and she had never seen actual images before a cut.
But there had been that moment on the road the other day when she had slipped into a vision without cutting.
Bracing her arms on the sorting table, Meg fought to think.
Sensitive skin. She had overheard the Walking Names once when they were reviewing the value of the girls. They said prophecies from her were the most expensive because her skin was so sensitive, it became attuned to the visions even before she was cut. She just had to be around something connected to the prophecy.
And Simon had speculated that this prickling was a sign her instincts were waking up because she was living and doing and experiencing for herself instead of seeing the world as labeled images.
Was the prickling under her skin not only a warning but also a measuring stick? A little tingle that was annoying but faded quickly indicated a small choice that wouldn't have major significance, while the harsher, painful buzz...
Meg returned to the back room, staggering as the images flooded her mind again. But she couldn't figure out what was causing the reaction.
"Something there," she whispered, fleeing to the sorting room. "Have to do it. Have to cut out this vision hiding in my skin."
But she needed a listener this time, because whatever was struggling to break through was too big for her to endure alone. And she was scared that she wouldn't be able to sort out the images of the prophecy, wouldn't be able to recognize the warning or put the pieces together.
Who to call? Not Simon. He'd be angry that she didn't call him, but he'd be angry about the cut too, and she felt certain that they didn't have time to argue.
She tiptoed to the Private door. Jake and Nathan were still napping. She closed that door as quietly as possible and turned the lock. Then she called A Little Bite, hoping that whatever guardian spirit looked after prophets would guide Tess's hand to answer the phone.
"A Little Bite," Tess said. She sounded cheerfully annoyed, which meant the coffee shop was busy.
"Tess? It's Meg."
Silence. "Is something wrong?" Tess's voice was no longer cheerful or annoyed. Now there was something in it that made Meg shiver.
"Yes," Meg said. "I need your help. It's urgent. Can you come now? Just you."
Tess hung up. Meg hoped that was a positive response. Going into the bathroom, she thought about what she would need and what Tess would need. She almost reconsidered, almost called Henry. But she didn't call him for the same reason she didn't call Simon: it just wasn't smart to be in a room with a carnivore when she slit her skin and spilled her own blood.
"I have to go," Tess told Merri Lee. "Call Julia. Tell her to come in as soon as she can. Tell Simon you need Heather to help you until Julia arrives."
"He'll want to know why," Merri Lee said. "What do I tell him?"
"When I know why, I'll tell him," Tess replied. She pulled on her coat and left by the back door, striding toward the Liaison's Office.
Why didn't you call Simon, Meg? Why call me? Do the prophets have any idea what I am? Did you call me out of knowledge or ignorance?
"Thanks for coming," Meg said, locking the back door as soon as Tess slipped inside the office.
"Why didn't you call Simon?" Tess asked.
"I thought this would be too dangerous with a predator in the same room."
Ignorance, then, Tess thought. If Meg was trying to avoid predators, she wouldn't have knowingly called one most of the terra indigene feared.
"I need to cut," Meg said, her words tripping over one another. "Something terrible is going to happen, and there is something in this room that is a part of it."
"But you don't know what it is?"
Meg shook her head.
"What do you need from me?"
"I need someone to listen to the prophecy, to write down what I say."
"All right. Where?"
"In the bathroom. It's private there."
"What will I need?"
Meg pointed at the items on the small table. Her hand shook, telling Tess how much effort it was taking for Meg to hold on and not slash herself indiscriminately. "The tablet of paper and the pen. When a cut is made, the images come as they come. Write them down. Then someone will have to figure out how they fit together in order to understand what they mean."
Tess tipped her head toward the front of the office. "What did you tell Nathan?"
"He and Jake are sleeping."
The Wolf wouldn't be sleeping much longer. Their breed of earth native had keen senses, and the lack of sounds in the sorting room would alert Nathan just as much as an unfamiliar one. Once the Wolf realized Meg was locked out of reach, he'd call the enforcer and call his leader, and there was no telling who else would respond.
"Let's get this done," Tess said. She shrugged out of her coat, hung it on a peg, removed her boots, and followed Meg into the bathroom.
Meg's hands hovered over the button and zipper on her jeans. "I think this needs a bigger cut. I think the skin on my legs will work best. I need to remove my jeans."
"Arrroooo?" A query. Not loud, since Nathan was in the front room and they were in the back, and there were several closed doors between them. But it meant the Wolf was awake and aware.
Tess flushed the toilet. "That will buy us a little time. But the next time Nathan doesn't get an answer, he's going to call Simon and Blair." No need to mention that Henry and Vlad would also be looking for answers if the watch Wolf started making a fuss.
Meg stripped off the jeans and dropped them in a corner of the bathroom floor. On the toilet seat, neatly laid out, were the razor, ointment, butterfly bandages, a package of gauze, and medical tape. On the floor was a hand towel. Color stained her cheeks when she sat on the floor and examined the scars on her legs.
"How do you choose the place to cut?" Tess asked, sitting back on her heels so she was facing Meg and could watch the girl's body and the expressions on her face as well as listen to the words.
"The Controller chose, based on how much the client was willing to pay for the prophecy." Meg stared at her own skin. "Until I ran away, I didn't make my own cuts. I don't really know how to choose."
"Yes, you do," Tess said quietly. "It's part of who you are." She picked up the razor, opened it, and handed it to Meg. "You know where to find this prophecy."
Meg took the razor and closed her eyes. Her free hand moved over her left leg, upper and lower, front and back. Her hand moved to her right leg. Her fingers stuttered just below the knee. Opening her eyes, she laid the razor on the right side of the shin bone, turned her hand, and cut.
Tess watched Meg's hand shake with the effort to set the razor down with the blade turned away. She watched the girl pale, saw pain in those gray eyes that she found arousing, but there was also trust in those eyes instead of fear. She couldn't, wouldn't, kill trust.
"Speak," Tess said, her voice rough with the effort to deny her own nature. "Speak, prophet, and I will listen."
Box of sugar lumps. A hand withdrawing. A man's hand wearing a thin leather glove. A woman's hand, the nails polished a pretty rose color. A dark winter coat that had nothing distinctive. The sleeve of a woman's sweater, the color a bright, unfamiliar blue. The ponies rolling on the ground near the barn, screaming and screaming as black snakes burst out of their bellies. Skull and crossbones. Sugar full of black snakes. The ponies screaming. A skeleton in a hooded robe, passing out sweets to children. A skull laughing while children screamed and screamed as the black snakes ripped their way out of those young bellies.
"Hands," Meg whispered, her strength visibly fading. "Skull and crossbones. Black snakes in the sugar."
"Your words have been heard, prophet," Tess whispered. "Rest, now. Rest."
With a moan that was wantonly sexual, Meg laid back on the floor. Her eyes glazed and her body suddenly had the scent of a different, and enticing, kind of arousal.
"Arrrrooooo!"
Out of time, Tess thought, springing to her feet. She looked at Meg, at the hand towel soaking up blood that continued to flow from the cut. She wasn't sure how much blood was too much, but she knew what she had to deal with first.
As she pulled open the bathroom door, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the sink. Hair the color of blood turning black as the grave. She strode into the back room at the same moment Simon unlocked the outside door, leaping in ahead of Henry and Blair. Nathan squeezed between Henry and Simon, everything in him focused on the blood scent.
"Get out," Tess snarled. "All of you, get out of this room. Now!"
"Don't you dare give orders to me!" Simon snarled in reply. His head began changing to Wolf to accommodate the jaws and fangs that would serve him better as weapons.
"Stay out!" Tess said again. Something in her voice must have gotten through to Henry, because he grabbed Nathan by the scruff just as the Wolf launched himself toward the bathroom.
Nathan snapped and snarled, but he couldn't break Henry's hold.
"You all have to leave. That goes for you too, vampire," Tess said as smoke flowed through the open door. If a fight broke out now, someone would die. If one of these males died, the rest would realize what she was, and she would have to leave. She didn't want to leave. It was rare for her kind to find acceptance, let alone cautious friendship, even among other terra indigene. "Simon, there are things you all need to know, but it's dangerous for you to be in this room right now. Meg needs tending. Let me help her."
His eyes were red with flickers of gold, a sign he was insanely furious.
"You can do this?" Henry asked, his voice a quiet rumble.
Tess nodded. "She asked me to come and hear the prophecy. She asked for my help. Let me finish helping her."
"There must be something we can do," Henry said.
She started to deny it, then realized it was an order—and she realized why. Simon was snarling, almost vibrating with rage. Maybe it was the scent of blood pushing the Wolf, maybe it was because he, too, valued friendship. One of his pack was hurt, and because Meg wasn't a Wolf, he didn't know what to do.
"Fetch a pillow and a couple of blankets," she said. "And not ones that stink of those other humans." She wasn't sure if Asia's scent would matter to Meg, but it mattered to her. "There's a wheelchair in the bodywalker's office. Fetch that too. And someone call Jester. He needs to be part of this discussion."
<Why?> Simon asked.
He couldn't vocalize as a human despite his head having shifted back to looking human? Not good.
"You can call Jester, or you can call the girl at the lake. One of them needs to hear this."
All the males flinched.
"I have to take care of Meg. I've left her long enough. We'll meet in the sorting room in ten minutes."
None of them liked it, but they all filed out of the room. Simon, of course, was the last one out. He looked at her hair.
"I'll take care of her, Simon Wolfgard," Tess said softly. "You don't know yet how much we owe her, but I do."
He left, closing the door behind him.
Blowing out a breath, Tess hurried back to the bathroom. Meg was still on the floor, but she turned her head and looked at Tess.
"Did you get an answer?" Meg asked.
"I got one." She filled the sink with warm water and found a couple more hand towels. "We're going to have to think about what you need in this bathroom if this is typical of what happens when you cut. No, stay down. I'm not sure how much blood you lost, and you've already upset the Wolves, the Grizzly, and the vampire. You can't afford to get dizzy and fall down."
After soaking one towel in warm water, she carefully washed the blood off Meg's leg, then bent closer to examine the cut. "Looks like it's starting to clot now. Do you usually cut this deep?"
"It has to be deep enough to scar," Meg replied. "Although cassandra sangue skin does tend to scar easily."
Did Simon realize that? Or hadn't it occurred to him that Meg could be injured while romping with Wolves, even if the Wolves didn't mean to hurt her?
After patting the leg dry, Tess applied the antiseptic ointment, used the butterfly bandages to close the wound, then covered everything with gauze and medical tape. She rolled the bloodiest towel in the other two and put them all in the wastebasket.
"I'll help you up so you can sit on the toilet," Tess said, doing exactly that. "What usually happens after a cut?"
"We're given a little food, then taken back to our cell to rest to make sure the cut closes properly." Meg hesitated. "Tess? Am I going to have to talk to Simon?"
"Yes, but not until you rest."
"Could you hand me my jeans? I should get dressed now."
Tess looked at the bandage she'd wrapped around Meg's leg and considered the jeans. She shook her head. "You need something looser, so we can keep checking the cut. Stay there." Not much time left before the rest of them returned.
Taking the last hand towel, she went to the cupboards and rummaged until she found a small, clean jar. Using the towel to avoid touching the box of sugar lumps, she dumped some of them into the jar. She left the box on the floor with the towel, sealed the jar, and put it in her coat pocket. Then she helped Meg into the loose fleece pants she found in the storage bins. They were too big for the girl, but they had the advantage of being easy to push up past the knee.
She tore off the pages that held the prophecy, folded them, and stuffed them into her back pocket. Leaving the tablet and pen on the little table, she walked into the sorting room. As she opened the outside doors, she realized they had one other problem: where to put Meg while they had this meeting. She didn't want to leave the girl in the back room with the box of sugar, and she didn't think Meg would want to be around Simon and the others who took an interest in her until they knew why she had made the cut. The front room was too exposed, but they could lock the door and refuse deliveries.
The abovestairs room that Darrell hadn't used was a possibility, but what else might be up there that the Others hadn't sensed?
A BOW pulled up to the sorting room's outside door. Blair and Simon got out. Neither looked friendly—or forgiving.
"Meg needs to rest," Tess began, "but we shouldn't use the back room yet."
For answer, Simon pulled a Wolf bed out of the BOW while Blair pulled out the wheelchair. Henry had pillows and blankets. Vlad had one of the food carriers she used for deliveries. Jester was there, looking concerned as he noted what the others were carrying. And Nathan, still in Wolf form, just looked at her and growled.
They all marched past her. Simon raised an arm to sweep all the stacks of mail off the table. Yipping, Jester hurriedly put the stacks on the counter so that Simon could put the Wolf bed on the table. Henry laid one blanket over it and set the other one aside with the pillows. Blair opened the wheelchair. Vlad set the food on the counter, avoiding the mail only because Jester reminded the vampire that Meg had sorted that mail, and ruining her work was an insult.
"Now," Simon growled. "Meg."
"She's in the bathroom," Tess said. "I'll bring her in."
"I'll get her," Vlad said.
"She's one of Namid's creations, both wondrous and terrible," Tess said. She nodded when they all froze. "No one should go sniffing around the towels I used for her. And no one should go sniffing around the box of sugar."
Simon turned on his heel and went into the back room.
"What's going on?" Jester asked.
"You need to handle the mail today," Tess said. "Tell the ponies there isn't a treat."
"It's Moonsday," Jester protested. "There's always sugar on Moonsday, and they all come up to see Meg. Even old Hurricane."
"Not today," Tess repeated.
Simon came back in, carrying Meg. Her cheeks were a blaze of color. His cheeks had fur forming and receding as he struggled to hold the shape he needed instead of the one he wanted. His fingers had Wolf claws instead of fingernails, but Tess noted how carefully he set Meg on the makeshift bed they had made for her.
"Would you like something to eat?" Tess asked.
"No," Meg replied. "I'd just like to rest."
Meg's voice sounded pale, and Tess struggled with her own urge to respond. The death color had faded from her hair, but that pale sound brought strands of black back into the red.
Simon adjusted a pillow under Meg's head and covered her with the other blanket. Then he leaned close. "Nathan is here to guard. Don't lock him out again."
A grumpy arrrooo from Nathan before the Wolf sat next to the table.
"Close those outer doors," Tess said. "We still have a few minutes before the ponies arrive, and Meg should stay warm." She flipped the lock on the Private door, then opened the go-through and kept going. She turned the sign on the front door to CLOSED and turned that lock.
They gathered in a corner of the room, far enough that Meg probably wouldn't hear them, especially with the Private door mostly closed to keep the room warm.
"Something in the back room disturbed Meg enough that cutting her skin for a prophecy was needed," Tess said. "She asked for my help." She pulled the papers out of her pocket and handed them to Simon. "These are the images she saw."
Henry and Blair leaned over his shoulders to read.
"Makes no sense," Blair muttered.
"Pieces of a puzzle," Henry replied. "We need to put the pieces together to find the answer."
"The answer is poison," Tess said quietly. "Skull and crossbones is a human symbol for poison. That is what Meg was trying to tell us. Someone poisoned the sugar in order to kill the ponies."
Jester whined. Vlad took the papers from Simon to read the words for himself.
"This skeleton in the hooded robe and the children," Vlad said. "That's not about us."
"Maybe this poison was used before or is about to be used elsewhere," Tess countered. "Maybe these images are the only way the prophet can help someone identify this particular kind of death."
"That means calling the police," Henry said.
Simon nodded. "Montgomery."
"Do we let him into the back room?" Vlad asked.
"No," Simon replied. "But we'll give him the box of sugar, let his people figure out the poison." Now he looked at Tess. "What can we do for Meg?"
"She says she was given food and rest when she was cut before," Tess said. "The back room and bathroom need to be cleaned and all the rags burned, along with anything that has Meg's blood on it. I'll do the cleaning. Merri Lee will help me."
"After the police are gone," Simon said. "After the poison is gone."
Jester looked at Simon. "After the ponies have the mail, I'll tell Winter. But I think she's going to want to talk to you."
Simon nodded. Then he looked around. "Where is Jake?"
"Probably informing the entire Crowgard that something happened to Meg," Blair said sourly.
"Vlad, get a shipping box and packing tape from Lorne," Simon said. "We'll put the box of sugar lumps in that. I'll call Montgomery and have him come here. And I'll take care of any deliveries that come until the office closes for the midday break."
Vlad opened the front door and flipped the sign back to OPEN as he walked out. Jester slipped back into the sorting room and returned with the stacks of mail, which he laid out on the front counter before going outside to wait for the ponies.
"Let the Crows spread the word that the Liaison will not be making any deliveries this afternoon," Henry said before he left.
Blair walked out without a word to anyone, leaving Tess and Simon.
"I'm not sure the euphoria is worth the pain that comes before it," Tess said softly. "She didn't make that cut for herself, Simon. She did it for us. Remember that before you snarl at her."
She walked out of the office, then hesitated before she headed for the sidewalk instead of staying within the Courtyard. She'd forgotten her coat, would have to fetch it later. As she walked the short distance to A Little Bite, her coiling hair turned red and black in equal measure, and she allowed the smallest glimpse of her true nature to show through the human skin.
And everyone who looked upon her died just a little.
Simon walked into the sorting room, looked at Nathan, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. <Out.>
Nathan showed his teeth. <I'm guarding.>
<I want to talk to her. Go in the other room. Come back when I'm done.>
The Wolf wasn't happy about it, but he went into the front room.
When he was alone with the troublesome female who kept him confused, Simon leaned close enough to feel her breath on his face, to breathe in her scent.
She smelled of pain and a strange kind of arousal that made him want to sniff between her legs. And she smelled of blood and the medicine Tess had put on the cut. He wanted to sniff that too, wanted to get rid of the human medicine and clean the wound as a Wolf would.
But Meg was human, so human medicine was best for her.
"I know you're not sleeping," he whispered. "You can't fool someone who has listened to you sleep."
"Are you saying I snore?" she asked, her eyes still closed.
"No." He considered. "I don't think so. But I know when you sleep."
She swallowed. Such a bitable throat, so soft yet firm.
No, he thought, pressing his forehead against her arm. Meg is not bitable. He raised his head and studied the gray eyes that now looked back at him. "I'm the leader. You should have called me. Even if you wanted Tess to be there instead of a Wolf, you should have told me first."
"I knew there was something wrong. Didn't want anything bad to happen while I was arguing with you."
It was a valid point. Not that he would tell her that.
He touched her hair. Still weird in color and funnier-looking with the black roots. When it grew out, he might actually miss the orange hair.
He wasn't going to tell her that either.
"I'll watch for deliveries," he said. "You rest. There is food. You want to eat?"
"Not yet." Her eyes closed, then fluttered open again. "Is Nathan angry with me?"
"Yes. If you lock him out again, he'll bite you."
The briefest smile. "Bet he won't if I tell him he can have all the cookies."
He watched her, listened to her, and knew she was truly asleep. He kissed her forehead and found the act pleasing for its own sake. And, he admitted as he licked his lips, it was enjoyable for other reasons. Meg wasn't bitable, but he really did like the taste of her.
He traded places with Nathan. While he watched Jester fill the mail baskets and explain to the ponies why there wasn't a treat, he dialed the number that would bring Crispin James Montgomery back to the Courtyard.
Monty realized Kowalski had been talking to him only when silence suddenly filled the patrol car.
"I'm sorry, Karl. I wasn't listening. Have some things on my mind."
"Like why we're being called this time?" Kowalski asked. "Kind of strange to be told something is urgent and then be given a specific time to show up."
"That's part of it." Another part was Captain Burke informing him that the mayor was grumbling about how many resources were being used on behalf of the Others when they didn't feel inclined to return any favors. Burke suspected His Honor was floating the idea of Humans First and Last as his potential campaign platform.
Let me worry about the mayor, Lieutenant. You just remember that all roads travel into the woods.
In other words, remaining on good terms with the terra indigene was more important than human politics.
They pulled into the delivery area for the Liaison's Office. Monty drew in a breath. Closed sign on the door, but he could see someone at the counter.
Someone who wasn't Meg Corbyn.
"Come in with me, Karl." Not his usual request, but this time he wanted backup with him instead of waiting in the car.
As they walked up to the door, Simon Wolfgard approached from the other side. He turned the lock and opened the door.
"Is Ms. Corbyn taking the day off?" Monty asked as they all walked up to the front counter.
"Midday break," Simon replied. "She'll be back for the afternoon deliveries." He didn't sound happy about that.
The door into the next room was wide-open. The room itself didn't interest Monty, but the wheelchair parked next to a big table did.
"Ms. Corbyn seems to be accident prone all of a sudden," he said softly. Would Meg be there for the afternoon deliveries, or would the Others have a different excuse for her absence?
Simon turned, looked at the wheelchair, and snarled. "She hurt her leg this morning. She says she doesn't need the wheelchair, but that's what is used when humans are injured. Isn't it?"
Monty wasn't sure if that was a question or a demand to confirm the answer the Wolf wanted. "Wheelchairs aren't used for minor injuries, unless a person can't walk for some reason."
"Well, we don't want her to walk on that leg today." Then Wolfgard seemed to pull back, as if the admission that the Others were actually trying to take care of a human revealed too much. "That's not why I called you. Meg... We suspect there is something wrong with the sugar lumps that were in the back room. The Liaison usually gives the ponies sugar on Moonsday as a treat, but she had a feeling something was wrong. Some of us believe the sugar was poisoned, but we don't have a way of testing it."
Monty put the pieces together and filled in the unspoken piece: Meg, the cassandra sangue, had cut herself and saw poison in the sugar. Simon wasn't going to acknowledge that his Liaison was a blood prophet, but that explained his over-the-top solution to dealing with what should be a minor injury.
"Where are the sugar lumps now?" he asked.
"In the back room. We packed the box in another box," Simon replied. "You can bring your car around to the back door so you don't have to carry it far."
What did she see besides poison that made you this wary? Monty wondered. He looked at Kowalski. "Bring the car around to the back door."
"Yes, sir."
He turned back to Simon. "Do you have any idea who might have done this?" He'd received one of the flyers banning a woman named Asia Crane from the whole Courtyard, including the stores. And he'd heard the whisper that an employee had been fired for breach of trust, whatever that meant.
Simon hesitated. "No. No one had a reason to hurt the ponies." He shifted from one foot to the other. "Lieutenant..." A deep breath before words tumbled out. "Skull and crossbones. A skeleton in a hooded robe. Screaming children with black snakes pushing out of their bellies."
"What?" Monty braced his hands on the counter. Was that a threat?
"We think that poison was used to kill some human children. Or it will be used."
"Here? In Lakeside?"
"Don't know where. Don't know when. Maybe it already happened. Maybe it's something that can be stopped." Simon took a step back from the counter. "I'll open the back door for your man."
Staggered, Monty stayed at the counter until Kowalski drove back to the delivery entrance. Simon Wolfgard didn't come back to the front room, so Monty left.
"Back to the station?" Kowalski asked.
"Yes. Where is the box?"
"In the trunk. Figured that was better than having it in a closed car with us."
Monty nodded. Keeping his face turned to the passenger's-side window, he said, "Karl? Do you remember hearing about children being poisoned by someone dressed up like a skeleton or a death's head in a hooded robe?"
Kowalski hit the brakes, then fishtailed the car before he regained control. "Sir?"
"We might have a line on another crime."
"Gods above and below," Kowalski muttered.
Neither of them spoke again until they reached the station. With Kowalski starting a search for a crime that matched those clues, Monty reported to Captain Burke.
Burke's eyes turned a fiercer blue while his face paled. "That's all he gave you?"
"I think he gave me all they had," Monty replied. "He didn't have to say anything."
"Most of them wouldn't have." Burke sighed. "All right. We have only one lab in Lakeside set up to handle and identify poisons. Have Kowalski drive over and deliver the box personally. I'll put in a call and see what I can do to bump our request to the top of the queue. You see what you can find out about children being poisoned. And as sad as it would be to find it, let's hope you do find a report. If it already happened, we know where and when, and maybe even what kind of poison."
"If it hasn't happened, how do we warn the rest of the cities in Thaisia?" Monty asked.
"I'll have to think about that. It may surprise you, Lieutenant, but not everyone likes me. And not everyone who does like me likes my stand with regard to the Others. We didn't empty the precinct's coffers to buy a prophecy, and anyone who has heard one will recognize that clues like that tend to come from a prophecy. If we admit it was a footnote in a prophecy done for the Lakeside Courtyard, we're telling a whole lot of people that the Others have a resident blood prophet."
"Putting a target on Meg Corbyn, with no certainty we're doing our own people any good."
Burke nodded. "I'll make some calls and spread the word as best I can—after you run the search to find out if this already happened and was, may the gods be merciful, a tragic reference rather than a future possibility."
"Yes, sir."
Monty sent Kowalski to the lab and took over the search. How old were the children? And where were the children?
Lizzy, he thought, looking at the picture of his daughter that sat on his desk. Be safe, Lizzy.
When it started snowing in Simon's office, he yanked off his sweater and shirt to cover the computer. Vlad knew more about the things than he did, but he did know that snow and anything that plugged into an electrical outlet weren't a good combination. Hearing footsteps in the hall, he leaped for the doorway before Winter and her fury actually entered the room.
His torso and arms furred as a defense against the cold that surrounded her. Her gown fluttered despite an absence of wind. As bits of it flaked off, it became snow that rapidly covered the floor around her.
"Who tried to poison our ponies?" Her voice added an icy glaze to the frosted glass on his door and rose to the volume of a storm. "Who dared raise a hand against our companions and steeds? Who?"
"I don't know," Simon replied quietly, looking into her eyes. "Meg saw enough to protect them and to warn us, but she didn't see who poisoned the sugar."
An awful silence. The Elementals were dangerous enough when they gave passive guidance to Namid's weather and seasons. When they were capricious and cruel, they could cleanse a piece of the world of everything but themselves.
"Should I ask Meg to try again?" Simon asked.
Winter touched the green scarf around her neck. "No," she said, her voice quieting. "No. Jester says our Meg bled to protect the ponies. He says there was pain."
"Yes."
"She has done enough." Winter started to turn away. Then she stopped and didn't quite look at him. "Her leg. It will be difficult to walk over snow-rough. It might cause pain."
"It might," he agreed, not sure where she was headed with this.
"I will ask my sister if she would wake for a few days and soften the air. It will be easier for our Meg to walk if the pavement is free of snow."
"She would appreciate that. And I appreciate that."
Winter walked away, the train of her fluttering gown trailing behind her.
Simon rushed back to the desk and removed his shirt and sweater. Overall, not too many flakes fell in the office or on the desk. Since the computer was still running and didn't explode when he touched a key, he figured it would be all right. Using the clothes, he had everything on the desk wiped down by the time Vlad came upstairs.
"She sounded angry," Vlad said. He disappeared for a moment, then returned with a couple of towels from their restroom and helped Simon wipe down the furniture.
"But still in control enough not to create a blizzard inside the store." He considered how she would have entered. "Did the books in the stockroom get snowed on?"
"No, just the floor. John is mopping that up now. I'll get a broom. We can sweep up the snow in the hallway and on the stairs." Vlad looked around, then extended a hand. "Give me the shirt and sweater. I'll use the dryer at the social center. It's closest, and your things will be dry by the time you need to take Meg back to the office for the afternoon deliveries." He paused, then asked, "What are you going to do with Sam?"
"Blair is taking him. Nathan and I are having a hard enough time leaving the bandage on Meg's leg alone. I don't think a puppy could stop himself from worrying at it, and he could hurt her. She'll stay with us this evening, and Sam can cuddle with her in human form."
When they had the snow swept up, Simon receded the fur, put on a spare flannel shirt he kept in a bottom desk drawer, and got back to work. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 23 | Pausing at an intersection, Meg rolled down the driver's-side window and breathed in air that held the warmth of spring. Oh, winter was still beneath that warmth, but the roads were clear of snow and ice, she was on her midday break, and she was alone for the first time since she made the cut two days ago.
Even friendship could feel smothering, especially when your friends were large and furry and liked a lot of physical contact. She came to realize that despite taking a human form, the Others' understanding of human anatomy was mostly limited to what parts of that anatomy they liked to eat. They had responded to the cut on her leg with the intensity usually reserved for an amputation.
Yesterday she had appealed to Merri Lee, Heather, Ruth, and Elizabeth Bennefeld to explain that a simple cut that was healing well didn't require a wheelchair, a driver, or a guard constantly watching her in case she keeled over. Simon didn't want to accept it, but they hadn't given him any wiggle room.
And that was why she was driving the BOW by herself on this fine Windsday afternoon, looking for a spot where she would stop and eat the box lunch Tess had made. Interior roads were clear for the first time since her arrival in the Courtyard, so she turned the BOW inward, following whatever road appealed to her.
Trees and open spaces. She saw a Hawk on a tree stump. She didn't look closely enough to determine what he was eating for lunch.
Stopping at one intersection, she watched all the ponies canter past her, clearly enjoying a chance to run. She turned in the direction they had come, only to discover they had turned and were now following her, slowing when she slowed, lengthening their strides when she sped up a little, staying with her as she turned onto one road after another. They left her when she turned toward the little houses that belonged to the girls at the lake. She pulled up next to one of the houses, then got out to walk along the wide path that circled the lake.
Winter was skating, a mature woman now with hair that streamed down to her waist and was as white as the snow that floated in the air around her. Seeing Meg, she waved and said, "Stay there." Her voice didn't carry, exactly. It seemed to rise from the banks of snow.
The Elemental flowed up effortlessly from the lake, leaving no footsteps in the snow. She smiled at Meg. "Where are your companions?"
"I'm enjoying a wander without them," Meg replied, returning the smile.
"Are you also enjoying the gift from me and my sister?" Winter asked.
It seemed an insult not to know what was meant by a gift. And, really, when Meg looked around, the meaning was clear enough. "Soft weather. Clear roads. The sun coming through a window to create a beam of warmth." She looked at Winter. "You did this for me?"
"You like to be out on the land, like to touch it. We wanted to make it easier for you to walk and enjoy without hurting your leg." Winter looked away. "The ponies are dear to us. What was intended for them is not something we will forget. But you saved them. That is also something we will not forget." She looked at Meg and smiled. "Spring would like to meet you. She is down by the creek."
"Then I'll walk down and say hello."
Meg continued around the lake to the road that ran between the lake and the creek. A girl stood on the rocks that formed a natural retaining wall, watching two ducks paddle around in open water no larger than the circle Meg could make with her arms. There were other dark patches at the edge where land and water met—a sign of melting ice.
The girl turned. Seeing Meg, she ran up a path between snowbanks. Her hair was a mix of browns, and her dress...
Meg wasn't sure if her dress was made to resemble flowers or if it was made of the flowers that would be the first to bloom when the snow melted. She could match tulips, hyacinths, and crocuses with their images, but there were others, blue and delicate, that looked as if they would never bloom in any place that wasn't wild.
The girl took Meg's hand in her own, and her joyous laugh made a few of those delicate wildflowers bloom at her feet.
"You are our Meg," she said. "I am Spring. I usually wake for a few days while Winter still reigns, although not quite this early. But we wanted to give you something as thanks for saving the ponies, and it's not appropriate for Summer or Autumn to rise yet, so I'm here." Her laughter sparkled in the air.
"I'm glad I was able to help." And I've wondered whether someone tried to poison them because I was here. "You're visiting for a few days?"
Spring nodded. "In another day or two, I'll sleep again. Not so deep as before, but I'll sleep most of the time for a few more weeks. Winter has kept a list of the new books that have come to our library since I danced in the Courtyard, and she says if I make a list of the ones I want to read, you'll deliver them. This is true?"
How could she resist the girl and that smile? "Yes, it's true."
More laughter. More flowers blooming around them.
Then Spring turned serious. "The warmth awakens, but it also weakens. Beware, our Meg." She pointed to the creek. "Do you see? The ice has yielded in some places. In other places, it is solid but weak. Not a place to walk or skate now. It will harden again in a few days, although maybe not all the way."
"Why will it harden?" Meg asked.
"A storm is coming from our brothers and sisters in the north. By Watersday, it will cross Lake Etu. I will return to my bed, and Winter, Air, and Water will rule for a while longer." Spring smiled at her. "I'm glad to have met you. I look forward to seeing you again."
I hope I do see you again. "I'd better get going. If I'm late getting back, Mr. Wolfgard will send the whole pack out looking for me."
She had meant it as a joke, but Spring's reply was serious.
"Of course he would," Spring said. "Namid has given you to us, and we value the world's gifts." Giving Meg one more smile, she ran and hopped and skipped down the road.
Meg returned to her BOW and drove back to the office. She ate her lunch in the spotlessly clean back room while reading a chapter of the latest book she'd borrowed from the library.
If I'm late getting back, Mr. Wolfgard will send the whole pack out looking for me.
Namid has given you to us, and we value the world's gifts.
And for the rest of the afternoon, she ignored the words that had produced a light prickling under her skin.
Asia sat in the Stag and Hare, watching the traffic and the Courtyard's delivery entrance while she waited for the special messenger. She had gone to an upscale salon yesterday and changed her natural blond to a rich cinnamon. A change in foundation garments softened her breasts instead of emphasizing them, and a couple of new, looser sweaters completed her superficial transformation. It wasn't a bad look for her, and she decided to think of this as a test run for a disguise that Asia Crane, SI, might use for an undercover assignment.
The messenger arrived, looked around, then beamed a smile in her direction. When he reached the table, he bent toward her, as if about to give her a kiss. Then he hesitated and touched her hand instead.
He's something of an actor too, Asia thought. He'd given the hostess the perfect impression of a man who wasn't yet a lover but wanted to be.
"Anything interesting?" he asked as he draped his short winter coat over the back of the chair.
"Nothing." She tried to keep the frustration out of her voice. There should have been an uproar in the Courtyard on Moonsday after the ponies ate the sugar, but there had been nothing then and nothing since.
"Nothing easily seen." He opened his menu, skimmed the insert for the day's specials, and placed his order as soon as the waiter arrived.
Asia ordered the soup and sandwich special and worked on being polite. She had altered her voice from syrupy to friendly but crisp. That, along with the difference in hair and cleavage, was a sufficient change to make the staff just uncertain enough about having seen her before.
When they were alone again, the messenger leaned forward, looking as if he were doing nothing more than flirting with a pretty woman.
"Someone became uneasy about the sugar and didn't give it to the ponies," he said. "The police have it now and will test it for poison."
"That's not good," Asia muttered.
"It's not significant. Our benefactor made a call and took care of it. The bottom line is humans before Others, so the tests on the sugar have been bumped way down in the lab's queue. We'll be gone before anyone gets around to fulfilling that particular request."
"So it didn't do anything for us."
"Oh, but it did. It confirmed that our benefactor's property is hiding in the Courtyard and using up a valuable asset to help the beasts. Knowing that, we take our preparations to the next stage."
The waiter brought their meals and topped off their water glasses. The first glass and top off was part of the meal in restaurants like this one. After that, with the water tax being what it was, a glass of water cost as much as a glass of wine.
"The story I've spun for the locals is that two dozen men, friends of mine from our university days, have come to Lakeside for a winter vacation—snowmobiling, cross-country skiing, and so forth. There are good trails in the park, and there is an inn nearby that caters to visitors who enjoy winter sports. It even has a parking area just for snowmobiles. This thaw has soured things somewhat for winter sports, but we're exploring the area and enjoying a chance to catch up with old friends. We aren't complaining to the proprietors about the unseasonably mild weather, and that makes us good customers." After giving her another smile, he took a big bite out of his sandwich.
"Two dozen men amount to a lot of expense to retrieve one item." Asia swallowed a spoonful of soup. She hadn't believed the benefactor would send that many men for this job. Her backers would want a large chunk of the finder's fee that she'd been promised, but even so, her cut would be substantial. And that was just from helping the benefactor reacquire Meg. The real money would come from the acquisition of the Wolf pup.
"According to the weather reports, there's a storm coming in on Watersday." The messenger wiped his mouth with a napkin. "We'll use it to cover our tracks and reacquire the property."
"Wouldn't it be better to get in and out before the storm hits?" Asia asked. "No," she continued, answering her own question. "Those damn Crows are always watching."
He nodded. "My men scouted the neighborhood, including the area of the park nearest the Courtyard. Some of the Crows spotted the snowmobiles and followed two of them halfway across the park. The birds need to be grounded by a storm so we can work without being spied on."
"You're taking a chance if the city closes some of the roads."
"The storm is coming down from the north, and we'll be headed out on the roads running east or south. We'll stay ahead of it, and even if we have to hole up for a few hours, we'll get far enough away that anyone trying to follow us will lose our trail. In the meantime, we're going to cause some mischief."
"Like what?" Having more appetite now than she'd had at the start of the meal, Asia tasted her sandwich.
"A few college boys with good throwing arms, a van with a side door, and a few dozen eggs to make a mess. Firecrackers thrown over the fence by a team on a snowmobile. Setting rags and paper on fire at one of the Courtyard entrances. We'll be pulling the same pranks on neighborhood streets in the area." He gave Asia a big smile. "Besides keeping the police busy, we'll have a chance to observe how the Others respond—how many head for the problem, how many head for whatever places they think need defending, and what areas are left vulnerable that we can exploit."
"The business area of the Courtyard is usually deserted once their stores close," Asia said.
He nodded. "And the door in the parking lot's back wall is wood with a simple lock. Their security is pitiful. Makes you wonder how they've managed to stay in control of this continent."
"When does this mischief begin?" Asia asked. Then she almost dove to the floor in response to a rapid series of loud bangs.
The messenger grinned. "Right about now."
"Is this typical spring fever?" Monty asked as Kowalski drove them to the next case of reported mischief. They'd already had three calls from the Courtyard. Simon Wolfgard had been annoyed about the first set of firecrackers that had been tossed in the Liaison's Office delivery area and the Courtyard's customer parking lot. And he hadn't been amused by the eggs that had been thrown at the windows of Howling Good Reads and A Little Bite. But he'd been seriously pissed off about the second set of firecrackers tossed in the delivery area, because the dumb-ass teenagers had lingered on the sidewalk, taunting Nathan, who slammed out of the office in challenge. Then Meg ran after Nathan. She tripped and might have hurt herself if she hadn't landed right on the Wolf, effectively stopping him from getting too close to the firecrackers.
Louis Gresh had answered that call, and Monty was waiting to hear from the bomb squad's commander whether there was anything hidden among the firecrackers that could have injured woman or Wolf.
"Typical?" Kowalski shook his head. "Most kids aren't going to risk getting smacked for using the week's ration of eggs, so this egging windows is new."
"They could be buying the eggs on their own," Monty said.
"Eggs cost twice as much without the household ration coupon," Kowalski countered. "High school and college boys coming in to buy eggs and paying that price are going to get noticed. And if they buy from a store in their own neighborhood, we'll hear about it or their parents will."
Monty pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't like this, Karl. It feels like we're being set up."
"By whom?"
He lowered his hand and sighed. "I don't know."
They pulled up to the curb and got out. Looking at the egg-splattered front window, they didn't need to ask the irate owner what the problem was.
"Storm is coming in on Watersday," Kowalski said. "That should put an end to this."
Monty took out his notebook and pen. "I hope you're right, Karl. I truly do hope you're right." |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 24 | With exaggerated care, Captain Burke set the phone's receiver in its cradle. Then he looked at Monty and said, "We're being stonewalled, Lieutenant. The lab just informed me that they have to deal with evidence that pertains to actual crimes first. Our request is for a crime that was almost committed. My guess is we'll see summer before we see a report."
"Humans First and Last," Monty said, thinking about the mayor's potential reelection platform.
Burke nodded. "That's how I'm reading it. Now. What are you going to tell Simon Wolfgard?" He gave Monty his fierce smile. "There's not much that goes on in this station that I don't know about, so I know Wolfgard has called once already this morning looking for an answer."
"I'll tell him the truth. The lab will do the tests as soon as they can."
"You think he'll believe that?"
Monty didn't bother to respond.
"Wolfgard will know the lab is trying to screw him without buying him dinner first," Burke said quietly. "Let's hope he continues to believe in your sincerity."
When Vlad, Henry, and Tess came into HGR's office, Simon didn't waste time. "The monkeys aren't going to help us. Montgomery gave me excuses, but the end result is we aren't going to know if the sugar was poisoned."
"The lieutenant had seemed honest in his dealings with us," Henry said, sounding disappointed.
Relenting a little, Simon pushed back his own anger. "He sounded frustrated, even a little angry. The police lab doesn't want to help us, and they aren't interested in helping him either."
Vlad shrugged. "A strike against the monkeys, and something that won't be forgotten."
"No, it won't be forgotten." Especially after Elliot's report earlier this morning about the mayor's efforts to court supporters of a humans-only policy for Lakeside.
Fools had tried that before in other parts of Thaisia. The wild country was still reclaiming the last town that had such leaders, so it wasn't all that many years ago.
Tess stirred. Or, more to the point, Tess's hair stirred, curling as it changed from brown to red.
"There is another way to find out if the sugar was poisoned," she said.
"How?" Simon asked. As he studied her, he realized that Tess wouldn't look any of them in the eyes when she was angry.
"Get Darrell Adams's home address for me. Elliot should have it in the consulate's employee files."
Tess waited until evening before she walked to a bus stop a couple of blocks away from the Courtyard. As part of the agreement with Lakeside, the terra indigene could ride any public transportation in the city for free. But using that bus pass would bring attention she didn't want, so she paid the fare, putting in her coins like the humans before taking a seat a few rows from the front. She kept her hair bundled under the wool cap, but she loosened the scarf she'd wrapped around her neck and mouth.
She transferred to another bus, finally getting off at a stop a few blocks from the apartment complex where Darrell Adams lived. She walked briskly, fighting her own nature with each step. She wanted to shift closer to her natural form, but it was important to remain recognizably human. No one who looked upon her true form could survive. Since she was here to test someone else's weapon and send a warning to the police, an apartment building full of corpses would be overkill.
When she reached Darrell's apartment, she heard the television through the closed door. Were the neighbors annoyed by the volume? She cocked her head as music suddenly drifted out from another apartment. Or did they all turn up the sound to hear their own choice and drown out the competition?
She knocked on Darrell's door, then knocked again loudly enough that the door across the hall opened and an old woman peered out. Tess ignored the woman and knocked again.
Darrell finally answered, the television program now blaring into the hallway almost muting the sound of the door across the hall being vigorously shut.
"What do you want?" Darrell asked when he recognized her.
Tess let the tiniest bit of her true form show in her eyes as she looked right at him. "We have something to discuss."
He staggered back from the door, and she followed him inside, catching him by the arm and leading him to the recliner that was clearly his preferred place to sit.
Only a momentary heart flutter, only a temporary weakening of the limbs from that brief glimpse of her. He needed to be in good health for the test.
She pulled off the wool cap. Her hair—black with threads of red—tumbled around her shoulders, coiling and moving. She removed the small jar from a zippered inner pocket of her coat, unscrewed the top, and held the jar out to Darrell.
"Take two," she said. "Eat them."
"Why?"
"You can choose between the sugar or this." Looking into his eyes again, she let the human mask fade from her face a little more.
Darrell wet himself.
She shook the jar. "Two."
He took two sugar lumps, popped them in his mouth, chewed a couple of times, and then swallowed. She brought her face back to the image her customers and the terra indigene were used to seeing, but her hair remained the death color with those few threads of red.
As she watched him, she tapped two sugar lumps onto the floor near Darrell's chair. She didn't have to wait long. Twice she turned up the volume on the television to drown out his screams, and twice those screams eclipsed the sound.
Someone began pounding on the door, shouting, "What's going on in there? We've called the police!"
Busybody, Tess thought, annoyed. And because she was annoyed, she stuffed her wool cap in her coat pocket and walked out of the apartment, leaving the door open. She kept her eyes averted, but her true form was close to the surface and her coiling hair drew the eyes of those she passed. She savored the little bit of death that touched every person who looked at her.
She walked and walked, her hair still black but starting to relax. She still kept her eyes averted, although it was doubtful any of the people in the cars even glanced her way, and there were very few people on foot.
A man lounging in a doorway spotted her and stepped in her path. She didn't know if he intended to rob her or rape her. She didn't care. With him, she could slake her hunger.
She looked him in the eyes and held his gaze while he collapsed. She stepped around him and kept going. Eventually, when the cold had more bite than her anger, she tucked her hair under the wool cap, walked to the nearest bus stop, and took the next bus home.
On Firesday afternoon, Monty was at his desk, enjoying a cup of hot tea while he chipped away at reports. By yesterday evening, the egging had stopped—mostly because the grocery stores were out of eggs and the little neighborhood markets were keeping the eggs in the stockroom and only bringing them out for known adult customers. The firecrackers were still going off here and there, and someone had set fire to a section of junipers that the Others had planted as a privacy screen between the Courtyard and Parkside Avenue. A handful of men riding snowmobiles in Lakeside Park claimed they saw two people drive off in a pickup truck just before one of the riders spotted flames.
Fire engulfed the bushes, mostly because none of the snowmobilers had remembered to bring a mobile phone with them, and no one in the passing cars had thought to report seeing flames. By the time the fire department arrived, there was nothing for them to do because something had ripped up the bushes and dumped them, a section of the Courtyard's wrought-iron fence, and more than two feet of snow across the northbound lanes of Parkside Avenue, bringing traffic to a skidding halt.
The damage was consistent with a tornado, although every meteorologist Monty called that morning swore there had been no indication of a weather pattern like that, and even if they had seen something, a selective strike was simply not natural.
He thought using a tornado to put out a fire was over the top, but it was a grim reminder that the humans didn't know half of what lived in the Courtyard and watched them.
The break in the fence bothered him because it was another point of entry, along with the hole caused by a pickup jumping the curb late last night and punching a hole in the fence that ran along Main Street. Two different pickups and two random acts? Or the same people?
Monty shivered. There had been too many random acts lately. And that made him wonder whether someone was trying to cause trouble.
I guess I'm not the only one thinking along those lines, he thought when Captain Burke, dressed for the outdoors, approached his desk. Burke stopped, not looking at Monty while he pulled on his gloves.
"Get your coat, Lieutenant," Burke said so quietly that Monty was sure no one else could hear. "We're going for a walk. I'll meet you outside."
Even more uneasy now, Monty complied and met Burke outside the station.
"Let's walk a bit," Burke said, heading up the block.
"Anywhere particular?" Monty asked.
"Just away. Do you have your mobile phone?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Now turn it off."
Oh, gods.
They walked two blocks, then three blocks before Burke spoke again.
"I got a call from Captain Zajac a few minutes ago. You remember Darrell Adams?"
Monty nodded. "He worked for the consulate and was fired a few days ago."
"He died last night. It appears he ate some poisoned sugar, since two sugar lumps were found near the chair where he collapsed."
They walked another block before Monty was able to speak. "We didn't help them, so the Others did their own test on the person they believed responsible?"
"I don't think Mr. Adams would have gotten out of the Courtyard alive if the Others had believed he was the one who attempted to poison some of them. But he wasn't chosen at random either."
"Will the lab put a rush on the results for this death?" Monty asked.
"Now, now, Lieutenant. Don't sound bitter," Burke said lightly. "They have good reason to put a rush on it. The officers who responded walked in thinking they were confirming a suspicious death. After what else was found, Zajac is scared down to his toes, because he doesn't know how many more deaths may follow."
Monty frowned. "I don't understand."
"We're assuming Adams ate some of the sugar. He's dead. But there's one of the neighbors who says he pounded on the door, and when he looked at the woman who walked out of Adams's apartment, his left arm and shoulder went numb. He was taken to the hospital. No injury, no wound, but the muscles in the arm and shoulder are dead. Another neighbor, an old lady who claimed to see the woman arrive and peered out her door in time to see the woman leave, has a dead eye. No sign of injury, no explanation. Shortly after that, people began showing up at hospital emergency rooms, claiming shortness of breath or dizzy spells or chest pains or a sudden weakness in their limbs. By this morning, most of them have recovered without any explanation for what caused the physical symptoms. The only thing they have in common is they were near Adams's apartment last night, all around the same time."
"How are the officers who responded?" Despite the cold, Monty realized he was sweating.
"They're fine." Burke paused while they waited for a traffic light to change. Once they crossed the street, he continued. "So are the man and boy who came in just as the woman was leaving. The man says he caught a glimpse of her and immediately turned his back, putting himself between her and his son. He also held a hand over the boy's eyes. He told the officers, 'We didn't look at her. I remembered the myths, and we didn't look.' The man wouldn't tell the officers anything more, and Zajac is understandably reluctant to do more probing."
"Wouldn't he want to know?" Myths? Would the university have someone on the faculty who could find the source of the myth?
"No, he doesn't want to know. And neither do we." Burke's stare warned Monty that he meant it.
"You know how some people say 'If looks could kill'?" Burke asked after a moment. "Well, it seems there is something among the terra indigene that has the ability to do exactly that." |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 25 | "... travel advisory in effect until six a.m. tomorrow. WZAS is recommending no unnecessary travel. Figured we'd say it before you hear an official announcement from city hall. So get your milk and toilet paper and head on home, folks. We've got several inches of snow already clogging up the streets, and there's more coming. Current projections say the entire city of Lakeside could get up to two feet before this lake-effect storm blows itself out, and we're not even going to think about measuring the drifts. Wind chill could dip to minus twenty by this evening. We'll have a full list of closings on the half hour and hour. This is Ann Hergott bringing you the news and weather reports, whether you like it or not. And now, from last year's blockbuster movie, let's listen to the hit single 'If Summer Never Comes.'"
Monty turned off the radio and pulled on his coat and boots. He wasn't on duty today, but everyone was on call. He'd seen a few bad storms during the years he'd lived in Toland. There had even been a few times when the Big City had closed down for a day. But listening to Kowalski, Debany, and MacDonald yesterday—men who had lived in Lakeside all their lives—he realized he hadn't seen the kind of storm they considered bad. And they were all gearing up for bad.
Checking to be sure he had his keys, he went outside.
Black clouds were piled up like huge boulders waiting to fall on the world. As he stood there, his skin stinging from the cold, the snow came down faster and harder. A plow had gone by earlier, but the street was filled in again. And that made him wonder if anything was going to be able to get in or out of his street in another hour or two.
Returning to his apartment, he called Kowalski.
"What's your opinion of this storm?" he asked when Karl answered.
"It's coming in faster than expected," Karl replied. "I just heard on the radio that everything downtown is closing, and all social events for tonight have been canceled. Traffic is already starting to snarl because of the amount of snow on the roads, and it will get worse."
"The plows?"
"Will do what they can to keep the main drags open, but there's only so much they can do until this storm blows over."
Monty thought for a moment. "In that case, I'm going to pack an overnight bag and catch a cab down to the station while I can still get there. What about you?"
"You'll have a better chance of getting a cab if you tell the driver you'll meet him at the corner, since you live off one of the main streets. I don't think a cabby will try to drive down any residential street at this point. Too much chance of getting stuck. Me and a few other guys helped dig out a couple neighbors who had to report to work. Medical personnel, emergency aid, and firefighters are being called in." A hesitation. "Actually, I thought you were calling to tell me to come in."
Why would that be a problem? Monty wondered, hearing something under the words. More than the weather. He was getting the impression that Kowalski would resist leaving home for as long as possible.
"I tried calling the inns and hotels closest to Lakeside Park, but I guess some of the phone lines have already gone down, because I didn't get an answer."
Monty gentled his voice in response to the worry in Karl's. "That's a concern, but is it an immediate problem?"
"A group of men are in town for some kind of reunion. They have snowmobiles. I figured it wouldn't hurt to locate them and see if they might do some volunteer work."
"What aren't you saying, Karl?"
"We didn't think the storm was going to hit quite this fast, so Ruthie went to Run and Thump to work out and then was going to stop at the Market Square grocery store to pick up a few things." Kowalski hesitated. "Nobody is answering at Howling Good Reads or A Little Bite, and I haven't gotten through to Ruthie's mobile. We're only a few blocks from the Courtyard, but I'm not sure Ruthie can get home at this point."
Monty watched a car slowly making its way down the street. "Karl? I have to go. Keep looking for those snowmobiles. I'll have my mobile phone with me, so let me know when you've made contact with Ruth."
"Will do." Kowalski hung up.
Monty quickly packed a bag, called for a cab to meet him at the end of his street, and headed out into the storm.
Asia rammed her rental car into the snow clogging the Courtyard parking lot, determined to create a path for her escape once she acquired the Wolf pup. She would have preferred parking across the street, but all the spaces near the Stag and Hare were filled, and when she passed the city lot that was available to the customers of all the businesses within that block, it was obvious that only the last car that managed to jam itself in was going to get out, and even that was doubtful.
She gunned the engine until the tires spun, then took her foot off the gas and put the car in reverse to back up enough to take another run at getting into the lot. Ignoring the blare of a horn from the car that just missed her rear bumper when she reversed, she put the gearshift in drive and gunned the engine again. The car slewed and ended up stuck, completely blocking the other cars in the lot.
Swearing vigorously, Asia slammed out of the car. Piece of shit. She had told the rental company she needed a car that could handle snow, and they had assured her this one could under most conditions.
Most conditions, my ass, she thought as she reached in for the pack of supplies on the backseat. After pulling out the hammer axe, she slipped the pack's straps over her shoulders, then made her way to the back wall of the parking lot.
She tried the wooden door in the wall first, hoping the Others hadn't bothered to lock it. No such luck. But there was mounded snow that rose to the top of the wall. That would be easy to climb.
Using the hammer axe, she hauled herself up the mound, then got a leg over the wall and lowered herself to the snow piled on the other side. This side of the parking lot hadn't been cleared all day, and the cars in it weren't going anywhere for a while. She was going to leave a trail, but she couldn't worry about that.
She studied the padlock that secured the wooden door that provided access between the two lots, and swore. Had to find the key for the padlock. She wasn't getting out the way she got in, not with that pup in tow.
She slipped one arm out of the pack as she considered the one-story brick building that formed the parking lot's right-hand boundary. A garage door and a regular door. She tried the regular door first. When it opened, she slipped into a garage full of snow-removal equipment and gardening tools. Basically, a groundskeeper's shed.
Closing the door most of the way in case any of the Others were out in this weather, Asia pulled a small flashlight out of her coat pocket and swung the light along the wall next to the door. She grinned fiercely when she spotted the key rack. The last key in the row was on a loop of string and had the word PADLOCK written above it.
Taking the key, she hurried out and opened the padlock, then tossed it over the wall to ensure a quick exit. She put the key back in its spot, then checked the other keys. One was labeled BOW.
Yes! she thought as she pocketed the key. Darrell had said one key fit all the BOWs, so all she had to do was find one of those little vehicles.
The opposite wall of the maintenance garage had a reverse setup of doors. She made her way to the other regular door, then turned off the flashlight and opened the door just enough to peer out and confirm that these were the garages she'd seen when she'd spent the night with Darrell.
The messenger had moved up the timetable when it became clear the storm was worse than anticipated and had hit the city faster than originally reported. The only problem with the new timetable was that Meg hadn't closed the office yet. When the messenger and his men created the distractions that would pull Simon Wolfgard and the rest of the Others to various parts of the Courtyard, Meg had to be tucked into her apartment at the Green Complex, all safe and snug and easy to grab.
Pushing up the sleeves of her parka and sweater the necessary inch, Asia checked the luminous dial of her watch. Only three thirty in the afternoon, but it was already dark because of the storm. That would work to their advantage.
She jerked back, shutting the door almost all the way as the back door of Howling Good Reads opened and she heard Simon say, "Tell her to wait. I'll be back in a minute."
She watched him stride toward the Liaison's Office, and she saw him stop as something caught his attention. He remained still for a moment, then continued to the office's back door.
Checking her watch again, Asia settled down to wait.
As soon as Simon walked into the office's back room, he could feel Nathan's restless energy and hear Meg's voice. She was talking to someone, but he didn't think it was the Wolf.
<Nathan?> he called.
<I want to go home,> Nathan said, sounding edgy. <We should go home.>
<You might not get as far as the Wolfgard Complex, but we are leaving this part of the Courtyard.>
<Good. We need to den.>
They certainly did need to get home and settle in. He had closed HGR half an hour ago, and Tess had done the same at A Little Bite, but he was still chewing over what to do with their human employees, especially the ones Meg considered friends. He couldn't just chuck them out the door to find their way home. Not when he could look out HGR's windows and see the traffic gridlock that had already formed and was going to get worse.
A couple months ago, he would have closed the store and not given Merri Lee and Heather another thought. They were humans who were not edible because they were useful, and that's all they were to the terra indigene. But somehow they had become Meg's human pack, so now they were borderline members of the Courtyard and, therefore, under his protection.
He didn't like thinking of humans like that. He didn't like it at all.
Well, he would deal with Merri Lee and Heather. But first he had to deal with Meg. And that meant dealing with Nathan.
<What's wrong with you?> he asked as he walked through the sorting room. Meg was at the front counter with her back to him. Nathan had his forelegs on the counter and looked grumpy, which wasn't a good way for a guard to look when there wasn't anything nearby he could catch and eat.
<Her!> Nathan replied. <She is restless and keeps rubbing her skin like she has fleas. I tried to sniff her for blood, and she smacked me.> Growling softly, he looked at Meg and lifted a paw.
"That's not a problem," Meg said to someone on the phone, absently pushing Nathan away when he tried to slap the phone to disconnect the call. "Delivery on Moonsday will be fine. You be careful driving out there. Thanks. You too." She hung up and shook a finger at the watch Wolf . Then she noticed Simon and blushed.
<Do you see?> Nathan demanded. <Make her go home.>
Meg was restless and rubbing her skin? Was she feeling the prickling that indicated a potential vision, or was the storm making her uneasy, like the rest of them? He didn't care why she was restless. He was getting her away from this part of the Courtyard.
"You're closing up now," Simon said, blocking the Private doorway and not giving her room to maneuver.
"I'm trying to do exactly that. It would be easier if I didn't have as much help," Meg replied, sounding like she was ready to bite someone.
Nathan whined and gave Simon a pleading look.
It was embarrassing to hear one of the Courtyard's best enforcers whine like a puppy.
"I checked with all the delivery services who usually come by on Watersday afternoon," Meg said. "Most of them didn't have any deliveries for the Courtyard today, and the ones that did, I told them delivery on Moonsday is fine. Besides, Harry from Everywhere Delivery called a couple of minutes ago to tell me a driving ban has just been issued for the entire city. No unnecessary travel. So I'm almost ready to go."
"But...?" He could read her well enough now to know there was something more.
She took a deep breath and blew it out. "Two things. The BOW's charge was low when I got back from lunch. I'm not sure it has enough charge for the drive home, and I'm not sure I can drive in snow this deep."
"You're not driving. Jester should be here with a pony in a few minutes."
Meg brightened. "We're riding in the sleigh?"
He shook his head. "Only the Elementals drive the sleigh. Jester is bringing the sled. It's big enough to fit you and Nathan. I'll take the BOW back to the Green Complex. If it doesn't make it, I'll shift and go the rest of the way home in Wolf form." No protest from her. Probably because she wanted to ride in the sled. "What's the other thing?"
Now she looked uneasy, as if she were about to stomp on his tail. "Merri Lee takes a bus to work." She turned enough to look at the snow falling and falling and falling.
Simon relaxed, pleased that he'd anticipated this. "She's not going home. Neither is Heather. They can pick up some food at Meat-n-Greens or the grocery store, and they'll stay in the efficiency apartments tonight. I'm going to talk to Lorne and see if he wants to stay. Marie Hawkgard is staying to keep watch, and Julia will also be in the efficiencies."
She opened her mouth, and he expected her to say she would stay with her friends in the too-exposed part of the Courtyard. But as she looked at him, all the color bled out of her face.
"I need to get home," she said quietly. "Tonight I need to get home."
"That's why Jester is coming with the pony sled." Simon studied her face. Why did she look so pale, so scared? "Meg?"
She shook her head. "I need to go to the toilet."
Worried about what she might do in that room, he snarled, "Meg?"
"I can't just lift a leg like you do, so I have to pee before going out in the cold," she snapped at him.
He took a step back, letting her pass. But he also gave her a quick sniff. Nathan was right; there wasn't any fresh blood scent on her.
He opened the go-through for Nathan. "Wait for her by the back door. I'll lock up."
He fetched the keys from the drawer in the sorting room and used the go-through. Nathan had told him that Meg usually wiped the floor after the last delivery because it got slippery from the snow brought in on the deliverymen's boots. She hadn't done that, which made vaulting over the counter a good way to slip and break a leg or, at best, take a bad fall.
As he flipped the sign to CLOSED, a hooded figure in a green and white parka hurried up to the door. He considered ignoring the human and locking up, but he'd seen that same parka walking out of the Courtyard a few minutes ago.
Pulling the door open, he growled, "What?" before he recognized the Ruthie, who looked like she was trying not to cry.
"Mr. Wolfgard," she said, sounding breathless. "I'm glad I caught you before everything closed up. My car is in your parking lot."
"That's sensible." It would be out of the way, and the adolescent Wolves could have fun digging it out tomorrow.
"But there is a car stuck in the parking lot's entrance. The driver isn't in the vehicle, and I can't get around it."
He followed the trail of her words and realized he had come to a different conclusion than she had. "You're staying. Go around to the back door of Howling Good Reads. I'll meet you in a couple of minutes."
"But..."
"Go to the back door," he snapped. "It's time to find shelter, not go running in the snow."
After a hesitation, she nodded. "Thank you."
He watched until he was sure she was headed toward the back of the building instead of being foolish and plunging into the storm. Like Meg had done the first night she came to the Courtyard. What was wrong with human females that they didn't have sense to find shelter?
Of course, if Meg had taken shelter somewhere else instead of stumbling along until she came to the Courtyard, she might not have found them, and he might never have known her. So maybe Namid was wise to make human females do foolish things.
<We are gone,> Nathan said. <Jester is taking Meg to her den. I will wait for you there.>
That much settled, Simon finished locking up the office. He poked his head into the Three Ps long enough to tell Lorne to close up and come to HGR. Then he trotted to the bookstore's back door. Nudging the Ruthie inside, he found the stockroom full of confused, anxious people. And there was Tess, who looked amused.
"Cars are stuck in the parking lot, so you two aren't getting out," he said, pointing at Ruthie and Heather. Then he pointed at Merri Lee. "And taking a bus tonight is foolish. So you're staying. We'll open the efficiency apartments and bring food for you. You'll have shelter. Marie and Julia Hawkgard will also stay here tonight."
"I have a box of chocolates and a couple of movies," the Ruthie said. "I figured this would be a good movie night."
"What about other people who might be stranded?" Merri Lee asked.
He shook his head. "Someone is trying to hurt the terra indigene. Let strangers find shelter elsewhere. They won't be safe here."
While Tess went up to Simon's office to fetch the keys for the efficiency apartments, John drew Simon aside.
"I can stay too," he said. "Having the Hawks stay is good, but having a Wolf guarding the door will be better."
"All right. Take the delivery sled and go to Meat-n-Greens. Get enough food for everyone for tonight." When the back door opened, Simon added, "And take Lorne with you."
That much settled, he bounded up the stairs and reached his office doorway at the same moment Tess was leaving.
"I'll be heading out in a BOW in a few minutes," he said. "Do you want a ride?"
Her brown hair kept twisting into corkscrew curls then relaxing, a sign of indecision. Finally, she shook her head. "I'm going to keep an eye on this part of the Courtyard."
"I don't want us scattered." He didn't think she would willingly share a room with anyone overnight, and even though they were in sight, the rooms above the Liaison's Office felt too far from company or help. He didn't want any of his people isolated.
"I'll be fine," she replied. "I have a change of clothes at the shop. I had planned to take a couple of books from our library and indulge in a snow day reading feast, but I'll just pull a couple of books from HGR's shelves instead. I might even bake a batch of cookies and join the girls for a movie."
It all sounded normal and reasonable, which was why he didn't believe her. This was Tess, and she was rarely interested in things that were normal and reasonable.
"All right," Simon said. "I can—"
"Stop sounding like a pack nurse trying to keep the pups in one place. Go home and work on keeping your own brainless pup from romping outside in a blizzard."
If she was going to put it that way...
"I'll walk the humans over to the apartments," he said, his hackles raised a little about being called the pack nurse. He held out his hand. She dropped the key ring into it.
When he got back downstairs, Heather and the Ruthie were returning from the front of the store.
"I finally got ahold of Karl," the Ruthie said, smiling at all of them. "He appreciates your letting me stay here."
Simon couldn't think of an appropriate response, so he led his gaggle of chatty humans to the efficiency apartments. He'd opened up some of the Courtyard stores in order to study humans more closely, to watch them just as Elliot kept watch over the ones who were the city's government. Looking after some of them made it all so... personal. Humans and terra indigene weren't supposed to be friends. It wasn't done.
But, somehow, it seemed he had done exactly that.
Meg wanted to savor her first ride in a pony sled, but the wind had picked up, driving the snow and making it hard to enjoy anything but the prospect of reaching a warm, dry place. So she huddled in the back of the sled with Nathan while Jester sat on the seat, so bundled up she had barely recognized him. The only one of them who seemed to be enjoying himself was Twister, whose harness bells jingled and whose clumpy pony feet spun the snow all around him as he trotted down the road.
He might be removing enough snow off the road that someone could drive a BOW all the way to the Green Complex, Meg thought. As long as that someone didn't wait too long.
Would it make a difference? How would it make a difference? She'd felt edgy, itchy, ever since the snow had started falling, driving Nathan nuts because he picked up the mood but didn't understand the source. Edgy and itchy, but the real prickling under her skin didn't start until she saw Simon.
"We're here," Jester said, twisting on the seat.
Nathan scrambled off the sled, then waited for her to pick up the carry bags containing the food she'd bought during her midday break. He went ahead of her, breaking a trail, for which she was grateful. She wasn't quite as grateful when he stopped at her stairs, shifted into that weird and disturbing half-man/half-Wolf shape, grabbed one of the carry sacks, and bounded up the stairs with it.
The stairs were buried under snow, and it would have been hard for her to haul both bags because she couldn't see where to put her feet, and he had been trying to help. Still, she avoided looking directly at him—and at the parts that weren't adequately covered with fur—while she opened her front door, stomped off what snow she could, and stepped inside.
Shoving the carry bag into her hand, he immediately shifted back to pure Wolf.
"Do you want to come in?" she asked.
His answer was to choose a spot on the latticework side of her porch where he had some protection from the snow and wind—and where anyone coming up the stairs wouldn't see him before he saw them.
He lay down and gave her an "Idiot, aren't you going to close the door?" look. So she closed the door, shrugged out of her wet winter clothes, and hung them in the bathroom to drip.
She put the food in the refrigerator and cupboards, and wondered if anyone would think to check for edibles before they all spoiled.
The prophecies and visions didn't work the same in the outside world as they had in the compound. Her own experiences, her own memories provided context. That was why, when she saw Simon standing in the Private doorway, she had slipped into that weird kind of vision that didn't require cutting.
Fur. And teeth. And terrible cold. Then flashes of the remembered images from the visions she had seen about the Courtyard. A storm. Men dressed in black. A sound like motors and hornets. The interior road near Erebus Sanguinati's home. Sam howling in terror. A white room with that narrow bed. And Simon Wolfgard.
She shifted the images this way and that like puzzle pieces, changing the sequence and searching for clues. She could save Sam. If she followed one sequence of images, she could do that much. After that? She wasn't going to give in. She wasn't going to hand over her body like it was someone else's property. She would fight as hard as she could for as long as she could. The only thing she would gain from fighting was her own sense of being a person instead of a thing, because the end would be the same.
This was the beginning of the prophecy she'd seen about herself.
This was the night she was going to die. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 26 | S low and steady, Monty thought as the cab did a crawl and slide down Whitetail Road. Slow and steady.
Every time they reached a traffic light, he listened to the zzzzzeeeeeeeee of tires spinning as the cars tried to get enough traction to move through the intersection and keep going. When they finally reached the Chestnut Street intersection and it was clear they were going to wait through several changes of the traffic light before the cab would be able to make the turn, Monty said, "I'll get out here," and paid the driver.
"I think we'll get through this storm all right," the cabby said as Monty got out. "It looks like the snow is letting up."
Asia listened to the putt putt brrmmm of a BOW growling its way through snow. Then she called the special messenger.
"Simon Wolfgard is headed for the Green Complex. Your benefactor's property should be there already. Looks like some employees are staying overnight in the apartments above the shops, but there's no one in the business part of the Courtyard who will interfere with you."
"We're all in position. The Stag and Hare is still open and crowded. You can blend in there. As soon as we've reacquired the property, we'll be heading out of the city. I'll call you."
Maybe he would call her. She had a feeling she might be conveniently left behind. That was fine. The messenger and his men were just the diversion she needed to acquire the pup and get out of the Courtyard before the Others knew what happened.
She waited another minute, then left the maintenance garage and hurried to the garage that held the BOW Darrell had driven last week.
That space was empty, but when she opened the next door, that garage contained a BOW. She unhooked the vehicle from its power source and got in. The BOW grumbled when she turned the key, but the engine turned over. She located the controls for the lights and wipers. When she turned on the lights, she noticed the power bar showed a thirty-percent charge.
She couldn't remember how much charge the BOW had used the night Darrell had driven to the Green Complex, and that annoyed her. Asia Crane, SI, would remember that kind of detail from just a glance at the dashboard.
It'll be enough to get me there and back, Asia thought as she turned off the lights and backed out of the garage. After all, I'm not the one breaking the trail.
Muscling the BOW into the tracks left by Simon's vehicle, Asia headed for the Green Complex and the bit of fur that was going to make Bigwig and the other backers piles of money and make her a very famous woman.
A gust of wind playfully pushed the BOW. Simon growled, not sure if that gust was simply weather or if it was Air amusing herself. Either way, the direction had shifted, which meant the storm was curling around the city instead of continuing to slam through it. That softening had to be Winter's doing, with help from Air. It was still a good day to get home and stay home, and with tomorrow being Earthday, clearing the delivery area and the parking lot could be done leisurely. And he liked the idea of Wolves digging out the cars stuck in their lot. That would be more fun than being in human form and shoveling.
Maybe they could let the ponies...? No, he wasn't ready to encourage the ponies to reveal their true nature and abilities by clearing the snow in the places where humans could see them. But inside the Courtyard was another matter. Tornado, Cyclone, and Twister were not small forces, but they could work smaller for play. He could tell by the way the road had been cleared that Jester had hitched one of them to the pony sled so that Meg would be able to get home. And Blair had noticed short snow funnels that moved along the Courtyard's interior roads at the speed of a trotting pony. The three ponies were pleased because they didn't get to use their natures often in this part of Thaisia, and Blair was pleased because he wasn't using time or fuel to plow the roads.
And Meg could drive anywhere she wanted within the Courtyard without getting stuck in the snow, which pleased all of them.
It took more time than usual, but he reached the visitor's parking at the Green Complex and slowed to consider. The lane leading back to the garages hadn't been cleared at all, and any vehicles that were back there weren't going anywhere for a day or two. That left the spots across the road from the complex.
Someone with large, powerful limbs had swiped most of the snow from the guest spots. Simon wasn't sure two BOWs could fit into the cleared space and have room for the drivers to get out, but there was plenty of room for him, and nobody else would be using a vehicle to get home. In his smoke form, Vlad could travel faster in this weather than any other terra indigene except the Elementals.
He studied the snow next to the cleared space. Then he turned off the BOW's lights and let his eyes adjust. With the lights on, it appeared that what stood beside the parking space was a swirl of snow. But in the dark, that swirl became a shape.
Henry Beargard was a large man and a massive Grizzly. But when Henry took the spirit bear form, he was even bigger. And standing on his hind legs, as he was now, he looked like he could pluck the stars from the sky.
<Henry?> Simon asked.
<Thaisia is restless. I am restless. A different kind of storm is coming.> Henry paused. <The first time Meg shared a prophecy with us, she saw a storm.>
He growled. She had shared those words with Henry, the spirit guide for their Courtyard. And the Grizzly was restless.
Henry dropped to all fours and moved off. <The storm is speaking. I must listen.>
Simon watched him go, his form visible only because the Wolf knew what to look for. He parked the BOW and hurried across the road, wondering if he'd find Sam at his apartment or at Meg's. Then he stopped, listened.
<Tess?> he called. <Did you change your mind about staying around A Little Bite to wait out the storm?>
<No,> she replied. <Why?>
<I heard another BOW heading this way.> Nothing out there now, but he had heard it.
<I'll check the garages and get back to you,> she said.
He hurried to his apartment. As he put his key in the lock, Nathan said, <Sam is up here with Meg.>
Simon finished unlocking his door, but went up the stairs to Meg's porch. Nathan's fur had a light coating of snow, making the watch Wolf nearly invisible in his chosen spot.
Nathan cocked his head. <Simon?>
He didn't have a chance to respond before Tess called, <Simon!>
<Report,> he said.
<Another BOW was taken from the business garages. Whoever took it didn't bother to close the door.>
<Blair will chew someone's tail about that.> A thought occurred to him that formed a bone in his throat. <Where are the humans we allowed to stay in the apartments?>
<They're in the apartments, making snacks and choosing movies to watch.> Tess paused. <I found tracks, mostly filled in now, coming from the direction of our customer parking lot. An intruder may have climbed a snowbank and come into the Courtyard—and maybe took the BOW as well.>
A BOW wouldn't do anyone any good on the city's streets, especially in this weather, but someone could get fairly deep into the Courtyard before finding roads the ponies hadn't cleared at all.
Simon went back down the stairs. Nathan followed him. They stood perfectly still—and listened.
Jester looked at his charges, then at the big flakes of snow that would have been prettier if there hadn't been so many of them.
Twelve little ponies all snug in their stalls, he thought. And one Coyote who was going to snuggle into the straw with them.
No point going to the Green Complex. He had everything he needed right here. And he wanted to keep an eye on the ponies, especially old Hurricane, who wasn't having an easy time making his way through the snow. That was something he needed to mention to Winter. The Elementals' steeds were slow to age, but even their time in the world came to an end, and their place was taken by youngsters who filled the same niche. Still, it was never easy when a pony reached his time, and Hurricane was a favorite of Air and Water.
He started to close the door all the way when he heard a sound and stepped outside to pinpoint the direction. A motor, yes, but not a BOW or any other vehicle used in the Courtyard.
Baring his teeth, Jester shifted his ears to their Coyote form to catch the sounds better. More than one vehicle with a buzzy motor.
Hadn't Meg said something about buzzy motors? And now that he heard them in a slightly different way, he realized he had heard this sound around the Courtyard over the past few days. But not inside.
<Intruders!> he shouted.
His own warning was eclipsed by an explosion coming from the direction of the Utilities Complex.
Simon heard the explosion, pinpointed the direction, and shouted, <Blair!> while Nathan howled a warning.
<We're being attacked!> The incredulity in Blair's voice swiftly changed to fury. <I'll deal with these intruders.>
<They might have guns!>
No response. None was needed. Anyone coming in to blow up a part of the Courtyard would have guns.
Another explosion, the sound fainter and coming from the western side of the Courtyard—the side closest to Lakeside Park, the side where there was a gap in the fence because of the fire a few days ago.
Howls in the west from the Wolves responding to that threat. Nathan beside him, growling and restless, wanting to rush off and help the same way he wanted to meet the enemy and destroy them.
As Simon spun around to tell Meg he had to leave, Crows were screaming about attackers. And then he heard Jester's fear-filled and angry shout, <The Pony Barn is on fire!>
Jester listened as the Crowgard raised a call to battle, listened as that buzzy motor sound came closer and closer to the Pony Barn. He watched as smoke filled the winter sky above the Utilities Complex and thought, <Blair is going to rip out someone's belly for this.>
What else had Meg told them about the buzzy motors? Men dressed in black. Men with guns. Sam howling. But Sam wasn't howling. Plenty of other Wolves, but not the pup, so...
Hurricane bolted out of his stall in the back of the barn and cantered toward the open door where Jester stood, followed by Cyclone and Fog. A moment later, one stall window shattered, then another. And a moment after that...
"Out!" Jester shouted at the ponies as fire suddenly roared up from the deep beds of straw in two of the stalls. "All of you, get out!" Then he added in a shout to anyone who could hear him, <The Pony Barn is on fire!>
Hurricane bolted out the door.
Buzzy motors. A gunshot. Blood spraying the snow as Hurricane went down.
Jester howled in fury and ran to the pony. Another shot as he dove for cover, Hurricane's dying body shielding him from the bullet.
The rest of the ponies shifted as they surged out of the barn. While they looked like horses, they were now the Elementals' steeds, and the screams of rage that rose from deep within the Courtyard as Hurricane died came from Earth, Air, Fire, Water... and Winter.
Cyclone and Fog were the next steeds out the door. As Fog ran, he instantly veiled the land all around the Pony Barn, while Cyclone whipped up the fallen snow into a smothering, stinging weapon. They chased the buzzy motors, no longer bound to flesh that would stumble in deep snow or be stopped by bullets.
Quicksand and Twister raced after Fog and Cyclone, while Tornado and Tidal Wave raced for the Utilities Complex, the snow spinning into a funnel around the hooves of one and rising in a growing wave behind the other. Avalanche kicked up the snow around the barn, smashing through the barn wall and sending a river of snow into the stalls to smother the fire.
Earthshaker and Mist galloped off, heading for the trouble in the western part of the Courtyard. Thunder and Lightning were the last two who leaped out of the barn, cracking the sky with savage light and a rumble that shook the ground.
"Wait!" Jester shouted at them.
They turned back, snorting and stomping.
He didn't know what to tell them. He took care of them as his service to the Courtyard, and they listened to him up to a point. But they weren't his to command.
Then he didn't need to decide what to tell them. In a voice filled with fury, Winter said, <Coyote, bring the sleigh to the lake.>
Simon rushed up the stairs and almost knocked Meg over when he bounded into her apartment. He grabbed her arms, aware of Sam running out of the kitchen. The boy's eyes were bright, but Simon didn't have time to consider if that brightness came from excitement or fear.
"Meg, I have to go. The Courtyard is under attack. You and Sam stay here until I get back. Do you understand me? Stay here."
"Go," she said. "We'll be all right."
He raced down the stairs, and he and Nathan trotted toward the BOW. Then he stopped. Three entrances into the Courtyard could accommodate vehicles when the roads were clear. Someone must have come in through the Utilities Complex gate to cause that explosion. But there were also those two breaks in the fence where someone could sneak in. Someone had come in through the one on Parkside Avenue to cause the explosion in the western part of the Courtyard. The other one...
Growling, Simon turned to Nathan. "The hole in the Main Street fence is between our stores and the Green Complex."
<Deep snow,> Nathan said. <Hard to break a trail.>
"They have runners they can put on their feet. Skis," he corrected, thinking of the human word. "And those sleds with motors." Buzzy, annoying things, but maybe useful. "I'll find Blair. You check that hole in the fence and make sure none of those monkeys invading our land are trying to come here. " He looked back at Meg's apartment.
Nathan took off. Simon ran to the BOW and headed for the Utilities Complex at a reckless speed.
Meg rubbed her sweaty hands on her jeans, then held one out to the boy. "Come on, Sam. We're going to stay at your house until Simon returns."
"But I wanna stay here," Sam protested.
She shook her head, unable to explain, even to herself, why she wanted to be in a place where the door opened to ground instead of stairs.
He whined quietly as she led him out the kitchen door to the second-floor entrance in Simon's apartment. When they reached the living room, she knelt in front of him, that gray-eyed boy who made her wonder if she had any younger brothers. She had never heard of a male cassandra sangue, and lately had begun to wonder what happened to the male children who were born to the girls who were bred. Were they abandoned? Killed? Fostered somewhere for some other use? She would never know. But for a little while, there had been someone in her life who could have been her little brother, and she loved him.
"Listen to me, Sam," she said quietly. "Some bad people have come into the Courtyard, and they're causing trouble." She could feel him shrinking into himself. When she took his hands, they were furry and no longer shaped like a human's. "You need to mind me and do exactly what I say. All right?"
He nodded. She wasn't sure he could speak anymore.
"I want you to shift to Wolf form. You're stronger and faster as a Wolf."
He struggled to form words. "Safety line?"
"No." She shook her head. "Not this time. Don't let anyone put you in a harness or attach a safety line to you. If anyone tries to do that, you bite them as hard as you can and you run. You understand?"
"Bite and run."
"Yes."
She helped him out of his shoes, sweater, and shirt. "You shift now."
Sam went behind the couch to finish pulling off his clothes. Meg sat back on her heels. Might not come to anything. Maybe she was being foolish or had misunderstood. Prophecies could change. A different choice in a string of choices could change everything. She and Sam were here, in the apartment, not out there where there was fear and pain and death. Why would they need to leave here until Simon and Nathan returned?
The prickling under her skin suddenly returned, and in the quiet that surrounded the Green Complex, she heard the sound of a BOW. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 27 | Vlad, Nyx, and a handful of their kin flowed over the snow like segments of a black serpent as they headed for the Utilities Complex. Other Sanguinati were headed for the western breach to help the Hawks and Wolves fight the intruders.
He and Nyx hadn't questioned Erebus's command to destroy whatever dared touch the terra indigene. Would these monkeys have started a war with the Others if Meg hadn't come to the Courtyard? Maybe not. But someone the monkeys wanted back so much was someone the terra indigene were determined to keep.
Besides, he liked Meg, and her diligence in delivering Erebus's movies gave Grandfather an untarnished pleasure the Sanguinati patriarch hadn't experienced in many years.
<Vlad, look,> Nyx said.
A funnel of snow racing toward the buildings in the Utilities Complex. Beside it, moving just as fast, was a rising wave of snow.
Gunshots. A scream of pain. And the buzzy sound of snowmobiles.
Vlad and his kin flowed past the charred wing of a Hawk but didn't see the rest of the body. As they rounded one corner of the main building, he saw a handful of intruders on snowmobiles. He saw Ferus trying to crawl away from the part of the building that was blown out and burning—and he saw one of the intruders raise a gun and shoot the already wounded Wolf.
Vlad shifted partway, catching the gunman's attention. Distracted by smoke starting to take human shape, the man didn't see Blair, who was in the between form, until the Wolf knocked him off the snowmobile and tore out his throat.
The rest of the intruders are going to get away, Vlad thought savagely. Their machines would get them out of the Courtyard, and they would use the storm to hide among the rest of the monkeys.
Then he realized the funnel of snow was heading straight for the Utilities gate and would reach it before the intruders could. As for the wave of snow...
<Get Ferus,> he told Nyx, seeing the tidal wave of snow crest and understanding what was about to happen. <I'll get Blair.>
Nyx shifted to her human form from the waist up, grabbed Ferus around the middle, and flowed over the snow, half carrying, half dragging the wounded Wolf . Vlad shifted all the way to human, grabbed Blair's shoulders as the enforcer continued to tear at the enemy, and almost had his face ripped open when the Wolf turned on him and lashed out.
"Come with me!" Vlad shouted. "Now, Blair!"
A glance behind him was enough. Blair ran, and Vlad, shifting back to the safety of smoke, flowed after him as Tidal Wave released the snow and sent it crashing down, catching the three monkeys who had tried to evade Tornado. One man, jettisoned from Tornado's funnel, flew over their heads and landed in a circle of smoke that grew hands and mouths and fangs.
Ignoring the feast, Vlad headed for the spot where Nyx waited with Ferus.
"Tornado left the Courtyard," Blair said, shifting all the way back to human as he trotted up to them. "There's going to be some damage to the monkeys' part of the city."
"Do we care?" Vlad asked.
Blair looked at Ferus, who was turning the snow red. "No. We don't care." He studied the ground and buildings around them. "Come on. I think we can muscle one of the BOWs out of the garage and get Ferus to the Wolfgard bodywalker."
A frantic knocking on Simon's front door.
"Meg? Meg! Are you in there?"
Meg looked back at Sam, whose furry face peered at her from behind the couch. Then she went to the door, pulled it open, and just stared at the blue sweater showing under Asia's white parka.
"Meg..." Asia began.
"I don't know that color blue," Meg said, feeling cold inside as Asia stepped into the apartment.
"I know I'm not supposed to be here," Asia said in a rush. "But, Meg, you have to listen to me. Some men are coming for you. All the other things that are happening now are just a diversion. And the other things that happened over the past few days? Those men were studying how the Wolves react. I have a BOW. It's right outside. I'll help you get away."
"I don't know that color."
"What difference does that make?" Asia shouted.
"I saw that blue in the vision, with the sugar and the skull and crossbones," Meg said, her voice so rough it produced an answering growl from Sam. " You tried to poison the ponies."
Something in Asia's face shifted, erasing all pretense of concern. "It was just a means to an end, like this is."
"Like what is?"
"I meant what I said. They're coming for you, Meg, but I'm not interested in you. Just give me the pup. I'll be on my way, and you can run. You might even make it out of the Courtyard and find another place to hide for a while longer. Maybe forever."
Stalling for time, Meg realized. All the talk was just a way to stall for time. But there was one thing she needed to know. "Why do you want Sam?"
Asia smirked. "I know some men who would love to have some leverage over a Courtyard leader. They're powerful men who could get a lot of concessions for us humans. A couple of them might even enjoy having an exotic pet for a while."
He's not property, Meg thought as the cold inside her gave way to a furious heat. Giving Asia a hard shove, she shouted, "Run, Sam!"
Asia returned the shove, knocking Meg into a wall. Sam exploded from behind the couch. He had filled out a lot in the past three weeks, making up for the lack of growth during the years he'd been frozen by his mother's death. His teeth didn't sink into anything but Asia's parka sleeve, but his weight and the way he swung his own body to bring down his prey was enough to throw her to her hands and knees.
Meg pushed off the wall, shouted "Sam!" and ran out the door. She wasn't dressed for outside—no coat, no boots; nothing but jeans, her heaviest sweater, and shoes. But she ran to the BOW Asia had driven and yanked the door open. Sam jumped in and scrambled out of her way as she got in, turned the key, and put the BOW in gear before she closed her door. She was driving away from the apartments by the time Asia reached the road.
Glancing in her rearview mirror, she saw staggered lights approaching the Green Complex. Those must be the men Asia said were after her.
"You did good, Sam." She'd heard the explosion and knew there was a problem up ahead, so she made the first left-hand turn she could, pushing for speed on a road oddly stripped of snow. "You did good." Then she added silently, Now it's my turn.
At first, it didn't look like there was much wrong with the Utilities Complex. Then Simon spotted Blair kneeling beside Ferus and saw the bloody snow. He pulled up close to them, put the BOW in park, and jumped out.
"How bad?" he asked Blair, adding a silent call to Vlad, who immediately stopped his efforts to shift the snow around the garage doors and strode toward them.
"One of the Hawks is dead, and Ferus took a couple of bullets," Blair replied. "Not sure how bad he's hurt inside, but he's bleeding plenty. We need to get him to the Wolfgard bodywalker."
Simon sprang up and opened the BOW's back door. In the winter, most BOWs carried some basics: two blankets, a short-handled shovel, a snow brush, and an ice scraper. He grabbed the blankets and laid them out in the snow next to Ferus. He and Blair lifted the wounded Wolf onto the blankets, wrapped him, and eased him into the back compartment. Blair went around to the passenger's seat, but Simon waited for Vlad.
"Something?" he asked, stepping away from the BOW.
"Nyx says there is a broken feast," Vlad reported. "Three of the intruders are dead and already growing cold, but the other two... The hearts still beat, and the blood is still hot."
"Then don't waste them."
"Big hole in the back of the building. The wave of snow smothered the fire. I don't know if we'll find any of our own in there."
Simon bit back impatience. Ferus was bleeding. He didn't have time for this. The Sanguinati did not always consider such things, but he knew Vlad well enough to know this wasn't idle talk.
"The Elementals' steeds are running with no hands on the reins," Vlad said.
He wasn't sure that was true, but he shrugged. "That isn't up to us."
"What do we do if Winter unleashes her fury?"
He knew the answer to that. As he opened the BOW's door, he said, "We do our best to survive."
Six snowmobiles roared up to the Green Complex. The special messenger pointed to three of his men and said, "Go after her. I'll catch up."
They raced after the BOW.
Pushing up his goggles, he gave Asia a cold stare. "You couldn't follow orders, could you?"
"You want Meg Corbyn. I just want the Wolf pup." When the stare didn't change, Asia added, "She was going to bolt. I held her up as long as I could."
He turned his head and said to one man, "Take her back to her car."
"My car is stuck in the parking lot," Asia protested.
"Then you'd better get it unstuck before these creatures notice you," he said harshly. "You can take the ride or walk." He put his goggles back on, then drove off with one member of his team. The other man waited, watching her.
She hesitated, tried to think it through. Then she realized he was about to leave her and hurried to mount behind him. She pressed against his back, shielding her face as best she could while they raced back to the business part of the Courtyard.
She needed time to think. The special messenger would have cut her out of the deal, would have made some excuse so his benefactor wouldn't have to give her or her backers any payment for their help in finding Meg Corbyn. And that would probably sour the TV deal she'd been promised. But the messenger didn't have Meg yet, and if she telephoned her backers fast, she could spin the story any way that would give her the best paycheck.
The team that set fire to the Pony Barn raced toward the Corvine gate. The leader looked over his shoulder and bared his teeth in a grin. Stupid fucking animals. If you left a gate open, that was an invitation to come on in, wasn't it?
The Crows winging a few feet above the snow, following them, would have made good target practice, but his orders were to get out of the Courtyard as soon as the assignment was complete.
Shooting one of those ponies hadn't taken extra time and was a bonus distraction. Besides, what did the Others use ponies for anyway? Transportation? Food?
Then fog suddenly surrounded him and his team, so thick he could barely see the headlights on the other snowmobiles.
"Halt!" he shouted, hoping his men wouldn't run over him. How could fog roll in so fast? And where the fuck was the road that would take them to the gate? And what was that sound?
A gust of wind pushed the snowmobile forward, and heavy rain drenched him.
Rain? When it was this cold? What the...?
The last man in line screamed as spinning winds and punishing rain turned snow into an ice field. The snowmobiles slid away from one another, lost in the thick fog that should have been blown away with the wind—and wasn't.
Gasping for breath, the leader tried to see something, anything. "Report!" he shouted.
"Here!" a member of his team answered.
The leader didn't have time to shout a warning before a funnel of snow appeared out of the fog, snatched the man off the snowmobile, and turned away in a move that didn't belong to any natural storm.
Another shout. The lights of a snowmobile headed right for him. He revved the engine of his own machine, then realized with a shock that the runners were frozen to the snow. The other man veered at the last minute, clipping the leader's machine enough to break it out of the ice before the other machine suddenly pitched forward, tossing the rider over the handles.
The fog lifted as quickly as it had arrived, giving the team leader a clear view of one of his men struggling and thrashing and screaming and sinking into the snow.
And he suddenly had a clear view of a horse the color of sand standing beside the odd snow, watching him.
Snow acting like quicksand. Gods above and below, what kind of place is a Courtyard anyway that snow can turn into quicksand?
Seconds later, only silence. A snowmobile, its nose buried. Unmarred snow that gave no indication that a man had just died beneath it. And a horse staring at him with hate-filled eyes.
He raced away, ignoring the twisted machines and twisted bodies, intent on outrunning the horse that raced after him.
The right side of the snowmobile sank, pitching him off. He rolled, then tried to get to his feet, but the snow sucked his legs down. Unbalanced, he fell back, and his arms sank to his elbows, pinning him.
"Help me!" he shouted. "Help!"
The Crows winged in, and the horse ran off. Before he could free an arm, they were on him, shifting into three naked females and one male. They yanked off his goggles, ripped off his ski mask, tore open his parka.
"What do we do with him, Jenni?" the male asked.
The one named Jenni cocked her head to one side, then the other. "He killed a pony. And he's one of the monkeys who were trying to take our Meg. So I say one for me." Her head shifted from human female to black-feathered Crow. She grabbed his head in strong hands and plucked out one eye with her beak. Tipping her head back, she swallowed the eye, then shifted back to a human female with a few black feathers still mixed with her hair. "And one for you."
The male's head changed. The Crow plucked out the man's other eye.
Ignoring his screams, they were gone in a flutter of wings, leaving him blinded and bleeding and half buried in the snow.
Meg slowed the BOW to a crawl as she drove over Ripple Bridge. The sky was a dark gray that made it hard to see without headlights, but the headlights would have made her easier to see.
Once they crossed the bridge, she rolled down her window and listened, then looked at Sam. "Do you hear the bad men?"
He whined, which she took for an affirmative answer.
Rolling up the window, she drove as fast as she could to the Chambers. She had to get this much done. She had to.
The interior roads weren't clear of snow, and the BOW slipped and slid and a couple of times almost got stuck. Finally reaching the gate in front of Erebus's home, Meg jumped out and held the door open for Sam. Before he could dash off, she picked him up and staggered to the gate.
"Mr. Erebus! Mr. Erebus! We need help!"
The door opened, and Erebus glided over the snow-covered walkway.
"Why is our Meg out in such weather when an enemy is among us?"
She tried to lift Sam above the gate, but couldn't do it. "Those men," she panted. "They're after Sam. I know they're after Sam. Please take him, Mr. Erebus. Simon is protecting the Courtyard, and there's no one else who can keep those men away from Sam except you. I know it's against the rules for anyone to enter the Chambers, but he needs your help. He needs you."
Sam began to squirm and struggle, but she held on to the pup while her eyes stayed fixed on the old vampire. "Please help us."
Erebus pulled open the gate. "Come in. Both of you will be safe here."
She heard snowmobiles approaching from two directions. They didn't need to stay on the roads, so they must have split up in the hopes of trapping her. And that meant she had run out of time.
She shoved Sam into Erebus's arms and stepped back. "I'll lead the men away from here."
"No," Erebus said. "You come in too."
"Sam won't be safe if I stay." She cut off his objections by adding, "I know this."
She got back in the BOW and took off, shivering from cold and blinking back tears as she drove recklessly down the interior road that would take her to her fate.
An explosion, Monty thought as he hung up the phone. In the Courtyard. Oh, gods. He grabbed his coat and headed out to commandeer whatever car was available.
When his mobile phone rang, he almost ignored it, but Debany and MacDonald were already on patrol, and they might be calling to report. "Montgomery."
"Kowalski, here. Ruthie just called. There was an explosion in the Courtyard, maybe more than one, but not near the shops. I'm heading there now. Thought you should know."
Then the Utilities Complex was probably the target of one of those explosions. "How can you get there?"
"I do some cross-country skiing. I can make it to the Courtyard."
He understood why Kowalski wanted to get to Ruth, but how were the Others going to respond to any human right now, especially an armed man? "You take care, Karl, and stay in touch."
"Yes, sir."
When Monty stepped outside, Louis Gresh was waiting for him.
"I heard," Louis said. "You're going to need help. And you're going to need someone driving who can handle this snow."
"Thanks," Monty said as they got in Louis's car.
"Just doing my part to keep us alive," Louis replied.
As they reached the intersection of Parkside and Chestnut, they saw the flashing lights of patrol cars and emergency vehicles. Louis shook his head and continued on Chestnut. "We'll go up Main Street. We'll have the best chance of getting through that way."
Monty just nodded—and hoped they got through in time.
The special messenger and his fourth man caught up to the three he'd sent to chase down the benefactor's property. They were idling in front of a black wrought-iron fence.
According to the information he'd been given, the damn female was supposed to be physically weak and without the practical knowledge needed to operate machines or drive vehicles. Unless they were following a decoy, which he didn't believe, the benefactor's information was out of date.
"Where?" he snapped.
"She left the pup with the old man who lives in that little building," one man reported. "We saw her turn onto the road up there." He pointed. "We'll have no trouble catching her."
Maybe not, he thought. But there were things happening now that hadn't shown up during their testing forays—like those snow funnels that appeared out of nowhere and disappeared just as fast. In addition to that, the team that had set fire to the barn wasn't answering their radios anymore, and the men who came in through the western breach in the fence were talking about the ground shaking and water twisting up into frozen walls, blocking their escape. They were heading for the exit around where the Crows roosted or whatever the fuck Crows did. Trouble was, according to the map Asia Crane had provided, the Wolves were between the western breach and the Corvine gate.
Maybe he should have wondered why the money had been so good for this assignment, but he hadn't, and none of them would get anything if the property wasn't reacquired.
He wagged a finger at two of the men. At least Asia Crane's fumbling had supplied them with a bonus acquisition. "You two get the pup from the old man. We'll reacquire the property, and then we'll all get out of here."
That said, the messenger raced up the road the property had taken.
Simon and Blair carried Ferus into the bodywalker's den in the Wolfgard Complex and laid him in the bed of straw she had prepared.
"Bullets," she growled as she unwrapped the blankets. "Are the monkeys with the guns still alive?"
"No," Blair replied.
She nodded in satisfaction, then said, "Go. I will do what I can, and Namid will decide if he is to remain with us or become a part of Thaisia."
They backed out and looked at each other, not sure where they were most needed—until Simon heard Sam's panicked <Arroooo! Arrooooo! Meg's gone! Meg's gone!>
<Sam!> Simon called. <Where are you?>
The pup didn't answer him, but Vlad did.
The Sanguinati gathered around Erebus's home, all smoke and shadows as the two men pushed open the gate and stepped into the Chambers. Sam had stopped trying to escape from Erebus's arms and now howled and howled as if his puppy heart was broken.
Erebus stood on the threshold, smiling at the prey who were so obliging to bring themselves to the feast.
"Give us the pup, old man," one of the monkeys said.
"Eh?" Erebus replied, turning his head as if to hear the words better. As if he couldn't hear a heartbeat anywhere within Sanguinati land.
"Give us the pup if you know what's good for you."
"Come, little one," Erebus whispered, taking a step back. "This is not for you to see."
"Hey!" one monkey shouted as the two men rushed toward the closing door.
<They are more than prey,> Erebus said, his words rolling through all the Sanguinati. <They are enemies of our Meg, and they are enemies of the Sanguinati. Take them away and punish them.>
Vlad was so startled by the words, his smoke form condensed into a partial human shape. Punishment was a death that took days and broke the mind before it destroyed the body. Only the most hated enemies were condemned in that way, and the words told him the depth of Erebus's hatred for these particular humans. So Grandfather's next words didn't surprise him.
<Vlad. Find our Meg. Keep her safe.>
As his kin surrounded the two intruders, he sent a message to Simon. <Sam is with Grandfather.> Then he shifted fully to smoke and pursued the men who were pursuing Meg.
Asia picked herself up, still not sure what happened. They hit something. Or something hit them. But she'd heard the sound of bone breaking before the driver went flying and the snowmobile went up a snowbank at a bad angle and tipped over. Lucky for her, she bailed out before it tipped, but...
Had she really seen a giant bear made out of snow just before the accident? Impossible!
Asia glanced at the dead man and swallowed hard. Then again, something had swiped off the man's face.
A howl rose from behind her. She didn't know squat about the supposed tonal qualities of Wolf howls, but that particular Wolf sounded pissed off, and she didn't want to run into him.
She took a step toward the snowmobile, thinking she could right it and drive out of the Courtyard, maybe all the way back to her apartment, where she would pack and be ready to leave town as soon as the driving ban lifted.
Something nearby growled.
Stepping away from the snowmobile, she began walking toward the Market Square and the parking lot. She didn't give a damn about the driving ban. She'd just get her car unstuck and get out of town.
Nothing growled as she continued walking, but another howl was flung to the night sky—and was answered.
Asia broke into a jog.
Meg braked too hard and did a 360-degree spin before regaining control and stomping on the power pedal. She'd be scared later about what she'd just done. Right now, she had to get to the lake. She wasn't sure if Winter would be there, but Spring would be. Maybe Air and Water too. She hadn't met Earth or Fire, the other two cousins, but she'd filled a couple of library requests for each of them in the past week. If they were around, they would help her. Wouldn't they?
A yellow triangle next to the power bar warned her that the BOW wasn't going to run much longer. Behind her, she glimpsed lights. Those men, the enemy, were still after her.
Almost to the Courtyard Creek Bridge. And once she crossed the bridge, she would be in the Elementals' part of the Courtyard.
Simon stripped off his clothes, shifted to Wolf, and burst out of the Wolfgard Complex, followed by Blair and Elliot. <Meg!>
<She's headed for the lake,> Vlad reported. <There are three intruders behind her, and I'm behind them.>
The lake. Not too far from the Wolfgard land, then. Not far from him.
He took off, running, loping, bounding into and through drifts in the road, moving steadily toward the lake and Meg.
As Thunder and Lightning galloped toward the lake, Jester hung on to the front seat of the sleigh. Every time the horses' hooves slammed into the ground, the potential for another storm grew in intensity. It could fade; the storms did sometimes. But Jester doubted this one would fade.
Humans often said payback was a bitch. Well, Winter was looking for payback.
Having survived the results when Winter was in full temper, he almost felt sorry for the humans.
Almost.
The yellow warning triangle was replaced by a blinking lightning bolt—the "charge me" symbol. A few seconds later, the BOW rolled to a stop within sight of the bridge. Meg got out, poised to run across the bridge. But the snowmobiles roared into sight, the headlights blinding her.
She knew what it felt like to be free, to have friends, to have a life. To have people she loved. She wasn't going to let anyone take that away from her.
She bolted down the bank that led to the frozen creek. Harder to catch her, harder to disappear with her if she could reach the creek where she would be in the open and the Others could see her.
Her feet went out from under her, and she slid to the edge of the constructed retaining wall next to the bridge. As soon as she lowered herself to the creek, she screamed "Help!" and began shuffling across the ice.
"Stop!" a man shouted behind her. "Stop, you stupid bitch!"
Meg kept moving toward the other bank, slipping and sliding while men shouted for her to stop.
"Winter!" she yelled. "Winter!"
"Meg?" The voice seemed to come from everywhere—from the snow and from a coldness that was so bitter, Meg felt like she was breathing ice.
"Stop!" a man shouted.
The crack of gunshot. Something hit the ice near Meg's right foot. Shards struck her, and she jerked to her left, still moving toward the bank.
Cracking sounds under her feet. Remembering Spring's warning, Meg veered toward the right. Another shot sprayed shards of ice that had her turning back toward the weakened ice.
Winter suddenly appeared on the bank.
"They have guns!" Meg shouted. She tried to hurry and get off the ice before her friend was noticed by the men with guns. Just another step, she thought. Just another step.
"Meg, no!" Winter screamed.
As she took the last step, her hands reaching for the stones that acted as a natural containment wall on this side of the creek, the ice shattered beneath her feet, and Meg went under. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 28 | The special messenger swore when the property fell through the ice. Still had a chance to retrieve her. If he could drive off the bitch standing on the bank, his men could cross the bridge and...
Two more women suddenly appeared. One of the women leaped from the bank, smashing through the ice while black smoke flowed across the creek toward the hole. The white-haired woman who was dressed like something out of a creepy novel screamed, and then the one standing next to her screamed. And then he couldn't see anything because it was snowing so hard, and that snow was whipped by such a savage wind, he couldn't even see his own hand. As he fought his way back up the incline to his snowmobile, he heard tree limbs snapping around him.
What were those bitches?
No chance to recover the property now. Good thing the benefactor had made a subsidiary deal for the Wolf pup with the Sparkletown bigwig who had hired Asia Crane.
Had Asia tried to double-cross all of them when she went after the pup by herself? He didn't know and, at this point, he didn't care. He just hoped the pup's acquisition would be profitable enough to make this job worthwhile.
He crawled the remaining distance toward the barely visible lights of two snowmobiles.
"Report!" he yelled, fighting to gain his feet.
He tripped over one man whose head was almost twisted off the shoulders. Where was the other member of his team? Fucking coward must have run off.
Or was taken?
Lightning tore the sky, closely followed by thunder that shook the ground.
When he reached his snowmobile, he took a moment to recall where he needed to go in order to escape from this place. Then he roared across the bridge.
Fuck this assignment and this fucking city. As soon as he handed over the pup and got paid, he was getting back to civilization. And he hoped his balls fell off if he ever took another assignment that involved the fucking Others.
Cold. So cold. Already impossible to breathe.
Suddenly, Meg's hands felt the sting of bitter cold air. She tried to grab for something, anything. She thought she felt fur, but she couldn't hold on.
Cold. So cold.
She slipped back into the dark.
<Meg!>
Simon clamped his teeth around her forearm firmly enough to hold her. When Vlad flung her toward the surface, Simon felt her fingers in his fur as she tried to grab him. But she hadn't been strong enough to hold on.
The ground rumbled beneath him, shaking him off his slippery perch just enough that Meg's head went under the water again. He hauled on her arm, pulling her back up while Blair grabbed for anything he could without ripping her skin with his teeth and claws.
Vlad was doing his best to keep her where they could reach her, but as smoke he couldn't help her, and in human form he risked being swept under the ice. Even Water was trying to get Meg to safety, but she didn't know how— none of them knew how—to help a human.
Shifting to a between form that kept the Wolf head and teeth but gave him the fur-covered body of a man, he finally got his fingers through a belt loop in her jeans and pulled her up the bank.
<Meg!> Smelling blood, he noticed the gash in her chin. He licked off the blood, licked and licked to clean the wound. <Meg!>
Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled.
<We don't know human medicine,> Blair said. <How do we fix her?>
<We take her to a human bodywalker. Hospital,> Simon replied. She was so cold. If she were a Wolf, he would know what to do. But she wasn't a Wolf, she was Meg, and he didn't know what to do except take her to the humans who could fix her.
He squinted at the blinding snow, hunching over Meg to give her some protection. How were they supposed to reach a hospital?
Jester was suddenly in front of him, holding out blankets. Then Winter placed a freezing hand on his shoulder and said, "I'll drive you to the human place."
Wrapping Meg in one blanket, he carried her to the sleigh and climbed into the backseat. He settled on one side of her while Jester pressed against her on the other side, tucking the second blanket around all of them as best he could.
Simon stared at Blair, his enforcer, and Vlad, who was Erebus Sanguinati's most trusted weapon. <The Elementals gave the intruders a backhanded slap, and that storm will slow their attempt to escape. Find them. Don't let any of our enemies get out of the Courtyard.>
Blair howled the Song of Battle and took off. Vlad gave him a nod, shifted to smoke, and followed his own trail.
Air leaped into the front seat beside Winter, who looked back at Simon. Despite his own fury, it took all the courage he had not to whimper at what he saw in her eyes.
"Run, my boys. Run!" Winter shouted to Thunder and Lightning. "Run for our Meg. AND LET THE STORM FLY!"
She screamed, and Air screamed.
Simon held on to Meg, licking the leaking wound on her chin as the Elementals unleashed their rage on the city of Lakeside. And he wondered if the hospital with its human healers would still be there by the time the sleigh arrived.
Monty and Louis were a couple of blocks from the intersection of Chestnut and Main when the new storm came out of nowhere and hit Lakeside with an insane fury.
Fog rolled so thick through the streets, they couldn't see anything but the taillights of the car ahead of them—and half the time they couldn't even see those. Mist followed fog, creating a thin glaze of ice on the street, and what fell on the windows defied the wipers' ability to keep the glass clear. Snow fell heavy and fast, and the traffic that had been making slow but steady progress was instantly bogged down. Tires spun on the ice, and the wind was a battering force that slammed some of smaller cars into other vehicles as funnels appeared and disappeared, ripping a door off a car and flinging it through the window of a nearby building. Postal boxes were torn off their concrete platforms, becoming another hazard for motorists and pedestrians alike. Even people, knocked off their feet by the wind, were flung into the fog-filled streets, invisible to drivers. Lightning flashes came so fast, they reminded Monty of strobe lights, and the thunder that followed each flash rattled buildings and shattered windows.
"Turn on the radio," Louis said. "Don't know what good it will do, but I'd like to know what we're in for."
Monty turned on the radio.
"... blew in out of nowhere. They're calling it the storm of the century. We've had a foot of snow in the past fifteen minutes, and there is no sign of it letting up. Lightning strikes have taken out some power nodes, and several areas of Lakeside are without electricity. Telephones are erratic. Ice is coating the lines, and they're snapping under the weight. So are tree limbs. Being outside isn't just hazardous, it's suicidal. We're WZAS, but we're not being a wiseass now, folks. This is big and it's bad. Get off the streets. Get to some kind of shelter. This is Ann—"
Static. Monty shut off the radio.
A storm that hit the city with insane fury. The radio station might be saying it came out of nowhere, but Monty figured that by now everyone in Lakeside realized where this storm came from. But how many had heard about an explosion in the Courtyard and could even guess why this vengeance was pounding the city?
When it was done, how many of these people would be left to bury their dead and rebuild their lives? How many would try to pick up the pieces without ever knowing why this storm tried to destroy them?
<Tess.>
<Henry?>
<That Asia Crane is one of the humans who came to harm Meg. Nathan is driving the prey back to the Market Square. Don't let her escape.>
The special messenger raced toward the Corvine entrance. The fucking Crows wouldn't be out in this storm. The wind would snap off their wings. Gods below, nothing should be out in this storm.
But something was standing there. Two of them. In his way.
Female forms caught by the snowmobile's headlight. One of them was brown, but the other had red hair tipped with yellow and blue. They swung out of his way before he ran them down, but as he passed them, the brown one stomped her foot.
The earth lifted under him, under all that snow, tossing him and the snowmobile into the air. He felt the machine tipping and couldn't regain the balance. As he came down, he threw himself off the snowmobile to avoid being trapped.
He hit snow that melted under him so fast, he found himself at the bottom of a crater filled with several inches of steaming water. Then the red-haired female leaped into the crater, grabbed his shoulders, mashed her lips against his, and breathed into his mouth.
Fire burned his throat and seared his lungs. Burn holes appeared where the yellow and blue ends of her hair brushed against his parka. Struggling to breathe, he reached for his gun, tried to defend himself. She grabbed his hands, and fire burned through the gloves, turning his hands into torches.
She held on and laughed. Then she released him, sprang out of the crater, and disappeared.
Have to get out. Have to get away.
He was still struggling to draw air into his damaged lungs and pull himself out of the crater when the Wolves found him. And he was still alive when they began to feed.
Asia rubbed at the snow crusting her eyelashes and looked again.
She'd made it. She'd reached the Market Square. From bits she'd heard, the Others didn't always lock their doors. She might find something open, might be able to get out of this storm for a little while.
A howl came from somewhere behind her. That freaking Wolf. Why didn't it have the sense to hole up somewhere?
An answering howl came from somewhere ahead of her.
Gods above and below, another one?
She turned her back to the wind to give herself a chance to take a few full breaths. She couldn't take shelter in the Market Square. If the Wolves found her there, they would kill her. She had to get to her car. Or maybe she would leave the freaking car and just go to the Stag and Hare to wait out the storm.
With luck, the special messenger had stashed Meg somewhere. And the Wolf pup too. Maybe she wouldn't get as much money as she'd hoped, but the experience would be invaluable for her TV series and give her an "I've seen the real thing" edge no other actress could match.
As soon as she could get out of this city, she would head back to Sparkletown. She would meet with Bigwig, who would be her producer, and then she would spend a couple of days on a beach, baking in the sun until her bones finally thawed.
But before she could do any of that, she had to get out of the Courtyard.
Staying close to the buildings, Asia trudged the length of the employee parking lot to the wall that separated that lot from customer parking. Gasping for breath, she leaned against the wooden door that provided access between the two lots.
Almost out. Almost safe. She could make it.
She kicked snow away from the door in order to pull it open enough to squeeze through. Then she waded through thigh-high snow—and bumped into one of the other cars that was buried in the lot. Fighting her way to the lump of snow that was closest to the street, she let out a giddy laugh as she brushed the snow off the driver's-side door. She needed to get out of the storm for a few minutes before fighting her way up the street to the Stag and Hare.
"Keys," she said, pulling off a glove in order to unzip the pocket that held the car keys. With keys in hand, she went to the back of the car and kicked the snow away from the tailpipe to give the exhaust a way to escape. Then she hurried back to the door and opened it. "Going to get out of here. Going to get warm."
"No. You're not," Tess said.
Asia turned and felt something break inside her mind when she looked at the black hair that coiled and moved, looked at the face Tess usually hid behind the human mask. She tried to look away, but she couldn't make her eyes work, couldn't do anything but stare at something she didn't want to see.
She sagged and would have slid to the ground if Tess hadn't grabbed her arm to keep her upright.
She couldn't feel that arm, and her legs weren't working right. And beads of sweat trickled down the inside of her skull. She could feel them trickling and tickling inside of the bone.
That wasn't right.
Tess eased her into the driver's seat, lifting her legs and positioning them so that all she had to do was shift her foot to the gas pedal. Her hands were gently placed in her lap. Leaning in, Tess tossed the keys onto the passenger's seat. Asia could see them out of the corner of her eye, but she couldn't turn her head to look at them, couldn't lift her hand to reach for them. Couldn't do anything except feel the relentless, terrible thing that was happening inside her body.
It was raining inside her skull.
"Wha..."
Fingers turned her head so she could look at that terrible face with its terrible smile.
"Wha... are... you?"
Tess stared at her, then breathed in deep and sighed as if she'd just tasted something wonderful. "You monkeys have no word for what I am."
Her face was turned again so her eyes stared out the windshield that showed her nothing but snow. The car door closed.
Asia's mind continued to break. Her body continued to break. Nerves finally screamed their warnings of pain, but she couldn't move, couldn't speak.
And inside her skull, it continued to rain.
Tess squeezed through the door at the back of the parking lot, then pushed it closed.
In ancient times, there had been a name for her kind. But the naming attracted the named, so the word was said to be cursed. As races and languages changed, the symbol of the word, still recognized in the primal part of the human mind, was never translated into newer languages. Which was why, beyond a few whispered myths, even the rest of the terra indigene no longer knew about Namid's most ferocious predator.
Long ago, there had been a word for her kind. Then, as now, it meant "harvester of life." |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 29 | A car was stuck in the intersection, blocking traffic in every direction.
"No," Louis said as a man got out of that car and walked away. "No. You can't do that."
Monty watched the man and instinctively braced himself. "Louis, he's trying to run from something."
Lightning struck the intersection, thunder shook everything on the street, and a gust of wind shoved the car out of the intersection as a sleigh raced by, heading for the hospital.
"Follow the sleigh." Monty's heart slammed against his chest. He could think of one person in the Courtyard who, if injured, would need human help. And if Meg Corbyn was in that sleigh, everyone in the hospital was at risk if the terra indigene reacted badly.
As if the blizzard wasn't a bad enough reaction.
Louis didn't ask questions. He turned right on Main Street and went after the sleigh, driving down a street that was suddenly cleared of all obstacles.
As they approached Lakeside Hospital, Monty pointed and said, "There."
Nodding, Louis started to make the turn into the emergency-care entrance.
The sleigh was parked right in front of the emergency-care doors. The horses—one black and one white—tossed their heads and stamped their feet. Lightning cracked the sky while thunder shook the car right off the pavement. It ended up packed against the snow mounded beside the emergency-care entrance.
"Damn it," Louis said softly, looking at the wall of snow against the driver's side of the car. "You need backup?"
Monty pushed his door open. "Don't know. You get the car out of the way of the ambulances first."
"Right."
Monty struggled to walk up the slight incline to the emergency-care doors, keeping his head down in an effort to see—and breathe. Whiteout conditions. Killer wind chill. And there, suddenly standing between him and the doors, were two females.
Not human, he thought as they watched him approach. Not Other in the way the shifters and vampires were Other. Elementals. He swallowed fear and refused to think about which ones he was dealing with.
"I'm Lieutenant Montgomery. I'm a friend of Ms. Corbyn." Maybe that was stretching the truth, but right now he'd stretch the truth until it broke if it got him inside so he could find out what happened.
"Our Meg is inside," the white-haired one said.
"She's hurt?"
"Yes."
He heard the rage in her voice, her hatred for the human race.
"I would like to help."
She stared at him with those inhuman eyes. Then she stepped aside. "Tell the monkeys that this storm will not end until Simon Wolfgard says our Meg will get well."
Monty bolted inside, intending to grab anyone who might know where Meg Corbyn could be found. Seeing a nurse, he reached for his badge. Before he could say anything, he heard a yip, a startled yell, and an enraged voice roaring, "She needs human medicine, so we brought her here. Now fix her!"
Monty ran toward the commotion. He slammed into a fur-covered but otherwise naked Simon Wolfgard, breaking the Wolf's clawed hold on a pale but angry doctor.
"Mr. Wolfgard!" Monty shouted. "Simon!"
Something wrong with the eyes, Monty thought. More than being neither human nor Wolf in form.
Someone whimpered nearby. He glanced at another terra indigene who was crouched on the floor, cradling a blanket-wrapped Meg Corbyn.
"Mr. Wolfgard, let me talk to the doctor. Let me help," he said firmly when Simon snarled at him. The Wolf didn't lunge at any of them, so Monty took the doctor by the arm and led him a few steps away.
"I'm Lieutenant C. J. Montgomery, Lakeside Police Department."
"Dr. Dominick Lorenzo. Look, Lieutenant, we've got ambulances fighting to get here with people who need our help. We can't be indulging them just because—"
"Sir, I understand your feelings. But she's human, and she's their Liaison. They came here for help. Unless she gets the very best care you can provide, this city will never see another spring. I'm sorry to place this burden on you, but the lives of everyone in Lakeside are now in your hands."
Lorenzo glanced toward the entrance. "You can't know the storm won't end."
"Yes, sir, I can, because the fury driving this storm was standing outside this hospital a minute ago and told me flat-out that our lives depend on their Liaison getting well."
"Gods above and below," Lorenzo muttered. Squaring his shoulders, he strode back to where Simon Wolfgard stood trembling with rage.
"Do you know what happened to your friend?" he asked.
"She fell through the ice when she was running from the enemy," Simon snarled.
"Most likely hypothermia, but we'll make sure nothing else is going on," Lorenzo said. "Let's get her into the exam room at the end."
Snatching Meg from the other terra indigene male, Simon followed Dr. Lorenzo. Monty followed them, and the other male trailed after him.
Monty half listened to Lorenzo's rapid instructions to the nurses who were getting Meg out of her wet clothes. Before the doctor could close the exam-room door, Simon muscled in, leaving Monty with little choice except to go in with him and hold him away from the doctor and nurses.
Turning his face to give Meg that much privacy, he whispered to Simon, "What's wrong with you? Are you sick?"
The question brought back some of the thinking intelligence in Wolfgard's eyes. "I feel... angry."
"Did you take anything before you started feeling angry?" Any drugs? Not likely, but it was possible Simon had ingested something without realizing it.
Simon shook his head, his eyes fixed on the people touching Meg.
Then a nurse sucked in a breath. Turning his head, Monty looked at Meg Corbyn's bare arms and saw the evenly spaced scars—and the crosshatch of scars on her left arm. Answering the unspoken question in Lorenzo's eyes, he said, "Yes, she's a cassandra sangue."
"Get more blankets and a heating pad," Lorenzo said. When one of the nurses bolted, he tipped his head to indicate he wanted to talk to them out of the room.
"How long was she in the water?" he asked Simon.
"Not long. We heard Winter scream when Meg fell through the ice. We pulled her out."
"And before that? Did you remove her coat before you brought her to the hospital?"
Simon shook his head. "No coat. No boots. She was running from the enemy."
"How did you get here?"
"We came in the sleigh."
Lorenzo didn't look happy. "All right. We'll start with external treatment; see if we get enough indication that we can bring her around that way. Now. That gash in her chin. I can close it without stitches, but only if you can leave the bandages alone. If you can't, I'll have to use stitches to make sure the gash stays closed and heals properly. But stitches puncture the skin, and that might cause her some mental distress, even in her present condition. Also, if I use stitches, the whole chin would no longer be viable for cutting."
Simon's eyes blazed red. He snarled, "Do you think we care about her because of her skin? She's not property to us. She's Meg."
Monty held on to the Wolf, pushing him back from Lorenzo. "He has to tell you that, Simon. You're standing in for Meg's family, and it's his duty to tell you so that you can decide what is best for her."
Simon panted with the effort to control himself. "Fix her."
"It would be best if you stayed out of the room while I tend to her."
Feeling the objection in the way the Wolf's muscles bunched, Monty said quickly, "If you give me your word that you'll wait right here, I'll go in and stand guard for you."
He thought Lorenzo might object, but the doctor just waited with him for Simon's answer.
A sharp nod. Wolfgard was panting and growling, so a nod was the best he could do to give permission.
The nurse arrived with blankets and a heating pad. Lorenzo and Monty followed her into the room. When Lorenzo closed the door, they all jumped at the howl that rose from the other side of the door.
"Can you keep him from doing that?" Lorenzo asked as he cleaned and closed the gash in Meg's chin. "Scaring everyone in the emergency room isn't going to help."
"Let him stay in here with her. I think he'll be calmer that way." Monty glanced at the bed, then looked away. "You've dealt with blood prophets before?"
"I saw a few of them during my residency. Anytime the skin is punctured, it opens the girl to prophecy."
"So if Ms. Corbyn needs stitches...?"
"Only the gods know what she's seeing right now because of the gash," Lorenzo replied grimly. "Every stitch would only add to it."
Monty leaned against the wall, feeling sick. He didn't speak again until Lorenzo finished and the supplies were properly stowed away.
"Let him in," Lorenzo said.
Simon leaped into the room the moment Monty opened the door. He stared at Meg. "She's cold. She's shivering!"
"That's a good thing," Lorenzo replied. "We'll use the heating pad to warm up the blankets. We'll keep her warm, keep watch on her heart rate and breathing."
"Not so different from a Wolf," Simon said quietly.
"I'm calling in my men," Monty said, knowing he wouldn't have anyone but Louis for backup until the storm ended. "One of them will be on guard at all times."
"Is that necessary?" Lorenzo asked.
"Yes, sir, it is."
Simon blinked. "Winter is outside." He walked out of the room.
"I have to take care of other patients," Lorenzo said. He looked toward the two nurses.
"I'll keep an eye on Ms. Corbyn," Monty said. "Your people are needed elsewhere."
When Lorenzo and the nurses left, Monty noticed the Other who crouched against the wall outside the room. "I'm Lieutenant Montgomery. Can you tell me what happened in the Courtyard?"
"I know who you are," the male replied wearily, pushing to his feet. "I'm Jester." He walked into the exam room and closed the door. "I can tell you some of it."
When Jester finished, Monty stepped out of the room and called his men. He couldn't reach Kowalski, who had been trying to ski to the Courtyard, and hoped the man had found shelter somewhere. Debany and MacDonald were a few blocks from the hospital and were bringing in some injured citizens. When he reached Burke and gave a summary of what had happened, the captain agreed with the necessity for guards while the Liaison was in the hospital and an abduction attempt was still a possibility.
Sending Jester to fetch one of the plastic chairs from the waiting room, Monty stood by the bed. Was Meg's breathing labored? Was she too pale?
He leaned down and said quietly, "Ms. Corbyn? You're safe now. We're going to keep you safe. But you have to help us. We all need you to get well."
Her eyes fluttered open.
"Meg?"
"Cold." Her voice was barely audible. "Cold."
"We'll get you warm."
Her eyes closed.
A minute later, he heard Jester set down a chair by the door—and Simon Wolfgard returned, snow melting off the fur covering the mostly human body.
"She woke up for a moment," Monty said.
Simon rushed to the side of the bed. "Meg? Meg!"
"I'll let Dr. Lorenzo know she came around that much." Leaving Simon and Jester to stand watch, Monty found the doctor and reported. Then he found Louis, who was trying to reach his own team. Finally, he found a vending machine, got a cup of coffee, and returned to the exam room to begin his shift of guard duty.
Still in human form, his clothes spattered with Hurricane's blood, Jester curled up in a corner of the exam room, his head pressed to his knees. He whined softly for a few minutes, then drifted off to sleep.
Simon stood by the bed, watching Meg. He felt so confused, so... angry. He had a reason to be angry. The enemy had invaded the Courtyard, had destroyed buildings, had killed some of the terra indigene. And they had threatened Sam and tried to take Meg. Even so, this angry didn't feel right, and the closer he was to human, the more he felt not right.
"Did you take anything before you started feeling angry?" Monty had asked. The possible answer to the question made him uneasy, so he wasn't going to think about it. Not now.
He glanced at the closed door. Meg was cold, shivering. The blankets weren't helping. He knew what he would do for a member of his pack. He carefully got onto the narrow hospital bed, grumbling because it was barely wide enough for a single human. After fixing the covers over him and Meg, he shifted to Wolf and curled his tail over her feet.
Much better.
<Meg?> She couldn't hear him, couldn't answer, but he called anyway. <Meg?>
He stretched his neck, sniffing at the bandages that covered the gash in her chin. He didn't like them. They shouldn't be there. He wanted to pull them off and lick the wound. Lick and lick until it healed.
He drew back his head. He had promised to leave the bandages alone. He'd brought her here for human healing, so he mustn't undo what the doctor had done.
Not so angry now. Not feeling so alone now with his body touching hers.
Winter outside in the sleigh, those cold, rage-filled eyes fixed on him when he came out to talk to her.
<They are taking care of Meg,> he'd said. <They will make her well.>
Winter nodded. Then she and Air drove off. And as he turned to go back inside, the wind died down and the snow stopped falling.
The door opened. Simon turned his head and bared his teeth, ready to spring up and attack. But it was Dr. Lorenzo, so he stayed where he was.
"I came in to check on Ms. Corbyn," the doctor said. "I'll check her pulse, then use a stethoscope to listen to her heart and lungs." He touched her wrist and looked at his watch. Then he put the metal disk on her chest and appeared to be listening.
Could Lorenzo hear the little rattle in her lungs that Simon could hear without the disk?
"Pneumonia's a concern," Lorenzo said quietly. "But she might avoid any problems." He glanced at the Wolf body under the covers. "The main thing now is to keep her warm."
When Lorenzo left, Simon stretched out his neck again, still wanting to get rid of those bandages and the medicine smell under them. With a quiet grumble, he licked her arm instead.
Her fingers flexed, burrowed into his fur.
<Meg?>
"Don't tell Simon about spinning the BOW," she mumbled.
He lifted his head. <Meg?>
But she was asleep again.
Nowhere to go. Nothing he could do while she was here. Settling his head on her shoulder, he closed his eyes and slept. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 30 | Vlad studied the ash that drifted off the two bodies. The last two enemies had been in sight of the Corvine entrance, had almost escaped. Riding their machines, they might have gotten out if they'd met up with anyone but Fire.
Suddenly aware that the swooshing sound he'd been hearing for the past minute had stopped, he looked toward the open gate. The figure hesitated, then came forward, moving slowly on skis.
"Mr. Sanguinati? It's Officer Kowalski. I work with Lieutenant Montgomery."
He recognized the voice, but he still felt suspicious. "Do humans ski during storms?"
"No, sir, not by choice. But I heard about the explosion in the Courtyard and was coming to see if I could help when I got caught in the blizzard. My mobile phone is still working, and I got a call through to the station. The lieutenant's teams are heading for the hospital. Protection for Ms. Corbyn while she's there."
Still trying to work out if there was another message under the words, Vlad looked toward the Wolfgard part of the Courtyard as howls filled the air.
"Problem?" Kowalski asked.
"One of the Wolves died."
"In the storm?"
"He was shot by the intruders."
"I'm sorry."
And Kowalski was genuinely sorry, Vlad realized. He looked at the two snowmobiles that Fire had left untouched. "Do you know how to work these machines?"
"I've ridden on them a few times, so I know enough to drive one."
"Then you will show me, and we'll use the machines to reach the hospital."
Picking up the steaming mug of tea, Henry walked over to the windows of his studio. Nothing he wanted to see out there. Not tonight. Terra indigene had died today, and some humans had died in the storm that was the Elementals' response to those deaths—and to the harm done to Meg.
The intruders had also died, and that was good.
Now they would see if the humans would resume their wary peace with the terra indigene or if there would be war. He hoped the humans would show some sense. It had been many years since the terra indigene had crushed a human city. If it came to that here, he would regret the deaths of some of these people.
Shaking his head, Henry sipped his tea. No point stirring up the bees if you weren't looking for honey.
On his way back to this part of the Courtyard, he'd found Nathan, exhausted and half frozen, still trying to chase after that Asia. But Tess had dealt with Asia Crane, so Henry shifted from spirit bear to Grizzly and broke the trail for the Wolf right up to the back door of the efficiency apartments. The girls had put Nathan's paws in warm water to melt the ice clumped between his pads, had patted him dry with towels, and given him food and water. Now Nathan and John were curled up in the apartment, asleep, while the girls were at A Little Bite, making food and hot drinks. And Lorne, with Henry's permission, was in the social center, letting the stranded use the toilets and rest in a warm place for a while.
Last winter they would have stood behind their locked doors and watched the humans die. But things had changed around the Lakeside Courtyard, and those changes held promise for all of Namid's children. So he hoped the human government would be wise enough not to choose war.
Meg woke slowly, feeling a rattle and burn in her chest.
White room. The hated and feared bed. And a figure at the end of the bed.
"No," she moaned. Had it been a dream, a delusion?
"Meg?" The figure leaped toward her, his weird-shaped hands coming down on either side of her head. "Stay awake, Meg. Stay awake!"
A face out of nightmares, out of visions of dark water and terrible cold. Then the fur receded and she recognized him. "S-Simon?"
Red flickered in his amber eyes and he snarled at her. "If you ever scare me like this again, I will eat you!" Then he pressed his forehead against her arm and whined.
Not a dream? She had reached the Courtyard, had been building the life that had swum through the dark dreams? "Where are we?"
"Hospital." He raised his head and snarled again. "You stupid female. You fell through the ice and cut your chin!"
He paced, he panted, he snarled and whined. He threatened to eat her a half dozen times. But when he howled, all kinds of people ran into the room.
Terror filled her when she saw the man in the white coat—the same kind of coat that had been worn by the Walking Names—but Lieutenant Montgomery was the next person into the room, followed by Vladimir Sanguinati.
"Ms. Corbyn, I'm Dr. Lorenzo," the white coat said. "You're awake, and that's welcome news." He slanted a glance at Simon. "Although hospitals are supposed to be quiet zones, even when there is good news."
Simon just growled at the doctor.
"I want to leave," Meg said, desperate to get away from the bed and the room that felt too much like the compound, like a cage.
Dr. Lorenzo shook his head. "Considering the condition of the streets, none of us are going anywhere until morning. Besides, you need warmth and rest. Which is why Lieutenant Montgomery, Mr. Sanguinati, and I were talking about moving you to a private room on another floor. It will be quieter, and, frankly, we need the exam rooms down here in emergency."
"I agree with Dr. Lorenzo," Vlad said. "A private room will be less stressful for everyone."
"But I want to leave," Meg said, looking at Simon. Would he understand why she was afraid to be here?
Simon hesitated, then shook his head. "Your lungs rattle. I can hear them. We'll stay here until your lungs don't rattle."
So they bundled her up, plunked her in a wheelchair, and took her up to another room, where they tucked her into another bed, gave her warm drinks and a bowl of soup, and then left her with the vampire and the Wolf.
"Sam?" she asked.
"He's fine," Simon said.
"He's a little hoarse from howling for so long," Vlad said. "But otherwise, he's fine. After we sent news to the Courtyard that you would be all right, he settled down. He's still with Grandfather Erebus. They're watching movies."
"Kept him safe," she whispered.
"You should have stayed with Erebus too," Simon growled. "Stupid female. And I do not want to know about you spinning the BOW, because I'm sure I would have to bite you."
She blinked at him. Oh. That wasn't a dream either?
Vlad chuckled, an earthy sound. "Let it go, Simon. It's probably best if we don't know too much about how our Meg ended up in the creek."
"Asia," Meg said. "She came to the apartments. She tried to take Sam. Did she get away?"
They both shrugged, but she saw the look they exchanged. And she wondered how much special meat was going to be available to the Courtyard's residents over the next few days. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 31 | Throughout the night, Monty, Louis, and Kowalski stood shifts outside Meg Corbyn's hospital room, while Debany and MacDonald ferried medicines to people who needed them and could be reached. At one point, Jester had ridden back to the Courtyard with Vlad, who returned with clothes for Simon and Meg, two more snowmobiles that the Others offered to MacDonald and Debany for their use... and Jake Crowgard.
Monty didn't ask about the location of the previous owners of the snowmobiles. Maybe they would be filling out DLU forms for those men; maybe not.
By dawn, news began filtering in.
Lakeside was cut off for the time being, not only by a record snowfall but by the "glaciers" that blocked every road out of the city. Monty wondered if spot melting to clear a road or two was possible—if anyone dared to approach the Courtyard and ask politely.
An hour earlier, Officer Debany called to tell him Asia Crane had been found dead in her car. Monty hoped he never heard that much controlled terror in a man's voice again.
The shifters and the vampires are the buffer between us and the rest of what lives in the Courtyards, Monty thought. We were given a glimpse yesterday. Let's hope we're smart enough to heed the warning.
He pushed to his feet when he saw Douglas Burke walk toward him, then walk past him a few steps—just far enough so they wouldn't be directly outside Meg Corbyn's room.
"Captain."
"Lieutenant." Burke hesitated. "Thought you should know. Our mayor died in the blizzard." There was a peculiar, almost fearful note in his voice.
"He was out in it?" Monty asked.
"He was in his bedroom, with the door locked and the windows shut. When they found him this morning, the room was filled with snow, floor to ceiling. Medical examiner will have to determine if he froze to death or smothered—or died of some other cause, since there are some suspicious wounds around major arteries and an insufficient amount of blood around the body." He paused. "The acting mayor wants it known that he will do his utmost to maintain a cordial relationship with the terra indigene." Another pause. Burke lowered his voice even more and added, "Between you and me, I think the terra indigene connected His Honor's interest in apprehending Meg Corbyn with the attack on the Courtyard and the abduction attempt. And that's why they killed him."
"But the governor was the one who had pushed for it, sending the orders down the line." Monty studied his captain's face and felt chilled. "What else happened?"
"The governor of the Northeast Region also died last night."
"But the governor lives in Hubbney." The actual name was Hubb NE. A small town that was the hub of government for the Northeast, it was an hour's train ride north of Toland, and it was hundreds of miles away from Lakeside. "How did he die?" Heart attack? Monty hoped. Or a traffic accident?
"He froze to death in his bathtub." Burke's smile held no humor. "Not only did the water freeze around him so fast he wasn't able to escape, but it somehow forced its way down his throat and then froze in his lungs. A hideous way to die, I should think."
"Not too dissimilar to what might have happened to a woman if she fell through the ice while being pursued by unknown assailants," Monty said, shuddering.
"Not too dissimilar," Burke agreed.
So the Others had decided the governor was also to blame for the attack and had reached across hundreds of miles to eliminate another enemy.
"Well," Burke said. "I'm guessing the hospital has provided a place for their staff and law enforcement to crash, so why don't you take a couple of hours?"
Monty tipped his head toward the door. "It's my shift."
"I'm taking your shift, Lieutenant. Get some rest. You've earned it."
He was swaying on his feet, so he didn't argue. But he did wonder which one would be the first to poke his head out the door to get a look at the unfamiliar police officer: the Wolf, the vampire, or the Crow. |
Written In Red | Anne Bishop | [
"romance",
"urban fantasy"
] | [
"vampires",
"shifters",
"The Others"
] | Chapter 32 | On the Thaisday after the storm, Monty walked into Howling Good Reads and nodded to Heather as he scanned the front of the store. Then he walked up to the counter, giving her a warm smile.
"I noticed the Open sign," he said. He and his men had driven by several times a day once the roads were cleared, checking for that sign. "No customers today?"
"Not yet," Heather replied with forced brightness. Then she pointed to the stacks of paper on the counter and the full cart of books. "But there are plenty of orders to bundle up for shipping."
You're not sure the human customers will come back, Monty thought. He had wondered the same thing. Just like he'd wondered if the Others would open any of these stores to humans again. The Lakeside Courtyard was the most progressive Courtyard in the whole of Thaisia, with its human employees and human customers. Granted, humans still had limited access, but it was a positive start that could ripple through the continent and ease a little of the ever-present tension between humans and Others in cities and towns across Thaisia. But the Lakeside mayor and Northeast Region governor aiding and abetting someone the terra indigene considered an enemy could also ripple through the continent, and the storm in Lakeside and the slaughter in Jerzy were grim reminders of how the Others took care of difficulties caused by humans.
And yet there had been a bright note, and that's what had brought him to HGR as soon as the store reopened.
"I'd like a word with Mr. Wolfgard if he's in," Monty said.
"I'll see if he's available." Heather picked up the phone and dialed an extension. "Mr. Wolfgard? Lieutenant Montgomery would like to speak with you." A pause. "Okay, I'll tell him." She smiled at Monty. "He says to go back to the stockroom."
"Thanks." As he walked to the back of the store, he realized this meeting would also have significant ripples, and the next few minutes would determine if those ripples would be good or bad.
"Lieutenant." Simon glanced at him, then checked a list and pulled more books off the stockroom shelves.
"Mr. Wolfgard. No watch Wolf today?"
"They come and go. That was always true, although Ferus and Nathan were the ones who spent the most time on guard at HGR. Ferus is in the Ash Grove now, and Nathan thinks our Liaison is more entertaining than the customers."
"Ms. Corbyn has returned to work?" He'd seen the lights on in the Liaison's Office when he and Kowalski had driven past, and that, too, had been a good sign.
Simon nodded. "She should stay in the den until next week, but she snarled at me when I suggested it."
Monty wasn't sure if the Wolf was offended or pleased, so he didn't reply. But he thought, Good for you, Meg.
"Something on your mind, Lieutenant?" Simon asked.
Many things, but he'd start with the one least likely to offend. "I understand you've set aside one of the efficiency apartments for my officers' use. Thank you."
Simon looked uncomfortable. Then he shrugged. "We had the space. We set two of the apartments aside for our human employees so they don't have to go out in a storm. And Henry still has the one he prefers when he wants to stay close to his studio. Letting your officers use the last apartment was sensible."
And it would add another layer of defense to the Courtyard.
"I heard you removed the water tax on the Chestnut Street Police Station and the hospital that took care of Meg."
"So?" Simon disappeared for a minute, then returned with an armload of books that he put on the cart.
"It's appreciated." Now they'd come to the next layer of discussion. "And to show his own appreciation, Dr. Lorenzo would like to set up a small office here and provide medical treatment for your human employees."
No reason to mention that part of Lorenzo's interest was the cassandra sangue living among the Others. Having the opportunity to gain some understanding of Meg Corbyn's race was not something the good doctor would pass up.
"We don't have room for..." Simon stopped.
Monty held his breath.
"Maybe," Simon said. "But allowing this doesn't change the fact that most of you are still just meat."
No, it doesn't change that, Monty thought. But most of us is a long step from all of us, and if you can learn to trust some of us, all of us have a better chance of surviving.
"I'll discuss this with the Business Association," Simon said. "Maybe Dr. Lorenzo can come and talk to us about an office—and check on Meg while he's here."
"I'll tell him to call Howling Good Reads and set up a time with you."
He could read body language well enough to recognize Simon was feeling closed in by all this talk about more humans in the Courtyard, even if he was the one allowing them access. So this conversation wasn't going to last much longer.
"I have work to do," Simon said, a growl of warning under the words.
"Then I'll be brief," Monty replied. "Your anger at the hospital was excessive even under the circumstances. I think you know that. Do you have any idea what caused that enhanced aggression?"
"No."
Flat. Cold. The voice of a leader who will allow no challenge.
And a lie.
"All right," Monty said, taking a step back. "I'm willing to help. Please remember that."
Red flickered in the Wolf's amber eyes.
The sound of a door closing. A moment later, Jester approached them.
Giving the Coyote a nod, Monty walked out of the stockroom. He stayed in the store a minute longer, scanning the display of mysteries and making a selection.
Humans have courage and resilience and they endure, Monty thought as he paid for the book and left Howling Good Reads. Roads would be opened, buildings repaired, and life would go on.
And the humans who had contact with the Courtyard would do their best to help everyone survive.
Simon stared at the Coyote while Montgomery's words circled around him, closing in.
"Your anger at the hospital was excessive even under the circumstances."
"How much did you hear?" Simon asked.
"I like it here," Jester said. "I want to stay."
Montgomery's words seemed to echo in the room.
"Do you have any idea what caused that enhanced aggression?"
"How much did you hear?" Simon snarled.
"I won't tell," Jester said. "I'll never tell."
Quick-thinking Coyote who sometimes saw too much, heard too much. But unlike many of his kind, Jester wouldn't break his word.
"You can stay." Of course, what wasn't said was if he couldn't trust Jester to stay, he also couldn't allow the Coyote to leave. But he figured Jester knew that already.
"Thanks, Simon." Jester backed away. "I'll go check with Meg and see if she wants the ponies to come up today."
Then he was gone, and a moment later, Simon heard HGR's back door closing.
"Do you have any idea what caused that enhanced aggression?"
Oh yes. He'd had plenty of time to think about it while they'd waited to take Meg home, and he had a very good idea what had caused that strange anger. Even the Sanguinati wouldn't drink the sweet blood of the cassandra sangue, and he'd licked up plenty of it from the gash in Meg's chin.
Winter and Air hadn't paid attention to him on the race to the hospital, but Jester had been with him. And Blair and Vlad had been with him at the creek when they pulled Meg out of the water. Give either of them enough bits of information, and they would figure it out too.
He would keep his suspicions to himself for a few more days. Then he would talk to Henry before deciding who else needed to know what he suspected: that the blood of cassandra sangues was the source of the sickness that was touching humans and Others in the West.
But that was for another day, and Henry already carried the weight of another secret.
Simon had been at the hospital guarding Meg when Asia Crane was found. He hadn't seen her, but Henry had. And all Henry said to him was, "I know what Tess is. We will never speak of this."
Dangerous to be the only one who looked at a body and understood a truth about the predator who did the killing. Or maybe wise to be the only one to carry that burden. Either way, Tess was still running A Little Bite and baking chocolate chip cookies for Meg and Sam.
"Enough," he growled. "You have a business to run." And until he pulled these books so Heather could fill the orders, he had to stay here instead of going over to the Liaison's Office to play with Meg for a few minutes.
Checking the list, he pulled more books off the shelves in the stockroom and thought about Meg, because thinking about Meg made him feel calmer, happier.
She had been released from the hospital on Moonsday, but he'd used Sam's need to stay close to her as a way to keep her home for a few more days. And he'd also pointed out that most of Lakeside was still shut down, so the stores couldn't send out any deliveries. Even then, she'd been stubborn about staying indoors.
Well, he could be stubborn too, especially when dressing Meg had turned into a game. He and Vlad and Jenni had raided the Market Square stores for clothes to keep Meg warm. They made fingerless gloves for her, and then demanded that she wear mittens over them if she so much as stuck her nose outdoors. If she actually went outside for even a minute, she had to wear an undershirt, a turtleneck, a sweater, and a down vest zipped up all the way so her chest would stay warm. Plus her winter coat and a scarf and wool cap. And two pairs of socks with her boots.
None of them had given the colors of the clothes any thought until Merri Lee came back from visiting Meg on Windsday afternoon and grumbled about her friend being dressed like a paint-store explosion.
Shortly after that, he'd overheard Merri Lee, Heather, and Ruthie ordering clothes that, they said, would work with what Meg already had, so he figured the clothes game had run its course.
But there was still the hat game.
He scanned the shelves again when he didn't find two of the books he wanted.
"We're out of that one too?" he muttered as he added another caught-in-a-storm thriller to his list of reorders. Despite the lack of customers today, he'd been on the move since he unlocked the door, and he'd done nothing but pull stock to fill orders going to terra indigene settlements!
He refused to consider why the Elementals had put in a request for a handful of the caught-in-a-storm titles.
He stopped and let a shudder run through him. Even among the terra indigene, it took a little time to stop feeling afraid when the Elementals lashed out in rage.
But even Winter was calmer now that Meg was home.
Elliot's meeting with the acting mayor had also helped calm everyone. The man had been quick to assure the Courtyard consul that all the wanted posters that had provoked such a tragic case of mistaken identity had been destroyed, and the police would do their utmost to apprehend anyone who caused Ms. Corbyn any distress in the future.
All the Others living in Courtyards throughout Thaisia would be watching to see if the human government in Lakeside would keep its word.
The man who sent the enemy into the Courtyard, the man who had given Meg a designation instead of a name, was still out there. Her skin was still worth too much profit for him to stop trying to get her back.
That Controller was still looking for her, and now the terra indigene were looking for him. The governor hadn't known much, but he'd told the Elementals who came visiting his house in Hubbney everything he knew about Meg's enemy. Sooner or later, the Others would find the man, and a human piece of Thaisia would be reclaimed by the wild country.
Simon looked at his hands, which had grown furry. He snarled when he couldn't get them back to looking human, a sign that he was too agitated to wear this skin. Since he didn't want to scare off Heather, he did the sensible thing.
He stripped off his clothes, shifted to Wolf, and went to the Liaison's Office to have a few minutes of playtime with Meg.
Meg put in a music disc and turned on the player. She didn't want to listen to the radio anymore. She didn't want to hear about the people who died in the storm or the damage the city had sustained. Maybe she should feel bad about not wanting to listen to the news, but what happened wasn't her fault. If she had let those men take her, the Elementals still would have savaged Lakeside for the death of old Hurricane, if for nothing else. She could argue that, being the reason the storm ended, she had saved more people than she had harmed by being here.
Didn't make her feel any less sorry for the people who had been hurt. And it made her wonder whether Lieutenant Montgomery felt the same way.
She had expected to die in the Courtyard, had seen the images from the prophecies come to pass. But the outcome had been different. Not only had she survived, but she had also prevented Asia Crane and those men from taking Sam.
She would always be short, but she wasn't helpless and she wasn't small. Not anymore.
She glanced at the clock. Bracing for the sound, she set the mail on the sorting table a moment before Nathan howled. Apparently, he intended to do that on the hour, every hour, while the office was open.
The Meg Report. Meg is here. Meg is fine.
She hoped he would grow bored with this particular game very soon.
Hearing a sound from the back room, Meg picked up a stack of mail and barely glanced up when Simon trotted into the sorting room.
Something had changed between them while she was in the hospital. She wasn't sure if Simon considered her a friend, a playmate, or a valued toy, but he seemed to enjoy playing games with her.
Speaking of games...
Standing on his hind legs, Simon rested one forepaw on the table and extended the other to touch her nose. She suspected the name of this game was Plop the Hat on Meg. If her nose wasn't warm enough according to whatever criteria he was using at that moment, he would fetch the floppy fleece hat he had bought for her and make her put it on.
But she was no longer helpless or small. If she was going to be a squeaky toy for big, furry playmates, she was also going to have some say in the games. Starting now, with the choice of game.
She pulled back her head and glared at him. "If you try to touch my nose again today, I won't give you any cookies."
Simon withdrew the paw, seemed to consider that for a moment, then reached out again as if testing her.
"I mean it, Simon. No cookies for the whole day."
Nose or cookies. Hard choice. But in the end, the cookies won. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 1 | Ice cream.
One stupid, free scoop of ice cream. Dhane was in such a hurry to use the coupon that expired at midnight—not to mention his gamer friends waiting for his return—that even though the traffic light had changed and the little walking-man sign glowed from the other side, he failed to do that one simple thing that all kids were taught from a very early age: look both ways.
It didn't matter how many degrees he had, or how many Latin or Greek words he had memorized, or that he was a day late on his review article for the latest role-playing game, the world didn't care.
Then again, if it weren't for the garbage truck—forty tons of metal filled to the brim with everything society deigned to throw away—it wouldn't have been so bad. In this case, though, the word splat would be the only word adequate to explain what happened. . ..
Dhane sucked in a breath of stale, cold air. It was damn freezing in here! In a place of pitch-black. There were others, too. People breathing, someone shivering nearby, a girl crying about a killer clown.
Tiny balls of light—little dots in the blackness—wisped through the air and drew lines. Someone jumped back and crashed to the ground with a groan. Then light from torches illuminated the room of cold stone bricks.
There were more than a dozen people, standing within individual chalk circles with fancy symbols encasing them, completely naked. That bit should have been obvious, though when you get smeared by a garbage truck, it often took a few moments to pull one's wits about themselves.
A rather petite and pretty girl standing five feet away, jerked at her own realization of being alive and bare, and tried to cover her lady bits, all the while glaring at Dhane.
Of course, he wasn't really staring, it just so happened to be the place he was facing when the lights came on. What did people say in such a situation? I'm sorry, my dear, for invading your privacy. It was like a line from a movie . . . in medieval times. Definitely not cool.
She had brunette hair with highlights and curls cupping a heart-shaped face, a cute button nose, olive-colored skin, and dark brown, evil eyes. Evil, murderous eyes that seemed to scream, Look away or I'll cut your throat.
Yes, that was exactly what they said, it only took a solid fifteen seconds for those thoughts to slush through his brain. He offered an awkward, "Sorry," which came out sounding far less majestic than the movie line.
It was at this time he realized how loose he was hanging and the random roaming eyes from others, all hugging their own forms in odd manners. He mimicked the reaction, cupping his manhood with both hands.
Footsteps scuffed the stone, followed by the tapping of a cane. "Welcome to Olindale," a withered old man said. "Oh, don't be embarrassed, it's nothing I haven't seen before. There are robes next to each of you." He had wiry hair jutting in all directions, covering the sides of his head, avoiding a pale white dome that reflected torchlight, and sliding down the front of him, like . . . melted ice cream.
Oi. . . . A simple hankering for ice cream and even death wasn't strong enough to curtail it. Death. . . . Was he really dead?
Next to Dhane's circle was a nicely folded robe of thick, scratchy material. Little candles around his circle had, at some point, been lit, casting a modicum of warmth in the frigid room. He pulled the material over his form and immediately felt better. It was a night and day difference, of being cold to the point of shivering, and suddenly warm and comfortable.
"I am Gameus, god of games and of this realm," the old man said and sighed. "Yes, you have died. Yes, this is one of the many heavens. Yes, somehow I got stuck with a bunch of nerds. You know—and bear with me, I'm in great need of a good rant—the games used to be of warriors who risked their lives to fight animals in the arenas, or stand upon their chariots to face off with other brave men.
"Now? Now. . . . Games have an all-new meaning. My heaven has radically changed since your kind started showing up. It's quite rude if you ask me. I mean, this is my realm. And so, before I give you your starting items and send you on your adventure, please sign my petition. I only need two million more signatures. Maddeningly, of course, the choice is yours. I cannot revoke your free will, but I can promise that gods make far better friends than foes...."
Gameus let that last line linger in the silence as he eyeballed each of his petrified audience. Then he smiled and continued walking through the room, only to stop at a chalk circle with a pile of bones and ash.
"Pip!" he yelled, voice rocking the room, eyes glowing blue. A stone brick cracked.
From the shadows, tendrils of smoke formed into an imp, two feet tall, leathery red skin, with impractically tiny, bat-like wings. "Yesss, Master?" it said in a high pitched, wobbling voice.
"How many times must I tell you the symbol crosses at the arch? AT THE ARCH! Look at this," the god said, grabbing the imp by the neck and shoving its head close to one of the symbols that adorned the circle.
"Yesss, yesss, I sees the problem. I goofed, that I did."
"Goofed? This soul . . . who was it? Amber? Guild master of the Razor Wolves, killed by dislodged air-conditioning unit, is going to hell because you goofed!" Gameus stared for a moment, then sighed. "Bah, fine, it's just one less signature for my petition. Grab a broom."
"Yesss, Master."
Gameus raised his hands in front of himself, as if lifting something, and the entire wall on one side of the room opened, stone grinding upward. Sunlight poured through the opening, illuminating a long stretch of land and oceans and mountains and forests, all far below, beneath puffy white clouds.
"Please follow me," Gameus said and stepped outside, tapping his cane as he walked. Pip already had a broom, sweeping the remaining bits of Amber into a dustpan. Everyone shuffled forward, watching the little imp with a mixture of curiosity—for when had real imps existed?—and horror.
Gameus took a seat on a stool outside, waved a finger in the air, and a box appeared next to him. "Form a line, if you will."
Dhane found himself at the front of that line, nobody eager to take up the ten feet in front of him to be first. He closed the gap, thinking it wiser to follow instructions than annoy the god.
Gameus held out a clipboard with a #2 pencil attached by a string. Dhane took it. The top of the paper was a request to exchange Gameus with another god, one better fit for the position.
He peered over the clipboard and Gameus stared back, tapping a long fingernail on the top of his cane. Dhane signed his name—Dhane, with an H, certainly not Dane, without an H, like mundane or Great Dane; no, he wasn't a dog—and paused at his last name. What was it again?
"I . . ." he started, though Gameus held up a hand to silence him.
"We strip you of your last name. It makes the transition easier when you can't think about your past family members, friends, kids, significant others, and the like."
And it was true. Dhane couldn't think of his mother or sister. He had a mother and sister, not a father. But they didn't have names or faces or really any emotion attached to them whatsoever. He also had a girlfriend, one that he could still feel an inkling of deep affection for, though just as he had felt it, the sensation evaporated.
Wasn't heaven all about being together with those you loved? But even as that thought struck, he didn't quite care. Those no-named, no-faced people were in the distant past, in a distant world.
"So . . ." he started, though Gameus held up a hand to silence him again.
"You can come up with your last name at any time, or just sign your first. If you should ever come up with your last name, it'll automatically be added to my petition. Go ahead and pass the clipboard down the line."
Dhane looked at his name and found it completely satisfying as it was, then passed the board to the next person in line: a tall fellow with blond hair and a broad chest. The guy tore the clipboard from Dhane's hand without so much of a Thank you.
"Listen up," Gameus said. "This world is unlike that of your world. There's no sickness, no excrement, even garbage cleans up itself. But you'll figure this stuff out on your own. For the sake of time, please limit your questions. Now, you each get one of these ancient, magical relics." He held up a device. . ..
"A phone?" Dhane asked.
"What? No! It's not a phone. It's ancient technology that, once you bind to it, will forever be attached to your soul. Now, would you like the one with an apple on the back, or the one with a robot?"
Dhane took the ancient and magical device, then moved to the side so the line could progress.
Hello, Hola, Bonjour, Konnichiwa. . ..
Yup, it was definitely an iPhone. An iPhone in heaven. . . . He tapped the display and it flashed through a dozen setup screens within a second, before displaying the home screen. There were a number of apps: Inventory, Map, Character, Party, Waypoint, Contacts, among others.
"Once you get your device," Gameus said, "go ahead and open the Clothing app. Your first set of clothing is free. Pick out something that fits your preference, then return your robes to Pip."
The little imp materialized from smoke, standing on a stool, holding a few hangers under an arm. He waved a three-fingered hand to make sure everyone understood that he was, in fact, the one and only Pip.
Dhane tapped the Clothing app and it opened, revealing a mirror image of himself, standing at the center of a rotating platform. He had dark brown eyes, matching hair, thick with loose curls—or rather, thick with an idiotic mind of its own—that ran almost to his shoulders.
He was tall, slender, with decent posture, and a tan from all the countless wanderings down hiking trails, finding new places to get lost.
While he looked the part of the average everyday guy, he spent far more time exploring the vast worlds of video games and literature than he did outside. Then again, it was what paid the bills as a games journalist.
Bills? Ha! He wouldn't have to pay bills anymore! The random thought split into others, such as a possible article titled The Benefits of Death, or Budgeting for an Exciting Afterlife. Catchy.
Did this world have journalists? Could he actually explore a real fantasy world and write about it? This just might be the best afterlife ever! A dream come true, for what nerd wouldn't want to explore a real Middle-earth or Azeroth?
People were already returning their robes while he hadn't even explored his options yet. This was his world now, there'd be time to do all those other things, time to get lost in the mysteries of a new world. The thought was so intoxicating, he almost couldn't focus on the various categories in the app.
There were all sorts of styles for men and women, old and young. Tee shirts with various logos on them, one from Disney World, one from Blizzard Entertainment, one from practically every company, brand, or artist imaginable.
There were options for everything down to the style of underwear he wanted: tighty-whities, boxers, boxer-briefs, athletic shorts, some with hearts printed across them, some with ducks.
Girls had all sorts of panties and bras, anything from sexy lingerie, to casual and comfortable, to sports. Was it mild curiosity that kept him on that page for five seconds longer than was appropriate or an inner perverse nature?
Someone bumped him from behind and he turned to find the brunette girl, now fully clothed in torn jeans and a pink shirt loose enough to drop down one shoulder. She started to apologize but stopped when she realized who she had run into.
It was crazy how some people could shift their emotional state in a fraction of a second, from surprise to disgust to hate to surprise again and somehow linger on confusion. Her eyes roamed his body, as if in revenge, You saw me, you twat waffle! I get to see you! It probably wasn't the best revenge since he wore a robe, though she stared at his exposed chest nonetheless.
"I'm sorry," she finally said, cheeks now a little flushed.
That was most definitely not the reaction he had expected. He wasn't a bad looking guy, by any means. But he also wasn't the type that got cute girls like this to blush, all without saying a single word. It usually took a bit of work, took a bit of timing. Not to mention the little fact that this particular girl had tried to kill him with her deathly stare only minutes ago.
She continued, awkwardly searching for the right words, the right way to say them, all the while flicking her brown eyes to his and then back to his chest, "I had no idea. I'm Bexley, by the way."
She reached toward his chest in an overly forward manner, as if unable to control her urges. She tugged on something smooth and silky, something that now he had looked down, looked particularly like a red, thin-laced bra.
"There, that's better," she said, almost in a motherly tone.
Oh, shit brownies! The phone revealed a green checkmark where his damn thumb had decided to take a little break while he was distracted. "It's not what you think."
"It's not?"
"No, I'm not—"
"You're not!" This seemed to only confirm Bexley's earlier assessment that he was, in fact, a creep. She straightened and lost all prior sense of soft, caring warmth, those murderous brown eyes now glaring holes into his soul. She hmphed, turned sharply, and marched away.
"That!" yelled the blond guy, "is what you chose? Haha!" He had an obnoxiously loud voice, like a quarterback calling out numbers. It was the sort of voice that summoned everyone's attention, directing it with ease by thrusting a finger in Dhane's direction.
Everyone stared. Some laughed, some didn't care, some gave disapproving glares, while others looked rather high . . . staring at the world in a wide-eyed daze by the sudden shift from their once physical life, to whatever this was.
Dhane hit the Remove button and the silky soft material faded away, though it was still Owned. He sighed. Well, that's just great. Heaven needed an undo button. Better yet, a Load From Last Checkpoint option would be stellar.
He tapped into the men's section—chiding himself over being in the women's category in the first place—and chose a black pair of boxer-briefs, some nice Jeans, and black boots. When he tried to buy a shirt—a fun shirt with a Warcraft murloc on it—the app displayed an error.
─ You cannot afford that item.
The shirt was 52 copper pieces. Not dollars, not credits, but actual copper pieces. And that really sucked, for he had no copper or any other way to purchase a shirt.
The bra could be sold to the System for 15 copper. Yet there were no shirts that he could get for only 15 copper.
Everyone else had already purchased their clothes and returned their robes. A man in his thirties—short-cropped hair, brown skin with a rosy undertone, and an athletic build—wore a nice three-piece suit. A whole freaking suit while Dhane couldn't afford a simple, if not iconic, tee shirt.
Dhane returned the robe to Pip, losing that comfortable sense of warmth. Cold air cut across goosebumps, and he clasped arms around his bare mid as others gave him their best, incredulous stares.
Pip slid a hanger into the robe's arm slots, then dropped the cloth into a bag that somehow held all the robes while not being materially large enough to hold a single one.
Gameus tapped his cane on the stone ground. It rang through the commotion of conversation, of introductions, of compliments on style choices, and of whispers about the strange guy who wasn't wearing a shirt at all.
"Yes, yes," Gameus said, "this is all very new and exciting for you, I am sure, though your most important choice has yet to be made. Please follow me." Gameus turned and walked across the stone to a set of curving stairs, carved into the mountain. Everyone followed him, up and around and around, hundreds of steps.
Dhane's phone—that was, his ancient and magical device—vibrated. A notification revealed he had dropped to 10/100 Stamina. Huh, just like a video game. Maybe it was from all the shivering. The higher they went, the colder it got, even to the point where people's once incredulous stares had somehow morphed into pity.
The three-piece-suit guy even asked why he hadn't bought a shirt, to which the blond guy only laughed. Dhane explained the mistake and the man nodded, then removed his vest, a rather large vest, and handed it over.
Just like the robes, wearing the vest—even if it looked more like a strung-out tank top on him, dipping down to his thighs—immediately replaced the frigid cold with the comfort of mid-Spring.
The top of the mountain had magnificent creatures, all glowing in radiant light, bigger than life. The one that immediately caught Dhane's attention was a lion, sitting on its haunches, two feet taller than anyone in the group, a king in its own right.
There was also a monkey, a wolf, ferrets, a hawk, an owl, and—swimming in the air through golden light as if it were water—a dolphin. Their light gave off warmth, happiness, and fulfillment, like the whole purpose of life was to appease these divine creations, which seemed odd since Gameus didn't have any such aura.
"Before you," Gameus said, "are the divinities of this heaven. You may only choose one and will serve that divinity for all time. Search your hearts, you will know which is the right choice for you. When you are ready, step forward and touch the divinity of your choice."
Dhane already knew which divinity to choose. There was no question about it. The majestic Lion seemed to call to him, whisper into his mind, summon him forward. He stepped toward the Lion without much of a thought, as if his body moved on its own, aligned with purpose and belonging, then promptly stumbled over the blond guy's, extended foot.
Dhane summoned all the dexterity of his previous life—all of his experiences of falling with grace—and found no such experiences existed. Instead, he slammed his head against the stone, prompting all the bells in the world to ring at once.
Something crawled across his hand and he pushed away, a jolt of revulsion swam through him at the icky touch of some insect. Oh, how he hated insects and their little ugly legs always scurrying into places they weren't wanted.
Others approached the divinities and reverently held out their hands. A simple touch sent a stream of golden light into each of them. Once a divinity was chosen, Gameus tapped the person and they shifted to stone, like statues that then burst into magical swirls of light and vanished.
Dhane pushed himself to his feet and approached the Lion, though the Lion turned away. "You have already chosen," the divinity said in a low, growling voice. "You cannot choose two divinities." The Lion jumped from the mountain and dispersed into golden shimmering light, vanishing.
"But what other?" Dhane asked to the void. He hadn't chosen anything, not yet. The only divinity he wanted to choose, needed to choose, was the Lion, the radiant king of gods, the only divinity that made sense to his very soul.
Gameus turned from another vanishing statue, the last of all the other people. He crooked an eyebrow at Dhane, looking more through him than at him, and slowly nodded. "Not a choice I'd expect, given where we are," he said, a little perturbed, "though it is a choice nonetheless."
"But I didn't choose!"
"Then you were chosen. In the end, it doesn't matter. We leave such things to the fates. Your future will be interesting to watch."
With that, Gameus tapped Dhane's shoulder and the world swirled to darkness. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 2 | Dhane broke free of the tight gripping stone that had wrapped around him. Crumbled pieces of shale, pieces that looked identical to him, lay in green grass. His stone-carved face, a bit of statue that could withstand the test of time, revealed his eyes half shut, mouth contorted in protest.
"A warning would have been nice...."
The grass swayed in a soft breeze, dancing along rolling hills. Trees with bunched-up tops, like cotton balls of pink leaves, cast flittered shadows. Boulders and jutting stones carved through the land, surrounded by bushes sprinkled with flowers.
There wasn't a person in sight. But what a wondrous world! The way the trees grew with twisting branches, the birds and their metallic blue wings, shimmering in sunlight, the vast stretch of green and pink in every direction.
Yet . . . what was he supposed to do?
It was one thing to get lost on purpose, and a totally different thing to be truly lost. When he would drive up to the mountains, there had always been an anchor that tethered him to society: roads, trails, people, his compass, and the general understanding of where things were. Walk far enough east and he'd hit the city. Easy peasy.
That's all he needed, a map. And wasn't there an app for that?
Oh . . . shit brownies! Where was his phone? He had it right before being turned into a statue. His pockets were empty. The only things around him were the crumbled bits of shale.
But it was supposed to be a piece of his soul! Could he have lost it . . . dropped it on the mountaintop when he fell? Of course he did, that was what happened with all new phones: get the pristine box, the pretty screen, and five minutes later, a crack down the center.
Did they sell screen protectors in heaven?
If there ever was a time for a handy Find My Phone app, this was that time. Then again, he wasn't on a mountain top anymore. Who knew how far away Gameus had sent him.
With that thought, he turned and there, soaring into the stratosphere, was a dull gray of a shape, like an upside-down funnel, distinct from all other mountains, and no doubt, the mountain he had—moments ago—been standing on.
It would be impossible to climb that, a dozen miles of cliffs. To even reach it would take weeks.
"Gameus?" Dhane tried and waited. The only reply was flittering leaves. Then, feeling silly for the thought, though enough on the verge of panic that it was worth a try, he called out, "Customer support?"
Nothing. Just thinking heaven had game masters made him cringe. But there had obviously been a mistake, a glitch in the matrix. Not only did he not get to choose a divinity, but he was also now without the single device that contained any hope of finding information.
A footstep, tiny as it were, crinkled leaves. Dhane turned and a small, green . . . goblin?—for lack of a better term—had his head poked out from behind a tree. He had a leather helmet that cupped his head, leaving enough room for two large ears, each nearly half the size of his head, lined with tiny brass ring piercings.
The goblin arched an eyebrow, seemingly confused, then slowly moved back behind the tree, as if by moving slowly, it couldn't be seen.
"Coru burrah . . ." came a whisper.
"Pfff! Tatti?"
Another goblin stuck her head out from the other side of the tree. This one didn't have a helmet. She had short, spiky black hair, like a green Barbie doll with her hair chopped off. Her eyes were large and expressive, shimmering in tones of gray. She carried a tiny bow, an arrow nocked at the ready, quiver hanging at her side.
The goblin squinted for a long moment. Something touched him, like a feather, drawn through his chest. She loosened her arrow and looked back behind the tree. "Au, coru burrah."
"Au au!" the other said and jumped out with a wide, crooked tooth smile. They approached slowly, barely three feet tall. The archer looped the bow over her head into a more casual placement. The other goblin sheathed his sword—well, sword for a goblin, more like a slightly long dagger to any human-sized person.
The archer made a soothing, shushing sound. She held her hands out in front of herself, padding the air. When Dhane didn't move, she smiled and hooked a thumb at her chest. "Aia, Desley," she said.
"Aia, Knock," the other said.
Usually, in a video game, goblins weren't your friends. . . . But having no weapon, no phone, and a complete lack of knowledge about how the world worked, Dhane played along. He hooked a thumb toward his chest and said, "Aia, Dhane."
The goblins smiled and nodded. Desley held out her hand, palm up, and mimed pushing buttons.
"My phone?"
She nodded again, ears perched, as if in anticipation.
"I don't know where it is."
Desley frowned and shook her head, then pointed to her ear. She didn't understand what he was saying. For a goblin, she seemed rather smart.
She reached out her green little hands with long black nails and took his hand gently. She turned his palm up, pointed to her head, then squinted, as if in thought, before tapping his palm like it were the phone.
Dhane considered this for a moment. Things like telepathy or telekinesis just weren't real, though neither were turning into stone, teleportation, or imps and goblins. He looked at his hand and imagined his phone.
His thoughts snagged on something deep within, like fishing and the line caught a nibble. He gave it a bit more thought, digging into that sensation, then the phone was there, nothing special about it. No shimmering lights, no brush of cold air, no crack down the center, it merely existed.
Maybe heaven did have game masters. . ..
Desley laughed and threw her arms up in celebration. She tried to swipe the screen, though her finger went through the device, blurring the material.
He swiped the screen, which filled with even more apps. The top-left app was one for translation. He tapped it, and Desley held her hand out, palm up. The app had three little white balls projected off the screen. Two were listed as free, but to buy another would cost 1 silver.
Dhane pulled on one of the balls and it popped out of the screen. He dropped it into Desley's hand and she . . . ate it. He gave Knock a ball as well, then paused to consider if he needed to eat one as well, and if he did, what would it taste like, this white ball of light?
"Ho, Dhane of corruption," Desley said.
"Corruption?"
"Yes, you like us, from Shadow, not Light."
"Shadow, Shadow," Knock said, nodding vigorously.
"I don't understand. I'm not from this world," Dhane said.
"Ah," Desley said, examining the ill-fitted vest, "you are fresh Shadow, I see. But you, strong fresh Shadow."
"Fresh shadow?"
"Yes, new. We show you the way."
And with that she turned and hurried back to the tree they were hiding behind, waving for him to follow. The other side had a rather large hole, big enough even for him to crawl into. It was a tunnel that wound around the roots of the tree.
Desley nodded and pointed to the hole. "Inside, you see soon."
There was a good chance he wouldn't see anything inside of a dark hole. There was also a good chance these goblins were just trying to get him back to where they could more easily butcher him.
He pushed away, shaking his head. "I . . . you know what, I'm good up here."
"You must!" Desley said. "You are fresh Shadow—lost Shadow. We find you for reason and take you to Mother of Shadows."
Somehow that sounded even worse.
Knock moved behind him and started pushing. "You. Go. In. Hole! In hole! In hole!"
"Knock!" Desley said. "He is strong Shadow, you respect!"
Bushes shook behind them, maybe twenty or so feet away. The two goblins immediately drew their weapons, crouching.
"What's wrong?" Dhane asked in a whisper, really wishing he had something sharp or dense or anything at all. Why hadn't Gameus given him a weapon, or was that what the divinity was supposed to do?
Desley shushed him, then nocked an arrow. Knock, on the other hand, drew his sword and moved off to the side. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply.
A boar, no smaller than the two goblins were tall, broke out of the bush. It had large, jagged tusks and its head was covered in bone, like an exoskeleton. The boar completely ignored Knock and charged Dhane instead.
He yelped and ran perpendicular to the boar, only to have it change direction and give chase. Desley yelled something, something that was lost to the pounding of fat hooves on dirt.
He should have run around the tree. An arrow whistled from behind and struck the boar. A -4 in red materialized and the boar's health . . . health? The boar had a health bar, showing 49/53.
At this point, the boar slammed into the back of his legs, launching him up and over itself. He twisted in the air—yelling random profanities—and landed heavily on his neck. A dense pain shot through his body, taking his breath with it. A moment later, the pain was completely gone.
This sent a series of worrying thoughts that he might be paralyzed. That mere minutes into this afterlife, this heaven, and he would soon be dead, or maybe worse, forever a cripple in a fantasy world that begged to be explored, begged to have its mysteries discovered.
Could he move? Could he feel his toes?
Yes. . ..
This all happened in a span of three seconds, long enough for the boar to turn and start its charge again, and just long enough to see the -6 above him fade, displaying his own health bar as 34/40.
"Fresh Shadow!" Desley called. "Move!"
He didn't need more encouragement than that. Really, he didn't need anything more than the enraged boar charging. Dhane rolled twice, barely escaping the edge of a jagged tusk, then pushed himself back to his feet.
Knock yelled a war cry, then dove off a rock with all the courage of a berserker charging into battle. He held his small sword with both hands, angled down. His body made an audible slap against the dirt, a perfect bellyflop, two feet from the boar.
"Idiot!" Desley yelled, releasing another arrow, this one caught the boar in the left hind leg. -6 in damage lifted from the creature, dropping it to 43/53.
It tried to tear the arrow out, though couldn't reach it. But just as pain had quickly stopped affecting Dhane, it seemed to stop affecting the boar. It turned and this time charged Desley.
Dhane ran to Knock and took his sword.
"Did. I. Kill it?" Knock asked, trying to push himself to his feet.
Desley shot at the boar and missed. She started to shoot again, but decided to abandon her spot and jump into the hole. Unfortunately, the boar had no problem with this and followed.
Dhane went in after the boar on hands and knees, knocking bits of dirt loose. After a dozen or so feet, the tunnel opened up a lot more. He could almost stand.
Desley yelled, followed by the telltale whistle of another arrow. The boar made a snorting noise, dug at the dirt, and charged.
While everything should have been pitch-black down here, Dhane had no problem seeing. It was as if everything gave off the slightest amount of glow, not enough to see colors, though enough that all the details of rocks and roots and . . . freaking bugs!—spiders and worms and centipedes squirmed from all around, enough to give anyone a nightmare. What was he thinking!
And yet, the boar was not that far ahead. Who would just let random friendly . . . monsters—but that was beside the point; friendly entities—die without doing something?
He ducked his head and ran, short blade in hand. Knock was somewhere behind, scurrying to catch up. Desley screamed, and something like bone scraped against rock.
The tunnel opened into a room of sorts. Platforms lined the walls and there was a dip in the middle, like a small court or arena. Desley was down below, her leg pierced by the boar's tusk, bow snapped into two pieces, arrows scattered about. She was trying to crawl away, though the jagged spines along the boar's tusk made that impossible.
She punched the boar's exoskeleton snout, which didn't seem to do anything but hurt her hand. The boar's life sat at 34/53. It yanked at its tusks, tearing at her leg. Little red -1s and -2s drained from her wound. She only had a maximum of 24 health, and it was now down to 10/24, glowing red.
Dhane charged. The dip of the arena made it so he could stand upright, or sprint without worrying about smashing his head on one of the gnarled roots that twisting along the ceiling.
He crashed into the boar, knocking it to its side. It writhed, twisting to reclaim foothold, tearing life from Desley.
Dhane slammed the blade into the boar over and over and over, slicing chunks of numbers from it, but not blood. Each cut seemed to open slits of light, of its . . . soul?
With one last hit, the boar stopped moving, yet a screeching Knock jumped from one of the side platforms, somehow having another dagger in hand, and promptly bellyflopped to the ground, three feet from the boar.
"Idiot," Desley said through clenched teeth. Her leg remained speared through, however the damage had stopped, and luckily so since her life had dropped to 4/24.
The challenge, now, was how to get her leg free without killing her. Maybe they had a health potion or healing spell, or—
The inner lights of the boar seeped from its wounds and seemed to coat its hide, hair, tusks, and exoskeleton snout. Then all at once, it burst to a tiny shimmer of lights and was gone, releasing Desley's leg. Various items hovered in the air.
─ 2x Durum Boar Meat
─ 1x Leather Scrap
─ 32 Copper
"Can you see that?" Dhane asked, pointing to the items.
"Yes, we see our loot, but not see your loot."
"Did. I. Kill it?" Knock asked, peeling himself off the stone floor. His eyes lit up when he saw the loot and quickly fished invisible things out of the air with a wide smile. "Meat, meat, meat!"
Desley rolled her eyes, then focused on Dhane. "I don't get you. Why you no use Shadow?"
Dhane tapped the items and they turned into tiny balls of light that shot into his chest. "I don't know what you mean by my shadow. I didn't have any weapons, so I took this from Knock," he said and handed the dagger back to the goblin.
"No, strong Shadow," Knock said, waggling a finger. "You save my Desley. You take great sword—my gift. I find other!"
Desley stood without any pain. Her leg wasn't bleeding light anymore. In fact, her health had already increased to 8/24. "You had sword, but no Shadow?"
There was a very good chance his phone would tell him about this shadow. Perhaps it was a skill, a way to deal damage by using mana or some sort of resource. He shook his head.
"Most curious. It be why you need to see Shadow mother. She show you." Desley marched up the sloping ground to the other side of the pit where the tunnel continued.
"What is this place?" Dhane asked. It really did look like an arena with indistinct stone seats lining the walls.
"Fodder pit." At the confused look he gave her, she continued, "Adventurers of Light kill we Cobalins. They evil, but dumb. We sacrifice ourselves and give treasure to appease their needs. You see."
Desley led the way. They were moving downward and the tunnel's ceiling was now a good seven feet high. She stopped and pointed at a pit that covered the full width of the tunnel, jagged spikes were carved into the bottom. "This is great Cobalin illusion," she said with wiggly, magical fingers. "You see only tunnel stone, though—"
"It's a pit," he said.
"You see pit?" Desley looked to Knock and Knock shrugged. "More curious. You have sight through illusion. Can you see illusion?"
Now that she asked, there did seem to be something unique about the pit: tiny sparks of purple flickered here and there, barely noticeable. He focused on them and the pit disappeared, covered by stone and dirt, perfectly matching real stone. "It's a really good illusion."
Desley smiled with a bit of pride and hooked her thumb at her chest. "Me and Knock cast illusion. Fodder responsible for renewing magics."
"Wait, you guys are fodder? You're just meant to die."
"Yes. You understand. To appease evil adventurers." She jumped over the pit and Knock followed.
How could they just send their people here to die, people like Desley who seemed to be quite smart and capable? She could fight and cast illusion spells. But to her people, she was just fodder?
He followed them to an old, wooden treasure chest at the end of the tunnel, surrounded by a pit in the shape of a horseshoe. This pit, however, didn't have any illusion magic hiding it.
"Fodder responsible for treasure chest. We each deposit one item to gain entry to tribe. It is passage tax. If adventurers are appeased by items, they no more reason to look further."
Both Desley and Knock dropped a scrap piece of leather into the box, then looked at him expectantly.
Dhane summoned his phone and opened the Inventory app. The scrap leather, when tapped, displayed additional information. Its base value was worth 16 copper if he sold it to the System, while the stupid red-laced bra was worth 15. He selected the bra and tapped Withdraw.
A small ball of light jumped from his phone and morphed into an outline of the bra. When he touched it, the outline filled in with the soft silky material.
Desley scrunched her brow. "Boar drop . . . sexy cloth? Poor boar. . . . See! Adventurers evil, do nasty things."
"Gah, it's a long story," he said and tossed the bra.
Knock caught it and quickly stashed it into a bag.
"Knock!" Desley said. "You no take from treasure!"
"Was not in treasure," Knock said, then pulled a chunk of boar meat from his bag and put it in the box.
"Sexy cloth more important than meat?" This most definitely surprised Desley, though, with the entry tax paid, she didn't seem to have an argument to stand on and instead shrugged.
She closed the treasure chest's lid and drew a symbol in the air over the chest. The symbol glowed green for a moment, then the bits of light shifted to the treasure chest and stone grated on stone.
"Doors to Dedu Tedu accept we offerings and give welcome," Desley said. She walked to the pit on the right, swung her legs over the side, turned, and climbed down what appeared to be a ladder. The floor of spikes had moved to the side, providing a long vertical shaft.
Knock slapped Dhane on the butt and smiled. "Get in my hole. I follow."
Those words aside . . . there was something about a deep, dark unknown that was exciting. A place to get lost in. A place of mystery. And since he was of Shadow, perhaps he was the only human that could experience it.
And so, driven by curiosity, he swung his legs over the side, turned, and climbed down into a new world waiting to be discovered. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 3 | The shaft dropped a good hundred feet before Dhane reached the bottom. It was markedly colder down here in the spacious room. Stalactites hung like icicles from the ceiling, some massive, surrounded by hundreds of little knobby protrusions, others were broken and cracked.
The room had an organic feel to it, the walls smooth and rounded. Mounds of rock reached up toward the ceiling, somehow glistening despite the complete lack of light. Water dripped from everywhere into little pools that echoed.
Knock jumped the last few rungs, feet slapping the cold stone. Desley drew another symbol in the air, and the distant grinding of stone echoed from above.
"See Mahai first," Desley said. "Then Mother of Shadows."
"Mahai not be happy," Knock said then stood straight-backed with an overly serious expression that didn't fit the little green guy. He jabbed a finger at Desley. "You be fodder! No be here. No meat, no meat for you."
"Mahai no talk like that," Desley said. "And we go back soon. Lost Shadow more important. If meat so great, you go back. I take blame. Now, come fresh Shadow."
Knock pursed his lips in thought, then eyeballed the ladder. Finally, he shook his head. "Fodder needs two. Must go with fodder partner. Always."
Desley led the way through a maze of paths. Many were interrupted with pits of spikes covered in illusions, others ran to dead ends.
Round and round they went, following the stone that split off to new directions, over archways and makeshift bridges, down into short, winding tunnels.
Anyone else would find this trek maddening, but Dhane loved this stuff, loved getting lost out in the unknown. He memorized every step of the way, an important skill for an explorer.
Outside the fifth short tunnel, the area filled with a rumble of distant water. It seemed to be coming from the stone itself, from all around. Just another layer to the maze to disorient adventurers.
Knock ran forward with gleeful steps. Desley called after him, though the little Cobalin ignored her and disappeared around another crook in the path.
"Idiot," Desley said, shaking her head. "Never listen! I head fodder, but he be stubborn."
"Do you have to work with him?" Dhane asked.
"Yes. Per law of fodder. Partners in fodder, partners in life."
They were married? He crooked an eyebrow and she glared back in reply as if any mention of it was too much of a reminder.
They turned a corner and ahead, almost as if levitating in the air, was a woman. A scantly clad woman with delicate features, bent suggestively, her skirt barely covering her bottom, and huge breasts stretching the material of one red-laced bra.
"Helloooo, strong adventurers," came a scraping, small, somewhat feminine voice. "I'm lost and scared. Pleasssse help."
"Agh! Knock!" Desley yelled and her voice echoed down a chasm Dhane hadn't even seen, two steps away. A river rushed far below, the path, slick and angled toward the ledge.
Knock jumped out from behind them. "It be perfect! Adventurers so dumb, so lusty for my busty, see statue . . . jump in my hole!"
"No one jump in your hole, they not that dumb. Statue ugly!"
Knock gasped. "Statue not ugly! Statue perfect."
"Alright-alright," Dhane interjected, standing between the two Cobalins with their little green fists ready to duke it out. "How did you do the voice? You weren't over there."
Knock grinned and hooked a thumb at his chest. "Sound illusion maker! You human, step on sound trigger. Is good?"
Dhane examined the statue, carved from a stalactite. It was rough work, though, with the pieces of random clothing and the voice, it just might get someone to take a misstep.
Of course, not for reasons of lust. No one went spelunking, looking for sensual pleasures. He finally said, "It'd probably work better if she was crying and less sexy."
Desley clapped and nodded. "I say same thing! Less sexy."
Knock frowned. "Don't like busty?" he said slowly, as if the words didn't make any sense. He pointed to Desley and shook his head. "She flat like board."
"Am not! Enough of this, we going." She marched off, shoulders pinched, obviously caring more about Knock's opinion than she would admit.
Desley rounded a stalagmite, drew a symbol on the wall, and pushed light into it. The stone wall opened to a massive bowl of a room, filled from ceiling to floor with misshapen stone towers, staircases ringing them, rooms on every floor with little windows. Everything was lit by torches and bonfires, giving the entire town an orange glow.
Two male guards at the door had their spears at the ready. They were nice weapons that matched equally nice armor, black and glossy, reflecting the room's light.
"Tatti adda dun?" one guard asked, evident by the inflection in his voice.
Desley glared. "Here is fresh Shadow. See Mahai."
The guard who had spoken looked over Dhane, then sniffed. "Burrah...."
"Yes, but of Shadow, not Light."
This seemed to surprise the guard. He squinted for a moment, then his eyes went wide. He shouted something and both guards straightened, stepped to the side, and smashed the butts of their spears against the ground at the same time.
Desley moved past the guards and down an enormous staircase that led into Dedu Tedu. There were hundreds of Cobalins, climbing the stairs of towers, arguing, training in courtyards, cooking, and bartering at merchant booths.
The ceiling was a storm of smoke, constantly undulating, and something else. It seemed to be aware, an entity of its own, watching the small Cobalins and now Dhane.
An icy chill ran down his back and he looked away. "So," he started, making sure they were out of earshot of the guards, "those guards don't seem to do much, but they have really nice gear."
"Yes," Desley said, "they royal bloods. Guarding entrance is great honor."
"But why don't you guys have better gear?"
"Fancy armor not useful. Would attract more adventurers, more riches to find, more evil to commit."
"And you're okay with being fodder?"
Desley raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Of course! Great honor, more than boring guard duty. See surface. Breathe free air."
Pathways broke away from the stairs, running across random bridges, some tiny, barely needing a bridge at all, others arched between buildings and towers. And despite the great distances between the bridges and the floor below, none of them had handrails or anything to prevent someone from falling.
The Cobalins didn't seem to value life at all. While fodder pits made some sense—a small sacrifice for the ruse, to hide a civilization—their construction efforts seemed to invite death by accident.
Desley turned onto an offshoot path highly adorned with precious metals, symbols, and flowers that were drooping over the edges of their pots with wilted petals.
This path had a guard in shiny armor, standing at attention. He didn't react to Desley, nor did he seem to care that a human, twice his height, was with her. Knock, on the other hand, got a curt nod.
"What was that about?" Dhane asked him.
"Tugi is great wizard," Knock said. "Has slain all foes of Cobalin—dragons, en demons, en great boars. He—"
"—is in Knock's role-playing group," Desley finished.
"You role-play?" Dhane asked. "Like dungeon master and players?"
"Oh!" Knock said and lit up. "You know this? You play game of imagination?"
Dhane thought about it. Of course, he had played D&D and Pathfinder and even one for Star Wars, though up until that point, it was as if none of those things had happened. His past life was a dam of memories, leaking through, turning the turbines as those experiences fell away.
The adventures were still there: the fun, the excitement, the exploration of creativity. But the people? They were just blurs. No-named blurs. . ..
Dhane finally replied, "In a past life." The words stirred an odd emotion of sadness mixed with a sense of not caring. It was a life that clearly defined him, and he should feel something for it, though instead, it was the past and this was now.
Knock nodded, then smiled. "You must join group. You could be . . . Cobalin. Haha! Yes! The group already play human, so it works."
"Knock," Desley said, "he no want to join stupid imagination game."
"How you know? Dhanie? We meet after Taco Tuesday."
Dhane laughed. Cobalins had Taco Tuesday? He shrugged. "Maybe."
Knock hit his chest with a fist and smiled, then smiled wider at Desley's dismayed reaction.
The path led to a bridge that swerved between three towers, using the towers as support. Dhane swallowed hard and took the full width of the bridge while Desley and Knock casually walked side-by-side. Luckily, no one was traveling in the opposite direction.
The bridge led to a dome building, cut from white stone, maybe marble. It was smooth and glossy, reflecting firelight and the shifting, shadowy form from the ceiling.
Desley stopped by the door where another guard waited, then turned to Dhane. "Mahai is leader and savior of Dedu Tedu. He welcomes those of Shadow, serves mother, and want to know you. I know of no other like you, an adventurer and Shadow, a kind person. Just know, Mahai sensitive about his size. You no mention."
And with that, she motioned to the guard and he opened the door. The four of them, including the guard, stepped into a foyer with a brass bell hanging in the wall. The guard rang it three times, then stood at attention.
Beyond the foyer was a room far larger than it had appeared outside. Everything was sculpted with precision and a mind toward art and creativity. Flowers reached toward a ceiling of glowing light, as if a piece of the sky had been stolen for this single room.
Hundreds of tiny statues of people, of creatures, of imagination, held flowers perfectly chosen for their colors and textures. They almost seemed to glow with life, far different than those flowers at the start of the path.
There were winding trails, smoothly cut from stone, that circled the room, up the sides of the walls to higher gardens. And from above, from those gardens, large golden eyes watched.
White scales caught the light as the form glided from behind the decorated walls. It made no sound as it moved, like a serpent, gliding through water unnoticed. Except, soundless or not, it was impossible to ignore it for its size alone demanded attention and respect.
"Hello Desley and Knock, I see you have brought me a guest," a smooth and deep voice resonated throughout the room. It spoke perfect English, and even so, Desley seemed unaware.
"Yes, Mahai. This Dhane, fresh Shadow, lost Shadow. Bring to you and mother."
"Thank you, Desley," Mahai said, entering the main room. He was a dragon, of sorts, without wings. A giant snake with a mixture of white scales and blue feathers. He curled in the air, head as big as any human, probably could kill Dhane in one bite. "Now please, return to your position on the surface."
"Yes, Mahai," Desley and Knock said at the same time. They turned and Knock slapped Dhane on the butt, then gave a him crooked-tooth grin. He whispered, "No you forget, Taco Tuesday."
Mahai dismissed the guard with the others, and once they were alone, silently considered Dhane, looking at every fiber of his being from giant, golden eyes, a gaze that seemed to burn.
"I can see the Shadow in you, human. It is a strange thing, unformed, yet unmistakably present. Tell me, why did you not choose a divinity of Light?"
"I didn't get to choose," Dhane said. "When I approached the Lion, he said I couldn't choose two divinities. But I never chose a divinity."
"The Lion? So that would have been your choice?"
"Yes."
"You say that with such confidence. Well, I appreciate your honesty. Though life as it were, never seems to go as planned, does it? If you did not choose a divinity of Shadow, then it would appear you were chosen instead."
"But why?"
"That is not for me to know. Your fate is outside of my domain. The divinities are always locked in balance, perhaps you are the pawn that reaches the other side, the pawn that can offset the balance and become something new."
"I really don't understand. Not this world, not the Cobalins, not why you send Desley and Knock to be fodder for adventures. I died and now I'm standing before . . . a dragon?"
Mahai laughed a booming sound. He unwound himself and shifted down toward the ground, changing his shape to a man with impossibly white skin, and eyes larger than natural. He stood naked, blue feathers running down his sides, and . . . nothing between his legs.
"A dragon, you say?" His voice a deep baritone, yet singsong and smooth. "I am no dragon, lost Shadow. I am a Volantes Serparie, servant to the Shadow divinities, savior to the Cobalin."
Mahai held out his hand. "Please, Dhane, walk with me for you have much to learn and the Mother of Shadows to meet."
Dhane accepted Mahai's hand; it was very warm to the touch, a warmth that seemed to spread from his hand, up his arm, and into his chest. A calming warmth, like the divinities on the mountaintop.
Mahai didn't let go and instead walked with Dhane up a smooth, curving path. "I am touched for your concern of Desley and Knock, they are good souls. But you do not understand this world. Of course, this is of no fault of your own. I can only imagine the confusion you've had to bear.
"You see, most here are like you, in the sense that death brought you to this world, this plane of existence that transcends the physical. All souls who persist here, come from one plane or another.
"Most people, however, are granted knowledge from their divinity. The mere fact that you are of Shadow instead of Light, despite arriving atop of Paradeise Vono, the Heaven's Mountain, speaks of great powers in the works."
Dhane thought about that for a moment. "Why does it matter so much that I'm of Shadow?"
"Because Gameus does not permit the divinities of Shadow to new, human transcendents. For you to be of Shadow must have taken a lot of effort from the Mother to tilt the game in her favor."
"But I don't want to be of Shadow. Isn't Shadow evil?"
Mahai laughed. "No, Shadow is merely the counter to Light. They both exist in balance. It is this balance that creates the game that all souls here play, fighting for their side. Morality does not play a part, for this is a game with objectives, successes, failures, and no permanent ends."
Mahai stopped before an archway. "You wanted to know why Desley and Knock are fodder. They distract the players of Light from this town. The Cobalin were defeated and scattered. I brought them here and now protect them. And through the powers of the divinities of Shadow, should they die as fodder to adventurers, they'll be given life again."
"If balance is so important, then why the change now?"
"I cannot say in full confidence, though I imagine the game has evolved. There are moving pieces far outside my ability to see. All we can do is play our part."
Mahai released Dhane's hand, then drew a series of symbols in the air in front of the arch. The lines melded together, merging bits of light and color until they expanded into a black liquid that gushed out from the middle of the arch and ran to the edges, forming what appeared to be a portal.
"The great mother," Mahai said, "shall imbue you with knowledge so you can take your place on the game board. I imagine I'll be seeing you again someday, young Shadow. No matter what the divinities do, you are born here to live as you wish, and so I can only hope when next we meet, we'll be allies."
"Thank you, Mahai."
"It was my pleasure," he said and gave Dhane a small push through the spiraling, black water.
A glacial cold shot through Dhane, vein by vein, through muscles, into his bones. Something roared through him, reverberating deep within his chest. His ears knew only that singular, scraping noise. It lasted forever and mere seconds at the same time, and when it stopped, he stood in a void of darkness.
"Come, my child," said a female's voice. It spoke in his head and out, like an echo, two voices at once. It came from ahead, but he couldn't see anything.
Dhane sucked in a deep breath, his heart a drum to a fast tempo. He walked forward, the ground so smooth it seemed to not exist at all. It gave off no sound, had no texture, like walking on a cloud.
Oh, shit brownies. . . . A massive spider seemed to merge from the shadows. Her body, thirty feet tall, built as if stone, her eight gleaming eyes, like rubies. He swallowed a dry lump in his throat, then took a quick glance behind, as if there would be an exit he could sprint to.
There wasn't one. Of course not. For better or worse, he was now here and entirely vulnerable to the Mother of Shadow's decisions. He stilled himself and looked at the spider again.
It didn't move, not one tiny bit, like they were in an eternal staring contest, his two eyes trying to stare into each of her eight.
"Down here," said the voice in his head, a seemingly tiny voice.
Dhane looked down and there was a pedestal. He had completely missed it, no doubt because of the massive spider ahead. Upon the pedestal stood a silver and red spider, almost as if it were made of metal. It gleamed in a nonexistent light.
"Not what you were expecting?" the spider asked.
Dhane jerked back. Oh, how he hated spiders! The big one was bad enough, though at that size it was far less creepy. Perhaps the fact that it still didn't move, because . . . Gah! He was stupid. It's a statue.
Ever since he fell into an old wine cellar, falling into hundreds of the creepy crawly things, and how they got beneath his coat and in his shirt and down his pants, running across his skin and biting, biting, biting! The mere thought, the glimpse into that tiny experience, was enough to lock his muscles in place and clench his jaw to the point it throbbed.
"I know this memory," the voice said. "I'm sorry you had that experience."
"What do you want?" Dhane asked, voice tense.
"I'm afraid I have cheated you. I knew your life, your passions, your curiosity, your determination, your honesty. I knew you would hate the very sight of me. And yet, I stole your choice in divinity.
"I did not do it with casual deference, a fleeting choice. It weighed heavily on my mind far before you made it to Olindale."
"Why?"
"The divinities of Light are changing the rules. They don't see Shadow as a balance, but as a hindrance to their power. This world is bound to unravel for those of Shadow, for Desley, for Knock, and for the other hundreds of thousands who wish to stay in this world.
"It is for the world that I acted, for those I'm responsible for. I only wish to maintain the balance and don't expect your service to me. Instead, I want you to be both, of Light and of Shadow. I want you to witness the change of power and be the force that can protect those needing protecting, no matter what affinity they belong to.
"I've seen the hearts of thousands of souls, and it is you, Dhane, that I trust with this."
Dhane let out a breath. "How can I live up to those expectations? I don't know anything about this world. I don't have any power to protect or balance the war between Light and Shadow. That just seems too much...."
"You won't be alone, Dhane. And the game is eternal. There is time for you to learn and grow your influence. I believe in you. But . . ." the silver spider said and turned away, "if you cannot, I will remove my touch on your soul and deliver you to Gameus. If that's truly what you want, what you can live with now knowing that if you do join the divinities of Light, Desley and Knock will forever be your enemies."
"You're manipulating me."
"I am. And I'm truly sorry. But is what I ask so out of character for you? While this is a game, it's something that all species, all entities are excited to participate in. Though when one side destroys the other, the world breaks, the point of you being here, goes away, and what happens after that, not even the divinities know. Not even Gameus—so distracted by his desire to leave, that he has let this all happen under his watch—knows what happens if our world breaks.
"The divinities of Light have forced my hand. I cannot wait for the impending doom of those I care about. Will you help?"
Dhane ran a hand through his hair. Mere hours ago, he was walking across a street for ice cream—ice cream—faced with the hard choice of vanilla or mint chocolate chip.
Now a spider was asking him to save a world he knew nothing about. But the spider did know one thing about him, that whether or not she had moved to steal him from the divinities of Light, he wouldn't stand for unfair play. The only problem was, if she hadn't acted, by the time he discovered the problem, it might have already been too late.
He looked at the Mother of Shadows, really looked at her. Every part of her body made him want to smack her with a rolled-up newspaper. And yet, what she wanted from him was sincere and honest.
If she knew him as well as she said, then she already knew that there wasn't a decision to be made. He would do what he had to do because that's just the person he was.
Finally, he asked the only question that needed to be asked.
"What do I do?" |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 4 | Touch the spider? That was what he had to do? Might as well ask me to touch the hot end of a blow torch or bite off my pinky. He shivered inwardly and forced his mind into a black calm, blocking all those terrible memories of spiders across a lifetime.
They never liked him—he never liked them. It was fair. Then again, it wasn't like those spiders were willing to sit down and have a long discussion about world affairs.
"Just," he said, wringing his hands, "don't move, alright."
"Are you sure? You could just touch the pedestal and close your eyes."
"I really don't think I can do that."
"Out of everything I've told you, this is your one hangup?"
"You know my past! It's a rather big hangup."
The spider sighed, actually sighed. Could spiders really sigh? Then again, could they talk. . .?
"Fine, I'll touch the pedestal and close my eyes." He reached out a finger and touched the very edge of the pedestal and clamped his eyes shut.
"I can't reach."
"You're a spider, figure it out."
"It doesn't help that you keep moving your finger."
"Well, it has a mind of its own." He opened his eyes to find his finger six inches below the edge of the pedestal and a silvery red spider spinning on a thread, like all spiders do, the other end attached to some random thing, left for you to run into it face first.
His reaction was immediate and . . . involuntary.
His hand ripped away so fast, he barely felt the back of his hand slap the Mother of Shadows. What wasn't barely felt was the surge of energy and knowledge and warmth that pushed into him.
"Ow!" the spider said, hanging from his vest, running her tiny, little legs to catch the fabric and gain a foothold.
This produced another immediate and involuntary action.
After a solid fifteen seconds of dancing and slapping, Dhane stopped and searched the blackness. Shit brownies! "Are you okay?" He didn't kill the Mother of Shadows, did he? "Spider?"
"You're lucky I can't die," she replied, testily. "Not that getting smashed five times doesn't hurt." She muttered something about recruiting the guy with arachnophobia, then sighed again.
"First," she said, "let me assure you that I am not on you. I'm nowhere near you. In fact, I'm not even physical anymore, thank you very much. Your little minions are going to have a tough time and I sympathize with them. But I can't do anything about that.
"Second, I've added something special to your concoction of divinity blessings and knowledge. It's a permanent divine gift that prevents anyone from seeing your affinity or reading your mind unless you want them to."
Dhane thought back to how all the Cobalins seemed to know he was of Shadow and not Light. "So I can remain hidden."
"Right. You can appear to be of Shadow or of Light by triggering the effect, which you should know how to do now."
She was right, triggering an ability only took a mental thought. And now that he had noticed knowing something new without learning it, all the other things started clicking into place: different types of monsters, weapons, skills, leveling, everything just shot through his brain, like drinking from a firehose, flashes of information only to be immediately forgotten unless he focused on it.
"You know," she said, "I can't remember the last time a person tried to kill a divinity."
"I didn't . . . umm, yeah."
She laughed. "I'm sorry my form triggers your fear. Maybe with time, you'll overcome it. For now, that concludes our meeting. I shouldn't have to tell you this, but to be clear, you won't want to reveal your affinity to other adventurers. Once they know your power comes from Shadow, you'll forever be their enemy and won't be welcome in their towns for trade or anything else."
Dhane nodded. It made sense. He'll be playing both sides of the game.
"Now for the tricky party."
"Huh?" Dhane managed to say just as a silvery red spider landed on his cheek. His skin went cold, his eye twitched, and every muscle tensed just as the world shifted, swirling in elongated streams of color until he stood on green grass.
As soon as everything appeared and his feet were on the ground, he slapped his cheek so damn hard a -2 in red lifted up above him. It stung for only a moment, then the pain vanished, leaving an echo of distant, psychic laughter ringing through his ears.
Some woman riding an ox gave him a startled look. "Why you go and do that, son?"
"Mosquito!" he called back.
The woman mouthed Ah-hah and continued on her way along a road that sloped down toward the sprawl of a fantastical city. The stone walls were thirty feet tall with a thicker base. Guards marched along the top, their armor alight in the deep oranges and reds of the setting sun, half-hidden by the parapet and jigsaw looking embrasures.
On either side of the gate—which was crowded by hundreds of people, moving into the city—stood two giant statue guards. They soared above the walls by a good fifty feet, watching over the valley, each equipped with a copper green shield, spear, and barbute, a T opening helmet.
Oh, and the city. . . . A palace of white stone with blue, conical roofs, topped with sharp gleaming metal spires; domes of gold, mounted on fancy corbels, and somehow he knew the divinities of Light were carved into their stone. Parts of walls were held by the carvings of men prevailing against monsters.
Below the palace were hundreds of buildings, wrapped around a canal and divided by streets that sloped down from the palace to the outer walls. Each building stood no more than three floors, their construction suspect, as if built from the imagination of a toddler. Nothing seemed to fit or align. The buildings leaned and supported each other, everything at an angle, not straight.
Dhane just stood there, his brain in an infinite loop, practically on the verge of a blue screen of death and desperately needing a reboot. Minutes passed as he studied the shapes, the majestic palace juxtaposed by pedestrian disarray. And even so, it had an art to it, as if one shabby building was trying to outdo the other in how crazy and farfetched it could become while still standing.
He took in a breath, breaking from the spell. This wasn't some fictional game or book, but real life. This city of Light— Oh . . . of Light. He wasn't of Light; wasn't one of these citizens; he was something entirely different. And just as that thought struck, another thing manifested from the fog of untamed knowledge, a single word: arachnomancer.
Arachni, Greek for spider, and Manteia—like the suffix of Necromancy, which was the only reason he knew it—meant divination, to seek knowledge of the future or the unknown.
By touching the spider divinity, Mother of Shadows, he had automatically accepted his class. Just as the Lion made someone a warrior or the Owl made someone a wizard, his power was over that which he hated more than anything in the world: spiders.
Oh, shit brownies.
He let out a deep breath.
What he really needed to do was sit down and sort through all the things he knew while not knowing all the things he knew, but night was quickly approaching. One fairly standard thing was how a cheap room and board started at a silver piece per night.
And yet . . . he didn't have any silver. He didn't have much of anything. Actually, what did he have? He summoned his phone and opened the Inventory app.
─ 2x Durum Boar Meat
─ 1x Leather Scrap
─ 32 Copper
The leather scrap was worth 16 copper and the boar meat was 10 copper each. He could vendor it, as games would call it—sell the items to the game system or non-player characters; are there NPCs in this world?—or maybe sell the items to real people. . ..
And now that he had stopped to think about this stuff, his stomach was painfully empty. Who knew being revived and thrust into an eternal war could be so draining.
He tapped the Map app and it opened to reveal a vast world set perfectly in a rectangle, divided into columns of different colors. The colors were like seasons or biomes. They started from the left with a wintery white, then dark green of forest trees on rocky mountains. The trees changed in the next column, becoming more sparse, surrounded with dark water. Then it was the column he stood in: bright green with yellow fields and pink trees.
The rolling green hills eventually merged with a different shade of green, surrounding lakes and rivers and bridges. The trees were white with bright blue leaves. Then came the ocean, spanning three columns with pockets of islands and beaches.
Beyond the ocean was a desert, then a gray, jagged mountain terrain, and finally ending in a column of molten lava, running down cliff faces, pouring into the water and exhaling great torrents of steam.
Each column was a world into itself, four hundred miles wide, a hundred long. And now that he gave it some thought, he knew it crawled with creatures of every type, even those that matched no affinity to Light or Shadow. In fact, most monsters and animals, were of a neutral affinity, belonging to neither side—soulless.
The Heaven's Mountain, or Paradeise Vono, wasn't even a part of the map. It sat beyond the domain of ice, marking north for all to see. Well, it certainly was good he didn't have to travel there to get his phone back.
But none of this was why he opened the map in the first place. What he really wanted to know was information about the town and where he could sell meat. The thought triggered the knowledge that yes, there were meat vendors that he could trade with.
He performed a reverse pinch on the screen and it zoomed in. Ceratree City had four gates running in each of the major directions, and each gate had an alert. The yellow, triangular icon displayed with an exclamation point inside.
─ Gates closing at 8:00 p.m. (14 minutes, 2 seconds)
There was no knowing what came out at night. Actually, there was plenty of knowing, now that he gave it thought. That's going to take some getting used to. At night, the nocturnal monsters crawled out of their holes. For monster hunters, that was great. For someone who only had a tiny Cobalin sword, not so much.
Dhane followed the road that led into the east gate filled with people returning from a day of adventuring. Platforms, a hundred feet out from the main road with circles and symbols cut into stone, lit up with a golden glow before people would suddenly appear in a swirl of light.
Four guards, two on either side of the gates, wore polished armor and sheathed swords. They watched the people with a focused gaze, as if searching for some escaped criminal. One guard looked at Dhane and raised a brow. Well, he did look quite ridiculous with the oversized vest.
The guard hurriedly flagged another guard, but before any words could be exchanged, the crowd pushed forward, and he entered the city.
Seeing the buildings up close was entirely different than casting judgment far away. They were expressive, colorful, fun, exotic. They had all manner of decorations, and signs, and prices painted on wood as unique as the buildings themselves.
People marched up brick steps and through doorways, little bells rang announcing the arriving and departing customers. People were merry, excited, full of life, lit by flickering street lanterns and the occasional glowing crystal, mounted near display windows and doorways of important businesses, no doubt.
People were everywhere, wearing a juxtaposition of clothing styles from modern-day to something that would fit perfectly in a fantasy setting . . . like this one, come to think of it.
People rode on all manner of things, from horses and donkeys to giant wolves, great boars, and bears. The stables must be fun. Except, now that he thought of stables, most cities didn't have them. People received a mount at level 5 and could summon and desummon them at will. Interesting.
Even with all the different types of mounts, there were people being carted by men and women, pulling two-wheeled rickshaws. They had little lanterns that swung above the passenger's seat. None had visible baggage, though of course, why would they? The Inventory app could hold a hundred items, and some items could be stacked, like his 2x Durum Boar Meat, which could be stacked ten times before taking another slot.
People hawked weapons, armor, potions, scrolls, and all manner of clothing, furniture, and magical wares. Apparently, the Clothing app didn't provide enough variety, otherwise, tailors wouldn't be able to make money.
The smells of cooked meat, spices, sweets, and woodsmoke, filled the market. Dhane pulled up the map again and zoomed in. All the streets in the town were outlined and marked with names. Little icons started appearing to show restaurants, inns, a theater, government buildings, and various types of vendors. Perfect.
He swiped a few times and found a meat vendor. When tapped, a green line appeared on the map indicating directions. It even had reviews. Heaven had Yelp!, what a thought!
In a hundred and twenty feet, turn right, the screen reported. Sure enough, when he did, he came upon a booth with a sign hanging overhead, matching a meat icon.
The man inside was leaning back in a chair, feet propped up on the table, flicking his phone. He had thick brown hair combed neatly, pale white skin, and well-trimmed facial hair with a gold stud earring in either ear.
He wore a casual suit, shiny black shoes, a slick coat hanging off his chair, and a button-up violet shirt with the cuffs undone and bunched to his elbows.
This was the butcher? Then again, why wear an apron when there was no actual butchery involved. He was more of a trader, like the stock market sort, buy and sale. For that, one didn't need an apron.
Dhane paused, scanning the reviews—or, review. There was only one, and it was 1-star: What a complete idiot. This guy knows nothing about meat. He offered me half the going rate! Do yourself a favor and trade with 'Goleski Loves Your Meat' instead.
"Hey there, I'm Nick," the man said. He dropped his feet from the table and stood. His phone vanished and he held out his hand. Dhane shook it, noting just how strong the man's grip was despite not looking the part. Then again, little bits of knowledge told him that people had stats and could improve aspects of themselves as they level from experience.
"I'm looking to sell some meat...."
"Perfect, what do you have?"
"Actually," Dhane said and turned his phone so Nick could see, "what's up with this review?"
"Oh, give me a break!" Nick said and plopped back down in his chair. "I see, off with you then."
"So you don't deny the review?"
"It's a fake! That guy was paid by Goleski to tear down my business. And since I'm new in this city, spending most of my money on my merchant's license, I can't get any business."
"So you don't pay half the going rate?"
"I'm a fair trader, more fair than that bastard. You know what, test me. What do you want to sell?"
"I have two Durum Boar Meat."
"Durum, you say? You don't see a lot of Durum Boars in this area. In fact, I believe they are far to the east, in hills infested with Cobalins. Not an expensive type of meat, though the rarity should catch a better price. How's the expiration date?"
"Wait, meat exp—" Dhane started to say, then that bit of knowledge bloomed into his mind. All food items and potions, and really anything a person may eat or drink, had an expiration date. He opened his inventory, tapped the stack of Durum Boar Meat and the information appeared. "I got it today at 4:27 p.m. and it doesn't expire for another week."
"Impressive. Not to be rude or anything, though you don't seem that well equipped for a Durum hunt." Nick squinted as if trying to look into Dhane, then his forehead crinkled and he shrugged. "How did you get here so fast? Waypoint?"
"My divinity? It's my first day."
"Really! That's crazy. Most new people are welcomed by the Royals and given gear and an introduction to the world. Your divinity just plopped you outside the town with some Durum Boar Meat?"
"More or less. So what's it worth?"
"I can give you 20 copper each."
That was twice what the System would have paid, and nearly enough to get him room and board for the night. Of course, everything in a fantasy world was done with a bit of barter.
"I guess," Dhane said, "I should check with Goleski."
Nick huffed. "Yes, go ahead and test my rate. He's just going to ask what I offered and give you the same amount. Why walk all the way back here to make the same amount, right?"
"You could just offer more, maybe in exchange for a positive review?"
"Whoa-whoa-whoa, I can't just go bribing people for reviews."
"It's not like you're the one who offered. You're a new business and need reviews. And I'm new to the world with nobody, hardly any money, and this crappy vest."
Nick rubbed his chin. "You have a point. . . . What if I paid 30 copper each and threw in a decent shirt in exchange for the vest? It's really nothing special, though it'd look a whole lot better than . . . that."
"I'd say that's worthy of a glowing 5-star review."
Nick grinned and held out his hand. "It's a deal then."
Changing clothes was as easy as tapping a button. They really did make an app for everything. His new silver shirt was form-fitting and corded. It showed off his build, which seemed a bit better than his past life. While he was always down for a good walk or hike, hitting the gym just never came about.
People no longer gave him that confused look, the same one a teacher gave a student wearing mismatching shoes. It was nice not sticking out like the wrong character in a video game.
The Map app provided more than a dozen places to get room and board. At this point, he'd eat anything. Could a soul starve to death? Yes, yes it could. It was a long, boring, and terribly uncomfortable process, and once death finally came, the person would be revived so they could do it all over again.
Woot! That sounds like fun. . ..
The inns were ranked by a number of dollar signs and reviews. The Cali Bali—an inn closest to the east gate—had a single dollar sign and decent reviews, most of which said the rooms sucked, though the company was nice.
He followed the directions to a run-down building with three floors. It was larger than most other buildings and the first floor, revealed by large arched windows, was entirely packed with people at tables, eating and laughing as waitresses and waiters carried large trays covered in plates.
The smells were to die for!
Dhane pushed into the building. There wasn't anyone to welcome new guests, ask for his party size or anything like that, so he walked up to the bar where a young woman worked. She had gorgeous blue eyes and blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, capped with a green hat, kind of like an elf's hat that came to a point with a little red ball pulling it down to the side.
"Hi," she said and flashed a radiant smile. She grabbed a glass, filled it with golden liquid, then slid it down the bartop. The cup stopped perfectly in front of an old, merry gentleman, laughing and slapping his side, white fluffy beard bouncing along.
"I'm looking for a room."
"I see," she said and looked behind him. "Just for one, then?"
He nodded. "Cheapest you have."
"Alright, cheapest we've got is one silver for the night. You must be out at first light, and no breakfast included. Bath is extra."
He only had 92 copper. Sure, he could sell the leather scrap to the System and make up the difference, but finding a vendor for that would be more profitable. And, oi, all he wanted to do right now was eat something and pass out.
When he didn't immediately reply, the barkeep crooked an eyebrow. "You don't have a silver, do you?" She said it with kindness, not judgment. "Alright, how much you got?"
"Just 92 copper."
"Sold!" she said and smiled. "I'll cover your 8 copper, but just this time, okay? It's out of my pocket, the innkeeper doesn't budge on prices at all. . . . Maybe when you come into some money, you can leave me a big tip?" She winked.
And now he felt a little guilty for not just selling that damn scrap of leather. If it were the last thing he did, he'd kill all the Durum Boars in the zone to pay her back. For now, he nodded his agreement: big tip once he could manage it, deal.
He opened the Inventory app and tapped on his money. This brought up a calculator of sorts that allowed him to enter the exact amount he wanted. He entered 92 and a small bag materialized with a label indicating the amount.
The barkeep took the bag, then bumped her phone to his. "There you go. Use your phone to unlock the door and if you need anything—though most things cost money, what a drag, right?—I'll be down here."
Despite all the literature, poetry, and languages he had studied, his mind became blank of anything clever to say. Then he tried to muster up something less than clever, which amounted to a bunch of one-off sayings that bubbled up and got stuck in his throat.
Luckily, he managed to say, "Thanks," then turned away lest his brain-fart stare became creepy.
Ah! Of course, and always a moment late, he thought Your kindness was all I needed. Boom! That would have been smooth. Or maybe The best things are free, like your smile. Cringy, but she really did have a nice smile.
"Oh!" the barkeep said from behind. Dhane turned in time to catch a softball shaped roll. It slapped against his hand and stung, much heavier than it really had any business being. "That's your food. Thanks!"
To which Dhane replied with every ounce of suave he could muster, "Kind smile." Kind smile? That wasn't exactly how that was supposed to go, though she smiled all the same, so perhaps that was all that mattered.
He considered the heavy piece of bread with butter-polished crust, reflecting lantern light. It weighed like a brick, a chunk of metal, or like a few jawbreakers merged into one, teetering on the brink of a black hole.
Dhane moved out of the main dining room where all the scents of delectable foods wafted through happy customers who had the silver to spend. Had he known this dense roll was going to be his meal, he might have tried eating raw Durum Boar meat instead.
He sighed and tried to take a bite, dragging teeth ineffectually across the gloss surface. This wasn't a piece of painted wood, was it? Maybe he could cut into it in his room. He climbed the stairs to the second floor where he passed a couple heading in the opposite direction, dressed nicely for dinner.
The guy whispered something in the girl's ear, then grabbed her sides. She laughed and swatted his hands away, then turned to walk backward, one finger out. "Oh, don't you dare," she said, playfully.
She was all grins and happy, a flush on her cheeks, wearing a rather pretty black and red, bell-shaped dress. The guy moved with practiced skill, evading her defenses and tickling her side one last time before she disappeared, leaving only her kicking shoes and the fringes of her dress as she went rolling down the stairs.
Dhane cried out in surprise and moved to help, though there wasn't much he could do, and the girl seemed okay. She pushed her face off the floor, apparently unharmed except for her face turning the deep color of embarrassment. The guy hurried down and picked her up. She called him a jerk, and they both laughed some more.
This world would really take some getting used to. People simply didn't die here, and if they got hurt, it was only momentary, a sting without the lingering anguish. In real life, people didn't heal in minutes. And that prompted caution and survival instincts. What side effects were there where society didn't fear death?
The hallway on the third floor had doors lining both sides, none of them identical. The second to last door on the left, next to what was probably a closet, had a brass plate with his room number on it, so he tapped his phone to the doorknob.
Nothing happened. Or maybe it did? He tried the doorknob and it remained locked. He checked his phone again and noticed a very small, nearly imperceptible, .5 next to 313. The closet. . ..
Okay, well it wouldn't be the best of rooms money could buy, nor did it seem worth the 92 copper he had paid, but it beat sleeping on the streets. Besides, tomorrow was a brand new day, one he was determined to take full advantage of. There was certainly something he could kill or harvest or cut or mine or something.
He tapped his phone to the doorknob and a lock clicked. Inside, squished between two walls, was a twin-sized mattress that barely fit, shoved beneath a bunk bed, occupied by a rather massive man, snoring thunderously.
Dhane exhaled.
Oh, shit brownies. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 5 | At precisely 6:00 a.m. a disagreeable ringing thrummed through Dhane's head. He jerked upright, slamming his head into the bunk bed above, the one that hung, concave throughout the night, wood creaking in its struggle to support the man above.
Apparently, it only needed a rude head-butting to exclaim, "Fuck it!" and give up entirely. The top bed cracked and groaned then the world came crashing down.
Luckily, ten minutes later when they were able to fish his body out of the wreckage, they didn't charge him for damages. It nearly happened, given the intense debate between last night's barkeep—the one who baked rocks—and what appeared to be the innkeeper, a sizable man with a booming voice.
Now below in a much less busy dining room, the girl made him an egg omelet as an apology for his near-death experience. Dhane wanted to decline, he really did, given that out of all the destruction in room 313.5, the only thing that made it out unscathed was his dinner roll. But alas, he had no money and an empty stomach.
"I'm Penny, by the way," she said, sprinkling something over the pan. "I hope you don't give us a negative review. Them old bunk beds are typically quite sturdy. I think we need a rule for those over four hundred pounds."
Given that Dhane experienced those four hundred pounds first hand, he nodded his agreement while anxiously waiting for the next thing to try and kill him.
Penny grabbed a plate, shifted the omelet to it, and then presented the fine breakfast to Dhane like he was one of those happy paying customers. It actually looked like an omelet, though so did the roll. . . . He might have considered it a bit too long since now Penny looked at him questioningly.
Instead of saying anything, he used his fork, noted how the tines didn't break or melt when he cut into the eggs, and took a bite. "This is actually really good," he said, still chewing.
"Actually?" she asked, cocking her head, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulder.
"I just didn't..."
"Didn't. . .?" she pressed.
Dhane swallowed, then tried a different tact. "If you don't mind me asking, have you had one of your . . . dinner rolls?"
"No," she said, voice a little sad. "I just paid 50 silver to the master baker for his course. It's not like I can afford to eat my own bread, but I sure want to! It smells delightful! One day, I'm going to open my own bakery, maybe in Terralacoos, the next zone. Bake bread all day and dip into the pools in the evening, floating in the still waters, watching the stars as they sparkle to life. Hmm . . . What? Wait, why do you ask?"
"I ask because your omelet is amazing and your roll, not so much."
"Well, I've never had any complaints."
"Not one?"
"No. Everyone loves my bread. In fact, it's a big talking point whenever someone comes over. 'Got any more of that bread?' and 'Penny, how on Earth did you make this?' "
A bunch of guys trying to talk to a pretty girl, and she was clueless. "Alright, what are your rolls called?"
"They're Petra Rolls." She summoned her phone, opened the Baking app, and tapped her one and only bread recipe.
Dhane laughed.
"What! What's up with all of these questions anyway?"
"Alright, first," he said, holding up a finger, "petra is Latin for rock. And second, how many bread recipes come with a damage indicator? This bread can do 1-3 damage?"
"Pfft, so you know Latin?"
"Yeah, I do. I have a degree in English. Latin and Greek make up most of our vocabulary. For instance, 'petrified' means to be turned into stone. And 'petrichor' is the smell that comes after a rainfall. It's water on stone and dirt and plants."
"Oh, I love that smell. I could sit out in a rainstorm for hours."
"So you make rock rolls, is what I am trying to say. Here," Dhane said and opened his Inventory app. He summoned the roll and grabbed the outline of it from the air. It materialized, gaining a sizable weight as it did. He handed it to Penny. "You can have mine. I tried to eat that part there . . . I might have chipped a tooth."
Penny tried to bite the roll and her teeth scraped the crust, not even leaving a scratch mark. She scrunched her forehead then hit the roll against the counter, leaving a dent. She grimaced, sucking air through teeth, then looked around the room before pulling her sleeve down and buffing the spot.
"I think," Dhane said, "you need to get some more recipes. And if I need cannonballs, I'll know who can make them."
"Oh, ha-ha. These have been really popular," she said, shaking her head. "Just doesn't make any sense."
"Maybe there's a Petra Roll throwing contest...."
"Alright, they suck, I get it. I was about to get another recipe anyway."
"That," Dhane said, "is something I'd be happy to try."
Penny smiled the nicest of smiles, then took his plate.
Dhane left the inn and headed toward the east gate. The morning was bustling with activity. Everyone had something to do, a product to sell, an enemy to slay, a delivery to be made.
A woman dressed in leather armor with a bow and short sword, did something with her hands and the air in front of her distorted, like how heat or fumes gave the air a fluid texture. Out of that distortion, pinpricks of light merged and formed into a large wolf. She mounted and the two of them sprinted down the street.
Merchants were in their booths, calling out to passersby. Most weren't trying to sell anything, which was peculiar. While some had potions and scrolls to sell to the adventures, others were making requests: ore, lumber, herbs, fish, meat, hide.
That last one caught Dhane's attention. He still had a leather scrap. It probably wasn't worth much, being scrap and all, but anything at this point would improve his financial state.
The merchant was a short man standing on a chair. He had a round, friendly face, cleanly shaved to reveal his rosy complexion, and strands of black hair combed over a balding pate. The man just finished calling out to a group of adventurers to get his list of hides and their going rates when he noticed Dhane.
"Hello hello!" the man said, then opened his inventory and summoned a sheet of paper. "Here you go, the going rates for hides of all kinds. Find any out there, bring it back, and make some coin." He smiled then called out to another group, waving his short arms.
"Thanks," Dhane said. Having a list would be quite handy, actually. And farming animal hides could be a good way to make some decent money. He scanned over the list.
─ Alegeth Scale — 4 silver
─ Katsen — 2 silver, 30 copper
─ Metsuni — 1 silver, 40 copper
─ Giant Wolf — 90 copper
─ Durum Boar — 60 copper
─ Wolf — 40 copper
─ Sumilian — 35 copper
─ Fox — 25 copper
─ Rabbit — 11 copper
Each of the arcane, fantasy monsters he read over summoned a trickle of understanding, an image of sorts. These were only monsters or animals in this zone. Other zones had their own, but requesting hide from far away lands probably wasn't too helpful to adventurers in this town.
"There's nothing here for leather scrap," Dhane said. He deposited the list in his Inventory.
"Scrap, you say?" the man asked. "Well, scrap is scrap. It has its uses in repair work, though it's not something we need a lot of. How much you have?"
"Just the one. Killed a Durum Boar yesterday and it dropped."
"That's some rat-sucking luck, I'd say. I mean, a Durum Boar? You must have mangled its hide trying to kill it. Next time, kill it by striking the back of its head. That boney face-shield it has only extends so far, and that way you won't ruin the hide."
"Huh, I didn't realize that how you killed something would affect the loot drops."
"Ah, you're a new transcendent, then. This is pretty common knowledge. When did you transcend to our lovely bit of paradise?"
"Yesterday."
"Yesterday! And you killed a Durum Boar? Well, I'll say, that's mighty impressive. My first day was spent in the luxurious Royals palace, eating some of the best food I've ever had while servants gave me a pedicure. Seems odd you'd be out hunting."
The merchant did that stare thing that everyone seemed to do and for the first time, in an Oh duh! moment, Dhane realized why: they were trying to see his affinity.
He channeled the Light affinity, and now that he had done it, a lingering sense told him that he could take it further. He mentally summoned the Lion as his divinity and projected that.
"I see," the man said, "I wasn't of the warriors' cast, too short! They must do things differently. I never much cared to fight monsters and swing a sword. More of an EVE guy, myself. Love the number crunching and strategizing.
"Well, that's all besides the point. Since you're new, I'm happy to buy your scrap leather. But be mindful that most merchants aren't in need of it. In fact, most scrap items of any type are often sold to the System. I'll give you 20 copper, this time."
"I really appreciate that," Dhane said and they made the trade.
"Just doing my part. Though do remember, if you have any hide, I'm your guy!" He held out his hand to shake and Dhane accepted it. "I'm Tertari, and you?"
"Dhane."
"Been a pleasure, my friend. Good luck out there!" And with that, he turned to more passersby and called out for them to grab his list before venturing into the wilds.
Dhane moved on toward the east gate, but then passed Nick, the meat merchant, who had four people waiting in line. Nick looked up, then quickly told his customers he'd be right back.
The man ran over, laughing like he'd just won the World Cup, and wrapped arms around Dhane in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground, spinning twice, losing his balance, and careening into a group.
"Sorry! My bad!" Nick yelled to the people, and scraped Dhane off the ground, slapping the dirt from his clothes. "You are a wizard! A wizard of marketing. I read your review and might have shed a tear or two. In fact, it was so moving, the System removed—removed!—Goleski's obvious attempt to ruin my business. He's lost his merchant's license for a week and now I'm being flooded with customers. What a turn of events!"
And that was the power of the pen. Journalism always had a way of reaching out to people and getting them to care when they otherwise didn't. Dhane smiled and noticed the annoyed glances the customers were sending his way, they probably had better things to do than wait for the merchant.
"That's great," he said. "Now don't screw it up, you have customers."
"Yes! Of course! I just had to thank you, like wow, you really made a difference. And"—he summoned his phone, then glanced at the screen—"I'm glad I caught you because it's almost seven. The arena opens to newcomers for training and you can't be late. They literally pay you to train. I figured you hadn't been told since you didn't get the royal welcome."
Nick put two fingers in his mouth and whistled, then thrust his arm up. "Runner! Priority!" This summoned a girl like magic, she practically appeared from thin air. "I need you to take this fine gent to the arena."
"Ugh! I deliver packages, man, not people," the girl said twirling a curly lock of brunette hair. She turned to find her next job when Nick caught her shoulder.
"He is the package. Get him to the arena before seven." Nick summoned a silver piece and flicked it to her.
This seemed to change her tune completely, especially when she checked the time and cursed. Apparently, a silver piece for a run was decent money. Dhane didn't have a chance to thank Nick before the girl snatched his hand and sprinted down the street.
"This way!" she yelled, then cut through a tight alleyway, ran down two residential roads, turned a few more corners, pushed through people who yelled, and then threw him, like in the literal sense, what a pitcher would do with a baseball.
Dhane arched through the air, head first, the world a blur, then he came to an abrupt stop on his chest, beside a pair of very large boots. The man who currently wore those boots was closing a massive, wooden door.
"New transcendent?" the man bellowed in a deep baritone voice.
Dhane pushed himself to his feet, the sharp pain that accompanied the act of grinding one's chin on stone, already fading. "Yes, new transcendent," came his reply with more confidence than he felt.
"In you go," the man said and Dhane needed no other encouragement.
He hurried through the door and immediately stumbled down three steps before catching a handrail. The sudden shift from daylight to a single candle may have been enough to send him sprawling, head over feet down the stairs, like the girl in the inn, though his perfect vision in the dark helped him plant his feet where his feet needed planting.
The stairs descended to a platform, rounded, and descended farther. After the third set of stairs was a stretch of hallway, voices echoing along the stone. Dhane stepped into a round room with shimmering murals painted in metallic red, depicting twelve divinities. Were there so many?
All the new transcendents who had entered the world with him, stood about, talking in little groups. There were others, too, people who likely had a low level despite being in the game—or heaven—for a while.
The room immediately silenced and they all turned to him with an expectant look, as if he were there to give instruction. Then the giant of a man, standing directly behind him, cleared his throat.
Dhane quickly stepped to the side and the man passed. He walked to the middle where the floor rose a few steps, not that he needed the extra height.
"I am Gorlan, Master of Arena," he said and paused. The man had a two-handed axe strapped to his back, wore leather armor that left his muscled arms bare, except for the solid lines of black and red ink across his biceps of light brown skin. His face was square and serious, lips pursed, black eyes appraising each and every one in the room, as if peering into their souls.
Dhane quickly triggered his Light affinity and focused on the Lion divinity. Gorlan's eyes past over him, and Dhane exhaled, but then the Master of Arena shot a glare back at him.
"You!"
"Me?" Dhane and someone else said at the same time.
"No Shadow can trick me. I am untrickable! I see your affinity, monster!" He drew that two-handed battleaxe in one hand. It illuminated in waves of light, like tendrils of white and gold smoke.
Oh, shit brownies! The Mother of Shadows specifically told him to keep his affinity secret, and here he was being judged by the Master of Arena. Although, perhaps it was a ruse, to get him to react and confirm Gorlan's suspicions.
Either way, death wasn't the end. . . . Right? Should he die from a giant axe through his skull, the Mother of Shadows would give him life again. With that thought, he stood his ground, muscles stiff with anticipation, and a need to bolt out of the room and up all those damn stairs.
Gorlan stepped forward and two little cries echoed into the chamber as a robed figure sprinted for the hallway, teetering as it went. It made it three more steps before its top-half fell backward, taking with it the robe and revealing a Cobalin: green skin, big ears, and wide, frightful eyes.
Gorlan shot forward in a flash of light, traveling the distance in a fraction of a second. The axe drove cleanly through the Cobalin's midsection, lumping the poor thing in half. The other Cobalin, just now escaping the robe on the ground, ran back into the room where everyone scattered from it.
"Out of the way! Out of the way!" he screamed and Dhane could fully understand him despite the words Adda ta wes forming in his head, like an echo. But he didn't know this Cobalin, hadn't given it a translation ball.
The tiny green monster jerked his head in all directions, trying to find another exit. When one didn't make itself known, he unsheathed his sword with a shaking hand—a sword that wasn't too different than the sword-dagger Dhane had—and turned.
Before he could even face the giant of a man, an axe flew through the air, spinning like a blade in a blender. It had to weigh more than the Cobalin himself. It struck with a meaty thud and pinned the poor thing to the ground, kicking and screaming.
Gorlan was there a second later. He took hold of the axe's handle and the metal pulsed with that streaming light of luminescent smoke, sending red damage numbers into the air and filling the chamber with the smell of burnt flesh.
The Cobalin bled light that oozed out to cover its skin and clothes and wounds. The light dispersed in flickering pinpricks, and the Cobalin was gone.
Gorlan tapped a few invisible things in the air, stepped back on the raised platform at the center of the room, and strapped his axe back into place. His serious face was replaced by a half-grin.
"This is sacred place," Gorlan said, "not for Cobalin trash! Before your training concludes, you get to slay your own Cobalin. We keep them in cages and release them for laughs between arena matches."
The immediate show of violence, of death, had an unsettling effect on the room. People counted stone tiles along the floor, some took a step back, though blondie, the guy who had stood behind Dhane in the line just yesterday—had it only been a day?—wore an energetic, if not outright excited, grin.
Gorlan grunted in distaste. "Stop your moral qualms. They are mindless animals that exist for the game. Slay them when you see them and take their treasures. That is why they exist. Were we not to hunt them, they would multiply and overrun us."
Dhane ground his teeth, thinking about Dedu Tedu, a town full of Cobalins living life like any human, hiding there because of the evil adventurers. Mahai had said that entities of Light and Shadow, were no different from each other, that all were souls from other planes, wanting to exist.
Gorlan drew a symbol in the air, invisible until he pushed a glowing light into it. The symbol burst and stone scraped against stone. Beneath the twelve murals of the Light divinities were now doorways into undulating darkness, familiar pools of black.
"Before your training begins," he said, "you must converse with your divinity and unlock your first skills. When you are ready, enter the realm of your divinity."
Of course, there was no doorway with a painted spider above it, one for the Mother of Shadows. Everyone except for Dhane started moving.
Oh, shit brownies. . .. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 6 | Everyone in the room had no problem finding their chosen divinity. They quickly moved to the various doorways and stepped into the cold, black liquid. If only they knew what it felt like to go through one of those damn portals, they probably wouldn't have been so eager.
Twelve divinities of Light and here Dhane was pretending to one of their followers. He had, by instinct alone, projected his divinity as being the Lion, a warrior, and his original choice. However, the skills he'd likely use would be nothing like a warrior's skill of radiant power.
What skills did an arachnomancer have?
He quickly scanned the divinities: Lion, Monkey, Dolphin, . . . Snake? Well, there's a thought. Both spiders and snakes had venom. If his skills were venom based, then that would hide his affinity.
Now for the interesting question . . . what would happen to an entity of Shadow that was so brazen to step into a Light divinity's realm? Would he become the ant to the god's magnifying glass, and if so, on a scale between one and ten, how much would that hurt?
It wasn't like he could just leave without raising suspicions. Oh, you want me to talk to my divinity? I've changed my mind, that I have! Bye-bye.
Gorlan scanned the room and paused on him, his eyes cold and calculating. Dhane projected the Snake divinity and Gorlan frowned a disturbingly ugly frown, like he had found a vegetable on one of his meat kabobs. What did a man like this eat to get so uncomfortably big?
"I recall," he said in that deep voice of his, "a Lion in you."
Dhane swallowed, eyeing the handle of Gorlan's two-handed axe that peeked out over his shoulder, a constant reminder of the poor Cobalins' execution and likely what would happen to him if he answered in a less than satisfying way.
He shook his head, acting as nonchalant as possible, brushing some lint from his shirt while his heart did a little Zumba. "I can't say that was me. I'm a follower of the snake." And just as he said it, additional information awoke in his mind. He added, "I'm an assassin? for the Sisters . . . of Death."
One of these days he'd have to work on lying better. But it seemed to appease whatever Gorlan was looking for. The tall man nodded slowly, as if to give respect to the snake divinity, then he held an arm out, pointing toward the snake's portal.
Dhane held a sigh, plastered on some fake confidence, and marched up to the portal. Here goes nothing. He stepped in, eyes pinched shut lest the solar rays blinded him. Would they wonder where the pile of ash came from?
Of course, it was just like the last portal, an absolute ride of happiness. . ..
Glacial ice shot through him, weaving a storm of piercing cold that stung as it moved from bone to bone. The roaring sound of something reverberated in his chest, as if the mountains were shifting to open a way to the plane of divinities.
And curiously, just like the first time, it all ended with him standing in a void of blackness, feet on textureless ground. His immediate thought was how this was the Mother of Shadow's realm—will all divinity portals lead to her?—though that thought quickly jumped ship and skedaddled when the first whispered words formed.
"He is no follower," came a hiss.
"He walks between affinitiesss," came another.
"Yesss." The way her voice slithered into his mind, sent a wave of tingles down his spine and he shivered, goosebumps prickling across his body.
"Dhane of Shadow, of Spider," the two whispers said together, "enter our realm, guest of night."
Were there a choice, he may have politely declined and jumped into the closest pit of spikes. But just as with the Mother of Shadows' realm, there didn't appear to be a way out, nor could his perfect dark vision see anything other than what lay ahead.
Dhane followed a curving, scaled construction, a statue of white and black stone, twisting together to form doorways. He stepped through them as if stepping through portals, each leading deeper into the void where whispers echoed, but not their words.
He finally came upon a large basin formed by two massive snake heads, emeralds for eyes, circling each other to form the depression in the world. Green water filled the basin, and it rippled as he approached, as if he carried a current of wind, or his mere presence repulsed the liquid.
"Interesting. . . ." a whisper said, tickling his right ear.
Dhane jerked back and a white snake shifted through the air. Its body had no end, like the string of fate, controlling who lived and who died.
"I see potential in you," another voice said next to his left ear. This time, a black snake glided through the air. The two snakes turned, sliding around each other, looping into a fancy display of crisscrossing colors. They faced him, eyes both a glowing green.
"Tell usss," they both said at the same time, "what brings you?"
"I don't . . . have a divinity of Light," he said.
"We see thisss."
Of course, they did, they knew he was of Shadow immediately. Even the Mother of Shadows could not hide this from other divinities. "I had to choose a portal in the arena."
"And you chose oursss?"
"Yes," he said. Was there a point in lying? Could one lie to a god? Honesty had always been important to him, and so he explained. "I entered your portal to hide my affinity. Snakes and spiders both have venom, so if everyone thought my divinity was . . . you two, then they wouldn't find out about my affinity."
The black snake nodded. "You know," she said without slurring her words or speaking slowly in a godlike fashion, "that was a really good explanation, and it makes a lot of sense."
"Altera!" the other said, "you promised you'd stay in character!"
All the mysticism evaporated at that moment, leaving behind two snake sisters, bickering over . . . role-play? This was a heaven of games, after all, the sooner he understood that the fewer surprises there'd be. Maybe. . ..
"Tsss, it doesn't matter," Altera, the black snake, said. "He's not one of ours. It was your idea to act all godlike to get more followers and we're still here with no one. Look around, Niveus. People don't want to touch a snake during the Choosing. Besides, I like Spider—there, I said it!—maybe we could work something out."
"Wait, what?" Dhane said. "I thought you could only have one divinity."
"Well, traditionally," Niveus said, "though you're of Shadow and yet human. Per our laws, you simply don't have a divinity yet. Hmm . . . it could work...."
"Right?" Altera said.
"If he channeled usss when projecting a Light affinity and channeled the Mother of Shadowsss when he projected a Shadow affinity, I don't see why it wouldn't work."
"A dual-class! That is ssso cool."
"Here," Niveus said, trying to move, "back up a bit. Ugh! This always happensss. You were supposed to move in from the right, on the last step before the third turn to the left, before the double loop, not the left!"
"I did!" Altera said, her black scales tensing.
"Oh really? And what ssside are you on right now?"
"The . . . right?"
"No! Last time you messed up, we were stuck in a knot until Monkey helped. And we still owe him a favor. God knows what he's going to ask. And if it's sssexual, you're doing it—I don't do fur!"
Dhane loved puzzles, usually in the form of uncovering ancient secrets in video games, though this worked too. He poked Niveus and had her loosen her hold of Altera, then directed Altera out of their knot.
"Great," Niveus said, "now we owe Dhane a favor. We don't have much divine energies to be owing everyone favors!"
Dhane laughed. "You don't owe me anything, I was just trying to help."
"Actually," Altera said, slithering her black form into her own coil, "when a divinity is helped, that help must be repaid. It'sss written in our codex of divine and spirit relationsss."
"Oh. . . . What did you mean by divine energies?"
Niveus, now happily in her own coiled form, said, "Divinities absorb energy from their followers. When you kill monsters and earn experience, you're feeding us with energy. When you level, we use that energy to help you learn a new skill."
"And," Dhane said, realizing the problem, "you don't have many followers."
"Right," the two snakes said together.
"It doesn't seem fair that people are thrust into making a decision on which divinity to choose within the first few minutes of being reborn. Especially since we can't change that after the fact."
"Oh you can," Niveus said. "The popular divinities don't want their followers to know that they could change. If they did, they probably would lose followers and thus divine energies."
"And unfair?" Altera said. "You haven't heard anything yet. It's way worse! They don't even present all of the divinities of Light to new transcendents. They alternate our spot—out of all of the divinities—with the Ferrets. We eat ferrets for god's sake! But they wouldn't dream of doing that to Lion or Monkey."
"Okay, okay, let's not dig into this too deeply," Niveus said, smiling at Dhane, "I have to live with her after all, and she ain't pretty when she gets all bent out of shape."
"Oh, says you!"
"Look, the world isn't fair. That'sss just a constant no matter what world you're in. The powerful will do what they can to remain powerful. I don't see what we can do about it."
Altera started to say something, though Niveus cut her off. "Dhane, you are welcome to be our follower, but I want you to understand what it would mean if you chose usss for a dual divinity. You will gain all the perksss of both classes, the freedom and flexibility to choose skillsss, however, such things come with a cost. Leveling would require twice the experience, twice the amount of work as anyone else."
"Yes," Dhane said, understanding the drawback, "though it's the perfect disguise. No one would think that I have more than one divinity, and if I'm a follower of the Sisters of Death, I simply cannot be of the Shadow affinity. It'll be extra work, but this is eternity, right?"
Niveus and Altera looked at each other. Or rather . . . Niveus was glaring at Altera. Warning her to be silent. There was something there, something that wasn't supposed to be known by mere transcendents.
"What is it?"
"Dhane," Niveus said, "there are things we cannot say. And really, it's nothing to be concerned about. The heavens have their mysteries and that must remain so. The only thing you need to answer is, will you become our follower?"
The sister snakes watched him with their glowing green eyes, a hint of eagerness there. These were the divinities that got trampled by the others. These were the divinities that played the game despite the unfairness.
The best way to enforce the balance between Light and Shadow was to be of Light and Shadow. And that was his answer, but he did have one final question to ask. "When I came in here, the water rippled, and you—"
Altera laughed. "Oh, it does that to everyone. Makesss them feel special, you know?"
The transition between the plane of divinities and Olindale always went smoother leaving than entering. No glacial cold tearing through his body, no scraping sounds of crashing worlds, no deep feeling of dread. Instead, colors of the world elongated and spun around him until he stood on the hard sands of the arena beneath a blindingly bright sun.
Dhane was probably the only entity in this heaven to have two official affinities and two divinities. He walked between Light and Shadow, which gave him some freedom where before, he could only hide.
And if that wasn't enough of a boon, the moment after arriving back, a notification alert played in his head.
Dhane summoned his phone and had a new message.
Subject: A Favor Repaid
Dhane, in accordance with our codex and laws, please see the attached item as repayment for your help. —Niveus & Altera
Attached to the message was a ring. Dhane tapped it and it moved to his inventory, launching the app. The ring was a swirl of two snakes, alternating black and white with emerald eyes.
─ Ring of Rest [Legendary] Ring
─ Reduce the need for sleep by 50%
Dhane laughed and tapped the Equip action. Oh, Niveus. . . . She was deceptively smart and no doubt tied herself in a knot only to get his help, giving her an excuse to return the favor. Clever clever.
She knew that his biggest challenge would be gaining experience. Double the class, double the work. This ring not only cut one of the most time-consuming activities of the day in half, but freed up his evenings to explore other skills that should not be seen.
"I told you, the bra guy's back," someone said from the side. . . . Oh, shit brownies, it was the blond dude again, the one who not only made Dhane the subject of public ridicule, but also tripped him when he tried to choose Lion as his divinity.
Dhane considered him and his two friends, Bexley, the brunette girl he so awkwardly stared at while his brain was reeling from the simple fact it was alive again, and some bodybuilder, shorter than blondie, red hair, covered in freckles, and a set of massive arms.
Dhane smiled and gave a sarcastically friendly wave. "Douche," he whispered and turned to take in the rest of the arena: a rectangle with rounded corners, maybe half the size of a football field with walls ten feet high and surrounded by a few dozen rows of seats. It could fit thousands of people.
"Haha! Right on the money there," a deep voice said at his side. It was the three-piece-suit guy, however, now he was wearing a nice set of black leather armor and a small ruby amulet. It looked nice and expensive.
"Vest guy! Where's your suit?"
"Ah, man, call me Devron. I sold it. You see, given the information we had, I figured getting the most expensive set of clothes would be a good way to get some startin' money. But I needn't have worried."
"Oh yeah? Why's that?" They started walking along the inner wall where stone benches filled the space between large gates.
"You don't know? They gave us each a gold piece to get situated. I still sold those clothes, just not my style, and got this."
And he wasn't the only one wearing new armor. Actually, it would seem that everyone had armor and some type of weapon. That was, everyone except Dhane, still wearing modern-day Jeans and a nice corded, silver shirt, as if he were ready to go to the club instead of battle.
"Looks nice," he said. "Black leather, are you a rogue or assassin?"
"Ha! No, man. I mean, I had naturally high attributes for Strength and Vitality from my last life. Could have been a warrior with my size, though we live in a world of magic! How could I pass up on that?"
Dhane exhaled an annoyed breath.
"What's the matter?"
"It's nothing," he lied.
"If that's nothing then my momma can't bake worth shit."
"Your mom . . . couldn't bake?"
"Hells, man, the things she could do with flour would convert a devout priest to worship her oven—the cooking sort, man, I see where your mind's goin'. The family I came from was huge, and she loved every bit of it. So, no, something is botherin' ya."
"Does it upset you that you can't remember them?"
"Sure does, however, even if their faces allude me, they're still there. I can remember how I felt near them, the fun we had, the challenges we faced."
Dhane nodded. "Here's the thing, I didn't even know we had natural attributes until you said it. Now I know we have Strength, Dexterity, Intelligence, and Vitality, numbers that represent who we were in the last life, though I feel behind and suddenly knowing things I didn't before is a bit bonkers. That and you guys got a gold piece while I..."
"Oh, don't ya stop on my account, it seems you've got a story to tell."
"I wish, but I'm sworn to secrecy." Then an idea struck. "It was an initiation when choosing the Sisters of Death as my divinity. All I can say is, when it was all said and done, I didn't get a gold piece or a fancy meal at the Royals' palace. Do they really give new transcendents pedicures?"
"Ya want to see my gleamin' toenails?"
They both laughed.
"Different paths, my friend. And speaking of friends," Devron said and winked. They stopped near a tall woman. She had deep brown skin with cool undertones and a sculpted body, like a marathon runner in the last life. Her eyes were green and her black hair was tightly braided, forming two tails that hung just below her shoulders.
She stood and analyzed Dhane.
He reflexively projected his affinity of Light following the Sisters of Death. Everyone seemed to want to pry into who he was, as if doing so was a social custom. Of course, as soon as he thought that, the answer told him it was. In fact, it could be considered rude to not look beneath the skin and see the true person therein, as if they were inconsequential.
And with that knowledge, he understood how. Similar to how he projected his affinity, he could call to the affinity of someone. It had an interesting sensation of mentally asking Who are you? and actually getting a reply.
This woman's affinity glowed a pure white, in the shape of the Hawk divinity. She smiled at the exchange, now feeling more . . . familiar, like they weren't just meeting for the first time.
"Heya boys," she said and leaned to the side on her spear. Her armor matched Devron's in its black leather, though she wore it better, with casual confidence.
"Aaliyah, this is Dhane."
"Hello third."
"Third?" Dhane asked.
Devron nodded, carrying that easy smile of his. He was a likable guy, the type unafraid to move against the grain, to stand up for what he believed in, and give a helping hand to those in need.
"Yeah, man," he said. "Out there in the wilds, parties normally consist of three adventurers. Gorlan said something like, 'Learn to work with others.' "
"Whatevs, man," Aaliyah said, shaking her head. "He didn't say it like that at all. He said, 'Go alone, die alone!' Which I'd say is quite to the point."
"Well, sure, though I think my version captures the essence without being overly dramatic. But that's neither here nor there, the point is, trainin' consists of groups of three and we need a third. Dhane, you don't seem to have a group...."
"Alright," Dhane said, "I'll be your third."
"Nice! And hells, man, you probably don't even know that you get paid 5 silver for each day of training, this being the first of two weeks."
"That much?"
"It's not that much," Aaliyah said.
"It is when you sell everything you own only to get 92 copper, barely enough to buy a bunk bed for the night and a roll that most would mistake for a rock."
Devron slapped Dhane on the back. "This guy has already been through some adventures. He's our bona fide veteran!"
"Pfft, hardly."
"I'd say, might even be party leader material."
"Leader?" Dhane asked. "I don't know about—"
"That's settled then!" Devron said and laughed. "Neither of us wants the position, and besides, it's only for trainin'. But if we win some of the challenges here, we can earn more than the 5 silver participation prize. That and all loot we may find is ours to keep."
Dhane sighed. He had never really been the leader in parties and guilds. Sure, people tried to press him into the position—the famed game reviewer!—though he was always more interested in going off to explore than lay down the rules and organize events.
"Gather round!" Gorlan bellowed. His voice really carried in the arena and all the chattering stopped. There appeared to be more people than there were beneath the arena, enough to form nine groups of three.
Gorlan stood by a large wooden gate, reinforced with steel beams. He waited for the groups to arrive, then pounded a meaty fist on the wood. "Behind this gate, your first challenge. Better have your weapons and skills ready by the time it opens!"
And with that, metal chains above the gate, attached to pulleys and wrenched by miserable looking, slave Cobalins, started lifting upward while something . . . a lot of somethings, clattered about on the other side. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 7 | Dhane summoned his phone and since he was the acting party leader—yay—tapped the Party app. Everyone in the arena appeared within a list, sorted by proximity with Devron and Aaliyah at the top.
He tapped their names and the Invite command that appeared in a submenu. They were quick to accept, which sounded a pleasant bell notification and probably lit up in the Party app, though he had quickly moved from there to the Character app, and the skills subsection.
The first thing to flash on his screen—with him standing right smack-dab in the middle of everyone—were two symbols: the Mother of Shadows as a spider, glimmering in silver and red, and the Sisters of Death, made of green and purple lines.
He frantically skipped the screen and glanced around. No one seemed to be paying him much attention and were instead, busily working on their own phones.
Was there a setting to black out his screen to others? Out of all the ways he could get caught, that seemed the highest likelihood. He was half tempted to go explore the Settings app to see what options there were, however, the gate was lifting and he didn't have much time.
All new transcendents, upon receiving their class, were given a single skill point to start. With each additional level, they would earn another skill point, which could be used to learn a new skill or level an existing one.
Since Dhane hadn't chosen a skill yet, instead of exhibiting his lack of abilities, the screen shifted to display a list of potential skills to choose from. Each class had three skills available at level 1, and the hidden knowledge in his mind confirmed that as he leveled, new skill options would unlock.
He scrolled to hide the arachnomancer skills, and expanded the assassin ones:
─ Shadow Shift [Dex] Lvl. 1
─ Mana: 15
─ Distance: 24 Feet
─ Delay: 1 Seconds
─ Smoke Trail: 10 Seconds
─ After a 1 second delay [1 / Skill Level], teleport between shadows that are no farther than 24 feet apart [(2 + Skill Level) * Dexterity], leaving behind a trail of smoke that can be seen and followed for 10 seconds [10 / Skill Level].
─ Venom Bite [Dex] Lvl. 1
─ Mana: 8
─ Damage: 3 & 1 Venom Counter DoT
─ Imbue your next attack with venom, dealing an additional 3 damage [Skill Level * 1/3 Dexterity] and adding a venom counter to the target.
─ Each venom counter deals 1 damage every 3 seconds for a total of 9 seconds. If the target is hit with another venom counter before the effect is removed, the timer is reset.
─ Maximum of 5 active venom counters from Venom Bite.
─ Snake Bind [Str] Lvl. 1
─ Mana: 18
─ Weight: 18 Pounds
─ Duration: 3 Seconds
─ The target becomes bound by an intangible snake, adding 18 pounds [(3 * Skill Level) * Strength] to their form for 3 seconds [Skill Level * 1/2 Strength]. Can be guarded against by a debuff shield or effects.
─ This is a touch effect.
The gate had already lifted three feet, revealing scrap metal contraptions on the other side, mostly just legs shifting about, talon-like feet, clawing at the sand. He had barely enough time to read his options, let alone decide!
Out of these three, only one did damage. Utility skills and support skills had their uses, but come on! 18 pounds for Snake Bind? His Strength stat must really suck. At least it made the decision easy. Future choices would require more character design in relation to his party and play style.
For now, he selected Venom Bite and confirmed the selection, immediately feeling the skill, as if it had merged into him, and with it, the knowledge of how to trigger it.
Dhane withdrew his Cobalin sword and dismissed the phone.
Gorlan moved to the side, and the nine parties started pressing in, battle-hungry for whatever was on the other side of the gate. "Find the most gears," he said, "and earn 5 extra silver today!"
This only encouraged more people to push forward, as if being first in line was the only real determiner for who would win. Dhane, on the other hand, took a step back.
The shifting metal legs, squeaking gears, and ticking noises all formed a picture of sorts, a puzzle of sounds. The ticking sound was projecting from each of those . . . things—whatever they were—all the way back into a tunnel by the sound of it, echoey and distant.
Given the size of one, the width of the gate, and the length of the tunnel behind it, which was pure speculation, there had to be more than thirty of the things, a whole herd of metal contraptions eager to escape into the open arena.
Dhane grabbed Devron's shoulder and pointed to the opposite wall of the arena. "Run to the other side!"
Devron reacted immediately, not a flicker of a question across his face, probably because it was him, after all, that made Dhane the party leader. The man grabbed Aaliyah who was pushing forward against the others. She gave an elaborate sigh, mixed with a pained expression, as if someone had run off with her favorite sharp thing, but nodded nonetheless.
They weren't the only ones who were moving away. McBlondie douche-face spotted them sprinting across the sand. He said something to his party and they immediately started running as well.
Some scrawny guy, nearly seven feet tall and as white as they came—a guy who probably never ventured out into the sunlight, outside of his dark den full of video games—cackled a high pitched laugh, a tone that had a distinct characteristic of a thirteen-year-old who said rude things about your mother.
"Oh, mommy," the guy said, "look at the scared little children running away from—" The guy face-planted to the sand as dozens of the heavy metal contraptions, looking like malformed ostriches, poured out of the gate, trampling anyone unlucky enough to be in their way.
A storm of negative red numbers drifted skyward before fading. A few people had turned the color of shimmering silver-white before dispersing to nothing, dead and gone practically before the challenge started.
Even with the extra distance they made by leaving early, the birds caught up in a matter of seconds. The only difference, out here in the arena, there was a lot of open space and the birds didn't appear interested in running into obstacles.
Dhane pointed to the left and the three of them sprinted after two birds that were now slowing to a trot, happy to no longer be contained behind the gate. "Focus on one at a time," he said.
Devron extended a hand back behind himself as if reaching into an invisible bag and grabbed something. Light pooled into his hand like water, waves splashing against the confines of a sphere. He shoved the ball forward and it launched as a missile of light that slammed into the closest bird.
The blast knocked the bird back a step, producing a -12 in red damage, dropping its health to 48/60. It shook its head, loose bits of metal clinking from within, then charged Devron.
Aaliyah, however, shoved the butt end of her spear into the ground and used it to launch herself forward, both legs out. She collided with the junk bird, knocking it to its side and landing on her back.
The bird thrashed, kicking up sand, flapping sheets of metal wings far too small, and heavy, to fly with.
Dhane crossed to its backside and triggered Venom Bite with a thought. The Cobalin sword exuded purple streams of color, as if a red wine dripped down the blade.
He stabbed the bird, fully expecting a clash of metal on metal, though instead, the blade slipped through the hard surface of nuts and bolts, cutting at the thing's essence and leaving a white slit.
Before rolling away to dodge the bird's random, powerful kicks, he stabbed twice more, triggering his skill each time. His mana dropped to 66/90. It was something that he just knew without having to look at anything. Now, every third second, he regained a mana point just as the bird took 3 additional damage from venom counters.
Devron launched another missile and Aaliyah, now on her feet, spear in hand, jabbed the tip of her spear into the bird twice.
The bird stopped moving, then glowed white for a moment before it burst into pinpricks of light and released four gears to float in the air. Tiny, shimmering disks, casting flecks of purple light across the sand, divided into three trails that slid into each of them.
"Hells . . . yeah. . . ." Devron said, staggering toward invisible loot.
Dhane could feel the experience, like warmth at the back of his mind. He received +36xp toward his next level, a total of 58/200, which must include his battle with the Durum boar, yesterday.
A group to their right just killed one of the junk birds, just as another group cried out. A girl in that group crashed to the sand and the bird landed on her back, tearing red damage numbers out of her until she shifted to a shimmering white.
Dhane quickly grabbed his loot and pointed to the next bird. If they wanted to win, they didn't have time for a break between kills. This seemed to suit Aaliyah just fine, though Devron looked tired. His health, mana, and stamina appeared in bars of red, blue, and yellow . . . and his blue bar was entirely empty at 0/20.
"Oooh," Devron said, taking a wobbly step. "I feel like I'm on my fifth beer, guys. Dhane, is that you? You look funny, man...."
"How do you not have any mana?"
"Mannn," he said and slumped to the sand, hands bracing the sides of his head. "Please, don't talk so loud. It's like every sound is a dagger in my brain."
"He's mana drunk," Aaliyah said, and just as she said it, that bit of knowledge, hidden deep within his subconscious, unlocked. "He used all of his mana."
The Mana Drunk debuff wasn't just about having no mana. No, it penalized the person for five minutes, halting their mana regeneration while leaving them impaired.
"Just . . . leave me," Devron said.
Dhane scanned the arena of scattered birds and mismatched groups fighting. He grabbed Devron's arm. "Stand up. You don't have to fight, but you have to stay with us. Can you do that?"
"I..."
"Yes? That's what he said, right?"
Aaliyah nodded vigorously and grabbed Devron's other arm. They pulled him to his feet and caught him as he lost balance, trying to swan dive into the sand.
"This is training," Dhane said. "Just imagine we're out there dying by some trolls or something. Would you be here whimpering? Or would you be trying to help?"
Devron took in a deep breath and tried to nod. "Hells man, you can count on me."
"Good. Aaliyah, aggro that bird there."
"Yes, sir!"
"Ohhhh," Devron said, wincing and holding the side of his head. "This is terrible. . . . Worse than dying. It's like I'm drunk and hungover at the same time."
Aaliyah sprinted across the sand, jumped, and thrust her spear into the side of a bird. The force wasn't enough to knock it over, though it took a solid 14 damage.
The bird spun, tearing the spear from her hands, nearly knocking her off balance. The spear remained stuck in its side, whipping around as the bird shook, trying to dislodge it.
Aaliyah yelped and jumped back, barely missing getting clobbered by her own weapon. She then dashed to the side and rolled, dodging the charge of the bird, which was now heading directly toward Dhane and Devron.
"Devron, block," Dhane said and let go of the man. He sprinted forward, jumped, and grabbed the spear, flipping up under it with far more ease than he had expected.
While he had originally wanted to pull the spear free, the motion sent him gliding through the air, in complete control. With barely any effort, he landed on the bird's back, straddling it, and brought his dagger down against the back of its head, over and over.
Each hit did critical strike damage, peeling away 16 health per hit, not counting the ticking damage from Venom Bite.
Devron, like a football linebacker, rammed his shoulder into the bird, stopping its charge completely. Dhane, on the other hand, didn't have the luxury of a seat belt. Before he could stab the contraption a fourth time, he was launched off the back of the bird.
Just like that first day on the mountain when he tripped, he summoned all the dexterity and knowledge and skill of a lifetime, knowing full well it wouldn't be enough, knowing he'd end up like those cartoon characters who land headfirst into a sandbank, bodies like arrow shafts. If only physics worked like that. . ..
Instead, in the world of reality, his muscles flexed and twisted. Everything spun and before he knew it, he was right side up. Feet hit the sand and he was already leaning in the opposite direction, now sliding five feet to a stop.
"Nice!" he yelled, arms in the air like some gymnast landing a perfect dismount. Then something heavy smashed into him from behind. He had the wherewithal to turn and slide on his back, just as another bird shrieked and landed on his chest, giving him a terrible flashback of a particular bunk bed collapsing on him just that very morning, driving the air from his lungs.
The damn bird pecked with its metal beak, cutting nicks in his arms while its talons tore sharpened blades of metal through his chest.
The pain seared through him. Hot and terrible. Talons tearing long gashes through skin, tickling his intestines, scraping across vertebrae, spilling his eternal light, his soul, out of him with red damage numbers to float skyward.
All the agony, the hot sand, his body warmth, it all drained away and filled in with a deep cold. The bird pushed off and sprinted away toward some other prey it could find. The sky turned gray—the sun seemed to dim.
Dhane blinked a few times, now standing in the void on that soft, textureless ground he found so troubling.
"Dead already?" the Mother of Shadows asked, silver legs and ruby red body spinning on a web five feet away.
Dhane grabbed his chest, feeling whole again, the pain . . . a lingering, torturous memory. His chest raised and fell as if he had jerked awake from some nightmare, covered in sweat, the hauntings of something fading away.
He calmed his quick gasps, slowed them to deep breaths. His heart followed a moment later until all there was left, through every part of him, a calm, an understanding, and a recognition for just how cruel this game was.
The Mother of Shadows didn't hurry him. She remained on her silver thread, working it down toward the top of her small pedestal.
"Do I always come here?" Dhane asked. "That is, when I die. Will I always return here?"
"No. Most transcendents are merely revived at their closest cemetery of alignment. Though if their divinity wants to see them, they can direct the soul to their realm."
"You wanted to see me?"
"Of course, Dhane. I recognize that a lot has happened for you. And I see the Light in you. Well done gaining the trust of the Sisters of Death. Out of all the divinities, they are perhaps the closest allies we have."
"It made the most sense," Dhane said. "If I want to protect the balance, I can't be of one affinity."
"I agree and support your decision. But I will suggest caution. The divinities of Light are up to something. The Sisters of Death are stuck between great powers and may hold knowledge from you, or misdirect you from uncovering their secrets."
Dhane had already gotten that feeling when he asked about eternal life. They did appear to know something, something they wanted to tell him but couldn't, alluding to the idea that this heaven might not be as eternal as the transcendents believed.
"I'll keep that in mind," he said.
"That's all I ask. And before I forget, I sent a little something to help you out as an arachnomancer."
"A little something?"
"Mhmm. It'll be a surprise," she said with humor in her voice. "Now about sending you back...."
"Wait a moment!"
"Yes?"
"First, I know you don't have to touch me to send me back. The Sisters of Death were quite capable in that regard."
"Dratz! You know, it's not always fun being a divinity. Are you sure you don't want a little tickle behind the ears?"
"Quite. Certain."
She laughed. "Fine. . . . Anything else?"
"Before I died, I could move in ways I've never moved before. You could say I've always been somewhat of a klutz, though now...."
"That's totally expected," she said.
"It is?"
"You are an assassin now, as a follower of the Sisters of Death. Classes come with a set of passive bonuses. Assassins are agile, quiet, and blend into their surroundings far easier than others."
"What about arachnomancers?"
"Yes, you have passives there as well. That little surprise is one of them. I imagine you'll discover the others in due time."
"Well, that's less than helpful."
"But far more fun, right?"
Dhane sighed. "Alright, send me back."
"As you wish. And for some obvious advice? Try not to die, it really takes a chunk out of your day."
"That's—"
Everything shifted, filling the void with sweeping, elongated colors. It all merged together until all he could see was a ceiling covered in murals: armies of men fighting the armies of monsters.
"—obvious," he said. He sat up on a stone slab, his shirt completely shredded. Oh, shit brownies. He just got this shirt and it was actually pretty nice.
There were a dozen or so other slabs in the room, lit by torches that flickered orange. Something small shifted in the corner where the shadows seemed to gather: A Cobalin with a metal cuff chained to his ankle, attached to a block of stone that he carried.
The Cobalin straightened, then shuffled toward the door, no doubt to alert someone of a newly revived person.
"Wait," Dhane said and the Cobalin stopped.
It turned, forehead creased in confusion. "You speak language?"
Apparently, he did. Perhaps it was one of the arachnomancer class passives, or merely being of a shared affinity. Dhane nodded and waved the Cobalin over, which seemed to distress the little guy to no end.
Finally, the Cobalin licked his lips and shuffled closer, looking about the room as if some sick trap was about to appear and cause him pain. When nothing happened, he looked more curious than cautious.
"Why are you here?" Dhane asked.
"Alert master of Returned."
"No . . . why are you here. Why aren't you in Dedu Tedu?"
"You know Dedu . . . Tedu. . .?" His eyes brightened as if seeing a long-forgotten memory, a different life.
Dhane nodded.
The Cobalin hooked a thumb at his chest. "I'm Kuby, fodder. Evil men no kill but take Kuby. Now here."
"Couldn't you"—how did one put this gently without sounding a bit terrible?—"die and return?"
Kuby shook his head. "Return closest Shadow cemetery. No escape, not in death, not ever. Slave. Kuby slave."
"How many are there of you?"
The little green guy cocked his head. "There . . . one Kuby."
"How many Cobalins!"
"Ah, numbers?" Kuby gently lowered his stone, then with his hands free, held out all ten fingers.
"Ten of you?"
He shook his head and looked at his fingers again. "There be ten Cobalins and all their fingers and all toes."
"Two hundred?" Then again, did Cobalins have ten toes? His locked away knowledge didn't seem to know. Either way, far more than Dhane had originally guessed.
Before Kuby could answer, a blond man with a thick blond beard, clad in nice leather and chain armor, stepped into the room. He immediately noticed the Cobalin. "Is this Cobalin bothering you?"
Kuby grabbed his stone and grunted with the effort to pick it up.
"Oh no," Dhane said, "I just . . . asked for some water."
The man walked up to Kuby and backhanded him, knocking the stone from his hands, which promptly fell on his foot. He cried out in pain, hopping on one foot, which the man in leather seemed to find amusing.
"You're Dhane?"
Dhane nodded, lest his voice betray the rage that burned through his chest. What the hell was wrong with people and how they treated Cobalins?
"I'm Challenger Terry," he said, awakening a bit of that unknown knowledge shoved into the back of Dhane's head. Challengers were heroes of the city, ranked by accomplishment in the arena. Anyone could fight in the arena, though only the top hundred were ranked and given the Challenger title.
Terry continued, "You're here to train, not be pampered by Cobalin slaves. If you need water, get up and get it yourself. The Cobalins have their own jobs and don't need you interrupting them. Is that clear?"
The way he said it seemed to demand a formal reply. "Yes, sir."
Terry paused, then his features softened. This was a man who liked respect and paid it in kind. "Training is over for the day."
"Already?"
"You've been gone for a good nine hours. Returning is a slow process, especially if your divinity wants a word with you. Did the Sisters of Death have any helpful advice?"
Dhane frowned. "Yeah . . . don't die again."
Terry laughed, a good and deep, jolly of a thing. "Yes, all-around good advice. Death is a significant thing here. Die on an adventure or defending the walls and you abandon your comrades. As such, you have received a mark. Receive another and you won't be paid for the day."
Dhane nodded his understanding, then accepted a coin bag with a label indicating it contained 5 silver coins.
Terry considered something, then said, "We don't get many assassins. Perform well and you could make for a good Challenger. My guild is always on the lookout for new talent."
Terry turned to Kuby, and the small Cobalin shrunk, head low, squinting eyes as if anticipating another blow. "Take Dhane to the surface," he said, then turned to Dhane. "Be sure you are here tomorrow at seven sharp. Those who are late receive a mark. Understand?"
"Yes, sir." |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 8 | A fidgety Kuby led Dhane through the unground labyrinth of the arena. It was a network of massive hallways, filled with people in fancy armor, walking, talking in alcoves, laughing, and universally, shouting at Cobalins for one misdeed or another.
Water ran down cascades of stone in the walls, pooling in basins, surrounded by benches. The constant trickling sound seemed to give the various conversations more privacy.
Cobalins were everywhere, most cleaning in some manner, polishing placards, statues, trophies, and the like, things that were already as clean as clean could be. Others were draped in bags, struggling to walk while also carrying their heavy blocks of stone.
No one paid Dhane any attention. He was a stranger in their world of guilds fighting each other for rank, for fame, and of course, for riches, and all the things that riches bought.
It appeared that the challengers and their staff lived here. Massive doorways led into the domains of different guilds, people coming and going, some eating food, others in the company of a few women or men, hanging on their arms.
Kuby crossed to a door that led to a stairwell. After two flights of stairs, the exhausted Cobalin opened a door to the outside.
Dhane didn't know what to say to the little guy, this miserable slave who was missing out on tabletop role-playing games, Taco Tuesdays, and who knew what else. Dhane could snatch the Cobalin right here and now, and run for the hills.
But no. He had so little power. Trying to help would likely only cause Kuby more trouble, more pain. And what of the other two hundred slaves?
Dhane said the only thing he could, and truly mean it, "I'm sorry."
Kuby jerked at the words and looked around. When it appeared no one was there to witness their exchange, the Cobalin smiled and said, "You give hope, strong Shadow," and closed the door.
Strong? All the Cobalins kept saying he was a strong Shadow, but what was he compared to the challengers in their fancy armor? What was he compared to those who fought and trained every day?
Dhane sighed, standing beneath a darkening orange and purple sky. Distant bells rang, sounding a warning before the gates would be closed for the night.
Just as Challenger Terry had said, the consequences of death sucked. The entire day had swept by in a few minutes. Did Devron and Aaliyah survive, or did they experience the sheer fun of having their insides scraped out by a crazy metal bird?
Dhane walked down a series of stone steps to the main street where people were out, dressed for a good time. It'd do well to just . . . explore. That was what he loved to do and this city was full of unexplored wonder.
He followed a stream of people and took in the sights of odd-shaped buildings, statues, fountains, and musicians on every corner, their music twisting into the commotion of a city come to life.
"And I'm telling you," said a broad-shouldered man to a merchant, "it's worth more than that!" The man looked like he was about to draw his sword and start making singular things plural.
"Well I don't know," said the merchant in a squeaky voice, "I'm not sure I can resell it."
"It's a sword! A magnificent sword from the honor guard of Vheula."
"Vheula! Vheula fell a hundred years ago. What did you do, pull this off a skeleton?"
"So what if I did?"
"Just vendor it to the System."
"I'd only get 27 copper from the system!"
"Fine, I'll give you 28 copper."
"Really? Haha! Score! Now for my next item...."
Dhane shook his head. The lengths people went to for just one extra copper was both maddening and inspiring. Then again, his own bartering efforts had gone fairly well. It just showed that anything could be sold for a bit more if he could stomach the patience for it.
He crossed a street to the aroma of cooked meat, bread, onions, and garlic. People waited outside of restaurants, standing between hedges that formed lines. Staff members dressed in nice suits at the front, standing at podiums, asked for party size, then tapped phones together, promising a message soon.
The knowledge at the back of his head said a decent sit-down restaurant would cost anywhere between a few silver and a few gold. Of course, there were other restaurants for more expensive clientele that offered all manner of services, along with the best foods people could buy.
"And for my latest trick," said a man in a black and violet suit to his crowd of onlookers, "living fire!" He had a good stage voice, and accented it with magic fingers, wiggling them as if to lure more eyeballs.
The crowd took a step back as a dozen balls of fire, no larger than ping pong balls, flared to life. They circled each other, forming patterns in the air, drawing forth a series of oohs and aahs.
One particular woman in a fancy dress—her hair done up like a palace tower, even so far as to have little holes for windows and a golden dome at the top—laughed and pointed. When she turned to the man next to her, one that seemed her equal in frivolous fanciness, the lights of her tower flickered on.
This changed the chorus of oohs and aahs to something more strained and high pitched. No fewer than three heroic gentlemen dashed to the woman's aid, assisting her in the most well-known way when dealing with fire: drop and roll.
By the time the men were pulled off the poor woman, her artsy tower of hair had been burnt, squashed, and beaten to death. This became more evident when she started to glow, face locked in shock, and in a poof, was gone.
The three heroic gentlemen stood awkwardly. One offered his condolences to Mr. Fancy, another said nothing and merely stared at the spot the woman was last, and the third, a young man, quickly tapped something invisible in the air and left.
This all seemed to trigger the same idea in everyone else, in so far that most weren't paying attention to the performer's last trick of getting the hell out of Dodge before the city guard could investigate.
Dhane left the scene—places to go, people to meet, and all that. He passed a guild recruitment booth, a young Indian woman calling out to adventurers. "Player Killers guild, looking for more members! Become a Player Killer!"
"What's this?" Dhane asked with no small amount of incredulity.
"Namaste!" the young woman said, brightening. She had golden-brown eyes and a happy face. "So . . . you interested in becoming a Player Killer? We recruit across all levels of experience."
"You're recruiting player killers? How is this a guild?"
"Oh, I see. I mean, you'ah new transcendent? The PK guild helps people who want to die without pain or long reset time. Adventurers, like, stuck far away, lose too many members and need help. That is what we do."
"That's . . ." Dhane started and paused. "I didn't know such a thing existed."
"Mention not. It like, can be confusing for newbs. So! Want a brochure?"
Dhane shrugged and accepted a rather well-designed pamphlet.
"And . . . if you join," she said, "I'm Aditi. Mention me and get free ice cream, yeah?"
"I . . . will," he said, and she gave him the warmest, most heartfelt smile anyone had ever given him before. Others approached the booth and she moved on to answer their questions and hand out more brochures.
Dhane continued down the street, reading over the information of what, in all video gaming history, had been considered the bad players, the villains, the ones that waited for players to get in a bind and then kill them for easy experience and gear.
The PK Guild, however, was entirely different. Guild members simply got paid for staying out in a designated area, just in case someone wanted to die without being shredded by some monster or losing the entire day to respawn.
The brochure didn't provide any details on how it worked, though no one seemed bothered by the guild. If anything, people had nodded their respect and waved. Being a PK in this world was like having a side job.
A tall man in a white robe and white hair, called out, "The Army of Light is recruiting! Fight back the Shadows!"
Dhane reflexively turned and walked to the other side of the street. An Army of Light? Maybe they'd be more sensitive to sensing the Shadow in his soul.
"Hello . . . sexy man," a woman purred, gliding up next to him and fingering the tears in his shirt. She was practically naked: short shorts, red high heels, and a top that was more bra than a shirt.
She took his arm and whispered into his ear, "I could be your toy tonight. Mmm," she moaned. "No kink-shaming. One gold and I'll show you my—"
"Ah-h, thanks," Dhane said and pulled away. "Maybe another time?"
She bit the bottom of her lip and pouted, then perked back up, apparently finding someone else to repeat her sales pitch on.
"Not now, Cherry," Nick said and Dhane turned back. "Dhane! I just saw you and you have got to see this. Ouch! What have you done to my shirt? I mean, it's your shirt, obviously, but come on!"
"Death by some metal contraption."
"Those damn bird dummies?" Nick asked, shaking his head. "Well it's no matter, I have a bunch of people who want to get to know you, if you know what I mean. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink."
When Dhane arched an eyebrow and looked at Candy, who was now scouting the crowd, Nick said, "No, not that! Though if you need some introductions . . . just say the word. But what I was meaning was, merchants are all a part of a community. I know some merchants who could use a good review in exchange for goods, maybe even a new shirt."
"Wouldn't that fall under bribing?"
"Oh no, nothing like that. These merchants would simply give you items in good faith that you'll leave an honest review. And if you can't say anything good, maybe just return the items and leave it at that."
"I see." It wasn't anything out of the normal. In fact, it was exactly how game journalists worked. A company would send him a game and he'd get to explore its depths in exchange for an in-depth review. The only difference was how this could encompass a wider range of items.
"But that can wait," Nick said. "It's about to start!"
"What is?" Dhane asked and in answer, was dragged back toward Nick's booth. He now had a group of people, maybe eight, standing within three lines, each line a head taller than the other. A choir?
They all held glowing crystals, alternating between red and yellow, covering and uncovering them to pull the attention of passersby. Then, they all started to hum.
The busy street slowed as people pushed up closer to the display.
Nick was grinning so wide, he just might split a lip. "Here it comes!"
All in singsong chant, the choir started. "Find yourself a tenderloin, sell it here for lots of coin, make your wallet bounce and boing. Meat, meat, meat! Delicious food for everyone, buy from me and you have won, eat as much until you're done. Meat, meat, meat! Buying everything but fay, find me here throughout the day, trading all the goods away. Meat, meat, meat!"
With the last verse, the choir waved their crystals in the air, then separated to reveal a new sign: Nick's Meat. And a tagline: So good, you'll choke.
"It's short," Nick said—Dhane had a sudden urge to say, That's what she said, though reframed—"but damn that was beautiful. You agree?"
"You've certainly come a long way in a day."
"And that's what I'm telling you! The only people who write reviews are disgruntled customers or trolls. Do enough business and someone will get it in their noggin to hit you where it hurts."
"I'm not against it," Dhane said. "It's practically what I did before I died."
"Good! Then just think of me as your agent."
"Agent? For a reviewer?"
"Sure thing. I'll be the middleman to give you distance between the product and merchant. I get to charge a little fee to them and you get free stuff, it's a match made in heaven . . . like, literally."
It really didn't take much effort to write a review. He could pump out a thousand words an hour for in-depth game articles, so a few hundred words here and there to review a product could simply be a good side business. "Okay," he said, and why not? "Let's do it."
Nick fist-pumped the air. He said he'd have products ready tomorrow after Dhane was done with training for the day, then had to excuse himself to meet with an onslaught of new customers.
Dhane laughed to himself. In just two days, he had a side business, two divinities, a mission to save the world, a challenger guild interested in recruiting him, the PK guild that could definitely earn him money for doing nothing, and training that not only taught him, but paid him to be taught.
Oh, and he had 5 silver coins. 5 silver coins that should be plenty to get a nice room, something other than a painted rock for food, and leftover money to replace his shirt.
And he had just the place in mind.
Out of all the places Dhane could now afford, he found himself outside Cali Bali, the inn that . . . eh . . . just so happened to employ Penny. Was it strange to want to see her again? To return to the inn that nearly killed him and fed him an inedible roll? Perhaps it was simply nice to start defining places of familiarity.
He stepped into the diner and just like yesterday, people filled the tables, their chatter loud, their laughs boisterous, and the smells worth salivating over.
Penny poured four glasses at once, then slid them down the bartop with uncanny, perfect precision. He wondered, then, what divinity she followed, and partially why she, a past gamer enough to come to this heaven, worked as a barkeep instead of adventuring.
Then, chiding himself for being stupid, knew that he could simply look. In fact, it was expected. He mentally called out to her divinity, and she looked up, catching his gaze with her gorgeous, crystal blue eyes. From within, a dim, flickering light formed the shape of a dolphin.
Perhaps it was her gaze that caught him off guard, or her smile that made him forget to breathe, or the fact that her affinity seemed . . . broken, but when she returned the request for his divinity, he didn't project anything.
He approached and she raised an eyebrow.
"How'd you do that?" she asked. "Make it so I can't see your divinity."
"It's a . . . passive bonus," he said, recalling what the Mother of Shadows had told him. "I'm an assassin, follower of the Sisters of Death. I can hide my affinity so others don't know." Well damn, it was a convincing lie. +1 to Deceit.
"If that's the case, wouldn't they know you're an assassin because they can't see your divinity?"
And there she went, poking holes in a perfectly good explanation. He didn't quite know what to say, so he asked instead, "What's wrong with your affinity?" Then, that inkling of knowledge at the back of his mind told him how such a question was considered impolite. He immediately blurted, "Oh sorry, I shouldn't have asked."
"No, it's . . . okay. It's—"
"Penny," the innkeeper called, pointing at a couple that was trying to get her attention.
She flashed a perfectly executed, annoyed smile, pulled out a menu for Dhane, and said she'd be back.
The menu had all the prices for their different rooms and dishes and drinks, but oddly, no desserts. The cheapest was the bunk bed with a bread roll option for a silver. For two silvers, however, he could have a small room, a bowl of soup, and roll.
Of course, all he could think about was that Petra Roll and having gone to bed hungry. For just one more silver, he'd get an actual meal of common meat, cooked to his preference, steamed and buttered vegetables, and a drink.
Penny returned, poured two glasses with a mixture of different liquids that spiraled in tiny whirlpools, moving on their own. She flicked the air and a fish made of a deep red liquid, swam through one of the drinks, flicking its tail every so often.
Then, without even looking, she tossed the glasses down the bartop. They glided as if without friction and stopped directly in front of her two new customers. The woman pointed at the fish in her glass and laughed, then tried to spear it with a toothpick.
"It has been a long day," she said. "I swear, as soon as my shift is over, I'm just going to drop into bed and pass out." She grabbed the side of her neck and rolled her head, producing little pops.
"That bad?" Dhane asked.
"Just long. I get a break in the middle of the day, but it's never enough. Hey, what happened to your shirt?"
"First day of training...."
"You're new? Oh no! I thought you had just managed enough money to get off the streets for a night."
"You thought I was a bum? Wow . . . thanks."
She smiled, summoned her phone, and held it out. "Here. New transcendents get a free bath," she said, then leaned forward and whispered, "You need it." She laughed at his expression. It was a nice laugh, full of bottled-up happiness.
He summoned his own phone and accepted the free bath by tapping her phone. He hadn't even considered a bath, though given everything he had been through—crawling through tunnels of dirt and fighting dummy birds in the arena—he definitely could use a scrub.
With a few taps, a silver coin materialized and he tossed it to her.
"What's this for?"
"Call it a tip." At her questioning look, he added, "For yesterday."
"Oh, wow. Going the whole tenfold route? I'm going to need to find new ways to indebt you to me if this is how you are."
"I suppose that wouldn't be such a bad thing."
A moment passed where she didn't have a reply and instead really focused on him. This time, sensing what she was looking for, he projected his Light affinity, following the Sisters of Death.
It was an odd sensation, now that he knew what to look for. A tingling sort that buzzed around his chest. Just like with Aaliyah, she became immediately more familiar, closer, like they'd had these conversations at the bar for weeks.
She looked away for a heartbeat, then back, and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "So?" she said, eyeing the menu. "Anything you want?"
"Your number?"
"Oh, ha-ha, like I haven't heard that one before." Then she paused and tilted her head. "You're serious?"
Now it was time for Dhane to laugh. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because of my affinity...."
"I don't know why that matters. And I don't want to pry, since this mystical knowledge in my head says it's rude. Though if you don't mind explaining?"
Penny looked down, suddenly losing that playful charm of hers. "People say it's ugly, tainted with Shadow."
"And what do you say?"
"It's a punishment." She said the word like it was poison, needing to be spat out for the vile thing it was, no hiding her true feelings. Then she seemed to remember herself, the inn, her job. She forced a smile that did little to hide the pain she clearly felt.
Perhaps it was a mistake, but Dhane couldn't stand seeing that torturous look, a look that said more than all of her words had. "I was once told," he said, "that there was nothing different between Shadow and Light, just souls from other planes, wanting to exist in this game. So no, I don't think it's ugly."
Penny's eyes widened.
Oh, shit brownies, were such words considered treason here, to admit those of Light were the same as those of Shadow, their eternal enemy? And he did so in a crowded dining room. He suddenly had the urge to look about, to see if anyone was overhearing their conversation.
Penny tapped his phone with hers and smiled a genuine smile. Then, as if the discussion had never happened, she asked, "What can I get for you, sir?"
The medium-rare sumilian steak was beyond delicious, even if it was slightly charred on one side and had a strange mix of spices. Dhane didn't even know what a sumilian was, beyond that of a common mob in these parts.
Penny had returned to work, giving him the cold shoulder, but also her contact information. This only confirmed that he had spoken out of line, said something that could likely get both of them in trouble. If the Mother of Shadows knew how incompetent he was at keeping secrets, she would have chosen someone else. . ..
Perhaps he could claim ignorance, he was a new transcendent after all. Either way, he now had Penny's contact information. They could message and talk, just like living in the modern world, except this world didn't require batteries.
Strange, how having such a tiny device made this fantasy world feel . . . familiar. It dulled the edge of reality, made things easier. No other technology seemed to exist, just the thin rectangles of magic that could be summoned at will.
The baths were located at the back end of the building, a place covered in muddy-orange cement with rounded corners and wooden benches. Fresh cotton towels hung at the entrance with a side room for undressing.
Dhane sat on a bench, wrapped in his own towel, drawing a thumb across his chest where he used to have a scar. Instead, his skin had the perfect sheen of sweat and a decent amount of unearned definition. Just another reminder that he had died. In fact, he had now died twice, and neither were fun experiences.
If he had to die, perhaps hiring the PK guild to give him a painless transition would be the ideal way to go. It did seem quite odd that there wasn't an easier way to solve such problems, like a Scroll of Town Portal. Or were there such things, but they were too expensive for the common adventurer?
Steam plumed out from the tops and bottoms of doors to the various, occupied baths, carrying a mixture of scents from eucalyptus to lavender.
Water splashed and dribbled and dripped a relaxing cadence of sounds . . . disturbed only by the giggling of two women on the next bench over, looking at something on their phones. They arrived after he did and sent furtive glances his way, as if trying to catch his attention without being direct.
This all prompted a question he hadn't given much thought to: How was sex in heaven? As Gameus had said, there were no forms of sickness, and thus, no STDs. The mere idea of pregnancy seemed ridiculous; this was heaven, a land beyond death, after all. Was everyone looking for a hookup, for their night of fun with no strings attached and no risks?
He didn't know what to think of that. Different world, different culture, all with its own variety of morality. Still, all he could think of was Penny and her smile. What was she doing right now? He could text her, but was it too soon to text?
The door to his bath opened, and a large man stepped out. Dhane stood and crossed at the same time the two young women did, their towels barely running to mid-thigh.
"Hey there," the first young woman said. She had light brown skin with black hair, damp from the steam, running together in thick strands down her neck.
The second woman, a bit shorter, had red hair, green eyes, and more freckles than she knew what to do with. They ran down her neck and into the towel that hugged her breasts.
"Hi," Dhane said. Weren't the benches set up to act as a line for each bath? It didn't matter since he wasn't remotely tired, and if he had to wait for the next bath, so be it. And so he said, "Sorry, I thought this was my bath. Go ahead. I'll grab the next."
He turned, but the first girl took his arm. "Oh, you don't have to wait. We can share, can't we?" She said this as the two walked into the room with a pool of water against the far wall, directing him to follow.
Ms. Freckles slid her towel free, giving him an unabashed show of what sharing a bath really entailed. And . . . during those stunned seconds, the raven-haired beauty, slid her fingers into the top of his towel, and pulled it free.
Dhane jerked at the realization of being completely and involuntarily nude in front of two rather gorgeous strangers. Their eyes, in those fleeting moments, roamed over him hungrily, and he did the only reasonable thing he could: He jumped back with the dexterity of an assassin, took hold of the door as he moved, and brought it to a swift close.
This prompted more giggles from the other side and a taunt that they had his towel.
"Dhane?"
He spun, grasping the little guy between his legs. "Penny. . . ." Oh, shit brownies! Of course, it would be Penny, walking in at the most inopportune time. He wanted to sputter, It's not what it looks like, though that was usually uttered by someone guilty of something, and in this very moment, he was quite guiltless, thank you very much.
"You know you're supposed to grab a towel, right?" She was wearing her own towel, much like the other two, leaving her slender arms and legs bare, her blonde hair let out to hang like strands of shimmering gold.
"I . . . had a towel," he managed to say, a fiery warmth running up his neck, spreading into his cheeks and ears. The plumes of steam weren't helping. Damn, they made this place hot.
Penny laughed, grabbed a towel, and threw it at him. As he whipped the towel around himself, she pushed open a door to a Staff Only bath, then turned to regard him, a slight blush of her own, rosy in her cheeks. "Since they took your bath," she said, looked away, then back with those crystal blue eyes, "want to join me?"
That—that—was a request he could not turn down. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 9 | Baths were mundane things, things most people took for granted, things they did without thought. Though a bath with Penny was anything but mundane.
Her request and his acceptance were the tentative touches between uncertain souls. But once their intents were known and shared, all uncertainty vanished, replaced by an electric sense of need.
Sex in heaven was most definitely different. Their souls touched, like an energy that tingled below the surface, just as her touch, her warmth, her desire, tingled across his skin.
Once they explored all the methods of cleaning that a bath could offer, Penny dragged him to her room—an actual room, not a bunk bed shoved into a closet. And it was there they enjoyed a second and third round, seemingly eager to outdo the prior.
Morning came with that obnoxious ringing through Dhane's head, a ringing he now fully understood as his alarm clock. He mentally clicked it off and turned.
Penny's mattress had a lot of give, almost to the point he felt sucked into the bed, as if demons below were trying to tear him down into the underworld. Or like a waterbed half-filled, his weight pressed to the bottom while the water tried to envelop him through the plastic.
He wasn't ready for that wondrous night to be over. All he wanted to do was lay there in the warmth of the sheets that smelled faintly of lavender for a few minutes longer.
Penny drew a finger across his cheek and he smiled.
"Morning," he said, eyes still shut lest the day begin.
She didn't reply and instead gently poked his nose, then his eyelids, and forehead. Oh, how he wanted to just skip the day of responsibilities, skip training, skip it all and stay here.
Penny's fingers were soft, really soft, almost like fur. He opened his eyes to take her hand and kiss her fingertips, and found a massive, fuzzy black spider on his pillow.
Dhane screamed! It was such a high pitched scream, someone probably thought a poor woman was being murdered in the streets. He flipped to the side with every bit of panicked strength he could muster, which given this damn mattress, would barely be enough to get dislodged.
What he hadn't considered in all those fleeting thoughts, was how he wasn't that klutzy gamer who, despite loving all the hiking trails he could find—especially the ones he couldn't—always found a way to fall down twice, if not three times.
No, Dhane was now an arachnomancer assassin. Such things tended to make a difference in the most inopportune times. Instead of barely dislodging from the mattress, he spun three times in the air.
Fractions of a second later, Dhane, now wrapped in the sheet, fell back to the bed, bounced once, flipped, and slammed into the wall. Pain shattered down his face and neck for all but three seconds, then everything returned to normal.
Normal . . . except now he stood there, arms wrapped behind himself, like a burrito in tinfoil, which just so happened to also trap a harry spider, squirming its fuzzy legs across his ribs.
This produced an involuntary slap dance, except he had no hands to slap with, resulting instead, a lot of jumping up and down. The spider shifted lower and lower, finding a space near his groin, and tickled all the way down his inner thigh to the ground.
The door opened and Penny stepped in. She was smiling, holding a tray full of breakfast items. When she saw him, a series of emotions flashed through her face—surprise, confusion, curiosity—before finally landing on a giggle.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
Dhane scanned the tiny room. There was nowhere the spider could have gone, not one that big, that fuzzy. And yet, it was gone as if it had never existed.
"I . . ." he started, reaching for words to explain . . . what exactly? Did being an arachnomancer mean random spiders would show up to say hello? Hail, King of Spiders! Please, please, please be no.
Penny placed the tray on the bed and helped unravel the sheet, drawing fingers across his skin and kissing his shoulder. Damn, she knew how to distract someone.
He tried again, with something that at least resembled a truth, something that wouldn't send Penny running from the room, "Have you ever had a dream within a dream?"
"I hate those! You wake up and then something terrible usually happens."
"I woke up with a huge spider on my pillow."
"Pfft. Spiders aren't that bad."
"You're saying you wouldn't freak out if you woke up next to a spider?"
"Nope," she said and pulled him down onto the bed. "I'd say, 'Hello good spider, you shouldn't be on my bed or I might accidentally squish you.' "
"Oh really, and if it were this big?" he said, holding his hands nearly a foot apart.
"In that case, I'd name it Kitty and teach it tricks."
"Whatever! You're totally lying," he said with a laugh. And somehow he knew that was true, that she didn't like spiders. It wasn't because of her words or body language, but something deeper.
Without much of a conscious thought, more of a curiosity, he called out to her affinity. Penny straightened a little, then creased her brow, almost looking guilty. Her affinity was noticeably brighter than it was last night, as if the pieces of Shadow had drifted away.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
Now she looked downright sad. "I like you . . . and of course, this wouldn't have worked if that wasn't the case."
"What are you talking about?"
"We shared our souls last night, it's why I know little things about you, how you didn't have a father growing up. How your mother worked constantly and you didn't have money, so you explored the forest with your sister for fun."
As she said those things, it was as if she had reached into his mind and stolen them. No . . . not stole, but traded pieces of his past for pieces of hers.
He knew she had two older brothers that she'd do anything for. Knew that she loved manga and played League of Legends. Knew that when her eldest brother died in a truck accident, she fell into a deep depression that ended with her taking too many pills to dull the pain.
Penny turned away, hand cupping her mouth. The breakfast platter sat next to her, holding little bowls of grapes and strawberries, and two untouched omelets. "I . . . didn't tell you." Now she was crying, a sound like shards of metal sliding into his heart.
Whatever it was, it couldn't be this bad. He tried to hold her, take her shoulders, but she pushed away, leaving him there to wait for whatever terrible confession she needed to make.
"I have a damaged soul," she said, "and I used you to help repair it. Gave you my broken pieces." Penny turned, tears on her cheeks, eyelashes clumped together, her crystal blue eyes trying to summon his affinity as if needing to know how much she had hurt him.
Dhane channeled his Light affinity for her, and a tingling warmth spread through his chest. It felt of her, familiar and welcomed and . . . scared.
Penny's eyes widened. "What?" she said in a very small voice. "That's impossible. . . . You're completely unaffected by me."
Dhane cupped her chin and wiped the tears away. He smiled and gave her the most gentle of kisses he could manage. "How could I be unaffected by you? Hmm? You gave me kindness, affection, love. If that's you using me, please don't stop."
Penny looked down, shoulders slumped. Apparently, such words were only adding to the guilt that she lied, she hid this hope from him lest it not come true, that she knowingly put his soul at risk.
"Look," he tried again, "I know what happened to your brother. I can remember your pain as if it were my own. Do you think you're meant to suffer for eternity? We all make mistakes. I mean, I tried eating one of your rolls...."
Penny laughed and punched him lightly. "You don't hate me?"
"No, of course not," he said. "I don't like dishonesty, however, I feel like I know you, know just a fraction of what you've been living with. If I can help heal your soul—even!" he said loudly, pointing his finger to make this point as clear as possible, "if I have to endure a hundred steamy baths with you, I'll just have to make that sacrifice."
To which Penny gave him one of her radiant smiles that said everything that needed to be said.
All said and done, there wasn't much time for breakfast. Other things took priority, after which, Dhane left Cali Bali in a sprinting hurry, all the way down to the arena.
Trainees, in their various groups, waited on the main steps. Devron and Aaliyah were shouting at each other, an odd sight given Devron's apparent attraction to her.
Were there fewer people today than yesterday?
"What's going on?" Dhane interrupted.
"See!" Devron said, pointing to Dhane. "Hells, woman, your baseless claims are false."
"Claims?" Dhane asked.
"Whatevs, not like I know the guy," Aaliyah said. "And he still ain't got armor, so I wasn't wrong about that."
"Armor?" Dhane asked.
Devron threw up his arms. "He didn't get the Royal welcome—told you that. Would you have armor if you didn't get a gold coin?"
"I would!" Aaliyah said.
"And how would you afford it?"
"Don't know, get a job."
"Oh? Doing. . .?"
"Stuff!"
Dhane sighed and sat on the stone steps. He still had tears through his shirt, though unlike the first day, had enough money to buy new clothes.
He opened the Clothing app—skipped over the women's section—and loaded up an impossibly huge catalog of men's clothing. For 50 copper, he could have a nice black shirt. Interestingly, for the same amount, he could repair the silver, corded shirt.
But he wanted something new, something that he picked out, not a hand-me-down given out of pity. And though a tee shirt with a murloc on it would have been great, he wasn't entirely sure how Penny would feel about it.
Huh, he was already considering Penny in such decisions. This was his third day in heaven and he had a girlfriend that felt like they were on their one-year anniversary already.
Well, black was a safe color. With a tap, the shirt gained a green checkmark, leaving him with 1 silver and 22 copper left. Since he already had a shirt equipped, he had to force swap one shirt for the other. In a blink—and a few shimmers of light—his silver shirt shifted into a black shirt.
It was at this time that Nick appeared at the base of the steps, breathing hard. He waved, then bent over and grabbed his knees.
Devron and Aaliyah were now going off on some other thing about tactics and skill combos. They seemed locked in disagreement, countering the other with new bits of, What about this? or That's obviously wrong! or even My mother would never act like this, followed by I'm not your mother!
"Oh, god. . . ." Nick said. "I used to be an adventurer like you."
"Until you took an arrow to the knee?" Dhane asked.
"What? No-no, nothing that drastic. I just got so damn sick of running out of Stamina all the time. It really hits you like a wall of bricks. You could be in the middle of an attack and then Wham! you're out of breath, exhausted, and just want to sleep for a part of eternity."
Dhane hadn't considered Stamina much, not since the first day of climbing Heaven's Mountain. Maybe he hit that wall once or twice last night. . ..
Gorlan stepped out of an arena door and the groups went silent. Even Devron and Aaliyah's bickering went away, as if the Master of Arena had tapped the mute button on everyone.
Nick summoned his phone and held it out. "Yeah, you've got to go. Take this and don't destroy it. It's not free gear, it's a loaner for a review. And," he said in a whisper, "I can get you a discount if you want to buy it, just don't tell anyone."
Dhane summoned his phone and they tapped their devices together, then Nick hurried back down to the street, waving to a woman who yelled, "Nick, I want your meat!"
Gorlan had said something, something that seemed to disturb the trainees. Of course, anything that made Gorlan smile was cause for being disturbed.
"What's happening?" Dhane whispered to Devron.
"Hells, man . . . we're training in the Wilds today." The Wilds were the collective term for anything outside the walls of civilization. Out there were the monsters, the horrors of the world, and where everyone went in search of adventuring.
Gorlan called for everyone to follow, then marched down the steps to the main street, leading to the east gate.
Aaliyah flashed Devron a glare, and the man seemed to wilt. What happened yesterday to garner such animosity?
"Hold up, man," Devron said, reluctance clinging to his voice. "Aaliyah doesn't feel you're fit to be the leader anymore." Aaliyah stood off to the side, leaning on her spear, looking everywhere but at the two of them. "I know this is touchy, but I think we should just let her be the leader. It's only—"
"What!" Dhane yelled, and Aaliyah flinched. Then he laughed and apologized. "Guys, I didn't want to be the leader in the first place. I don't know where this change of opinion is coming from, however, Aaliyah if you want to be party leader, you have my full support."
"Really?" she asked.
"Yup. So what happened yesterday?"
They fell in line at the back of the groups and Devron sighed. "Man, we got third. Kevin's group, the douchebag, won with just six gears more than us."
"Yeah, that sucks," Dhane said. "We made lots of mistakes. You went mana drunk, Aaliyah lost her spear to the second bird, I told you to block the bird and then mounted it like some idiot.
"If we knew about your low mana, we could have spaced out your attacks more, and then instead of having Aaliyah draw aggro, I should have done that with an initial backstab. I can do more damage and then escape, which would help Aaliyah from overextending."
He said these things almost to himself, replaying the events in his head in a near-perfect recollection, as if he had just finished a game and needed to write a review about it, identifying the pros and cons.
"But," he said, "Aaliyah did a great job knocking the first bird over, and despite our mage having practically no mana—something that we really should fix—you're quite capable of taking hits, kind of a tank mage if you will.
"So yeah," he concluded, "mistakes were made. And if I didn't die, we'd have for sure won; I still have four gears and never got my loot from the second bird. But we learned a lot, right?"
Devron and Aaliyah shared a look and Dhane promptly remembered that Nick had given him something. He summoned his phone and opened the Inventory app. There, outlined in blue, was a set of black leather armor.
─ Midnight Leather [Rare] 60/60 Armor
─ +3 to Dexterity
─ 2 Damage Reduction
─ (Item Level 8)
Huh. With two taps, the armor equipped, shifting over him like smoke. Even though he still had clothing equipped, the armor replaced the visual appearance of everything.
A combination of leather and cloth ran from cowl to some type of flexible, light footwear. The arcane knowledge at the back of his head confirmed that this was how armor worked in the game. Instead of finding individual pieces of armor, armor was an item in and of itself. This freed other equipment slots to better tailor his character's build.
Further, unlike other games, armor had a sort of health instead of durability. If the wearer received damage—no matter where they were hit—the damage would be taken from the armor first, which also completely negated pain.
Even if an armor lost all of its health, the bonus attributes remained. As such, and in this case, he'd continue to receive a +3 to Dexterity and 2 Damage Reduction.
The only problem with armor was how it didn't automatically heal like a player did. And to repair it would lower its total health, making it less effective the next fight.
"Okay, okay," Aaliyah said, admiring Dhane's new set of black armor. It even had a sheath at the side with his Cobalin sword already equipped. "Whatevs Dev, don't think I can't see you grinning over there. I take it back, alright? Dhane is party leader again."
Dhane blew a raspberry and slumped. "Come on, guys!" |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 10 | Out of every video game and tabletop game Dhane had ever played, this one, this heaven and fantasy world that he literally lived in, was the most delayed he had ever been in doing the one thing all gamers did within the first five minutes: check stats.
He was an embarrassment to all gamers. . . . Hopefully, no one was watching some form of Heaven Twitch or the like, throwing popcorn at the screen.
It wasn't like all games relied on early character build decisions. Plenty of games left the real building and min/maxing to the end. But somehow—probably that fuzzy database in the back of his mind—he knew that this world wasn't one of those games. His decisions mattered and affected everything he would do, moving forward.
As such, and while the groups of trainees were marching toward the east gate, he summoned his phone and opened the Character app, staying behind everyone in case it revealed little details none of them needed to know.
─ Dhane [Arachnomancer, Assassin] Lvl. 1 (94/200)
─ Stats:
─ Health: 40/40
─ Mana: 90/90
─ Stamina: 100/100
─ Attributes:
─ Strength: 6
─ Dexterity: 9 (12)
─ Intelligence: 18
─ Vitality: 8
Just by looking at the stats, he knew what they did. Everything clicked into place, and altogether, the system wasn't too unlike other role-playing games. This one focused on four primary stats, useful in infinitely different ways depending on the character's class.
Strength increased physical damage by 1 for every point beyond 10. It also filled a requirement when handling heavy weapons and armor. It was the most ideal stat for tanks since heavy armor had a lot of health, and the tank's large weapon, slow as it was, did high enough damage to draw aggro.
Dexterity, every point beyond 10, affected skill cooldowns by 2% and critical hit damage by 10%. Rangers, rogues, assassins—classes that depended on critical strikes—often focused on dexterity to provide solid damage while remaining outside of any direct threat.
Intelligence supplied mana, the resource all classes used for triggering skills. Each point increased mana by 5, and each point above 10, improved mana regeneration by 2%. Intelligence affected magic damage, healing, and summons.
Finally, Vitality represented the direct life link all entities had to this world. Every point increased health by 5. Each point over 10 also improved maximum stamina by 5 and out-of-combat healing by 2%.
Since he hadn't done it yet, Dhane swapped to the Party app and sent invites to Devron and Aaliyah. They joined his party, which provided him with their stats.
Oh, shit brownies. . . . The party leader had full access to the stats of everyone in his or her party. As soon as they clicked into Dhane's stats, they'd ask the inevitable questions, How do you have two classes? and more damning, What divinity provides the arachnomancer class?
Well, that's just great. That meant he could never group with anyone unless he was the party leader. That was going to cause problems and make him look stuck up. Out of pure luck alone, he dodged a bullet with Aaliyah.
Was there a way he could hide his second class? Apparently, it wasn't a common question because the information at the back of his mind didn't supply an answer. And why would it? He was likely the only person in this heaven with a dual-class.
─ Devron [Mage] Lvl. 2 (124/200)
─ Stats:
─ Health: 85/85
─ Mana: 25/25
─ Stamina: 135/135
─ Attributes:
─ Strength: 15
─ Dexterity: 7
─ Intelligence: 5
─ Vitality: 15 (17)
This party was shaping up to be an odd concoction of stats and classes. How did an assassin explain such a high Intelligence stat—though perfectly normal for an arachnomancer—and a mage explain his complete lack of Intelligence?
─ Aaliyah [Amazon] Lvl. 2 (124/200)
─ Stats:
─ Health: 50/50
─ Mana: 40/40
─ Stamina: 100/100
─ Attributes:
─ Strength: 12
─ Dexterity: 12
─ Intelligence: 8
─ Vitality: 10
At least Aaliyah had a decent balance of stats, especially for an amazon warrior, follower of the hawk. The main difference between her and a follower of the Lion was her proficiency with pole weapons: staves, spears, halberds, poleaxes . . . if it had a long shaft of wood, she knew what to do with it.
Oi. Maybe Devron didn't measure up. . ..
Mind, out of the gutter with you!
But something did change between the two of them, and it seemed more than just a mild disagreement between party leader and strategy. A hurt ego, perhaps?
Gorlan led everyone through the east gate. The guards saluted with a clasped fist over heart.
A tingling, prying sensation swirled its way into Dhane's chest. He immediately responded by channeling his affinity of Light, following the Sisters of Death.
Getting in and out of the city as an entity of Shadow would prove a bit difficult. With that thought, how had the two Cobalins gotten into the divinity room, beneath the arena? Did they have another way into the city, a way that wasn't guarded?
The trainees moved up toward an array of platforms, the very ones that, on his first day and first time seeing the city, had lit up with a golden glow before people appeared in a sudden, swirling rush, like emerging from a whirlpool of light.
They were waypoint stones, magical devices that allowed for quick travel between long distances. The longer the distance, the greater the cost.
There were five waypoint stones, each about ten feet in diameter, with a circle carved into the stone, surrounded by arcane looking symbols. If Gameus was anything to go by, those symbols were of vital importance, and yet they held no familiarity, no locked away knowledge whispering their secrets.
"The Wilds!" Gorlan boomed loud enough to catch the attention of passing adventurers, "are full of monsters! Training without real threat is no training, it's pampering. You see the real world today!"
Gorlan stepped aside and a familiar blond man with a blond beard stepped up. He addressed the groups, "I'm Challenger Terry and this is Challenger Liandry." He motioned to a petite Asian woman with perfect posture, wearing a cascading dress of purple that changed to a royal blue, matching her eyes. "We've been tasked with helping today's training and will each take a few groups into the Wilds.
"The Master of Arena has honored me with explaining today's challenge. Each party leader will receive a soul stone that tracks the value of all loot the party receives. The group that returns here with the most loot in value, wins 5 extra silver today."
Challenger Liandry stepped forward, the fabrics of her dress flowing and floating around her as if she were underwater. "Our society is sustained by the resources that come from the Wilds. Any loot you receive is yours to keep. To further understand the adventurer's role in our society, and to earn the most coin for your work, pursue the sale of your loot to the city merchants."
With that, the Master of Arena and the two challengers divided the groups up. Instead of nine, there were now eight, and one group only had two members.
Challenger Terry grabbed the first three groups, per their rank in yesterday's challenge. Unfortunately, that meant Kevin—the blond douchebag—and his party, would be with Dhane's party.
The third party was made of three young women, all with spears like Aaliyah's. They didn't have her ferocity or athletic build. They were like three college girls, more likely found in the library than on the court or track. But they had won second place, so looks weren't everything.
Challenger Terry handed out blue stones to each of the party leaders. It weighed more than it should, fitting perfectly in the palm of Dhane's hand. He deposited the stone to his inventory, in time to catch Kevin's sneer.
The guy really had a problem. Lack of motherly love? An abusive father? He probably was one of those Sims players who invited over the neighborhood to his mansion, only to remove all the doors and watch them pee on the floor and eventually die of starvation.
"That armor," Kevin said, "doesn't quite catch your curves."
"Hells, man," Devron said, "lay off the guy. You've been nothing but an asshole since you got here. You so insecure you gotta drag others down to feel big?"
"Insecure?" Kevin's macho, red-headed friend said and laughed. "Is that what you call your fights with your wannabe midnight bump buddy? It's pathetic, dude. Get the hint, she don't dig you."
Dhane plastered on his best, inquisitive face, accentuating his features to near comical lengths, then stared at Mr. Macho. This was called the Make Anyone Uncomfortable Stare, something he had developed as a secret weapon against meatheads.
The macho guy started doing the uncomfortable dance, the slow head shake, the half step back, the flickering eyes trying to see what would make someone stare at him with such bewilderment.
Finally, the guy broke. "What the hell, freak! What ya looking at?"
Dhane acted surprised, as if he hadn't meant to stare so openly. He then said, "I just didn't know red-heads had souls. I think you're a walking miracle. How did you get into heaven?"
Devron barked a laugh and Mr. Macho looked like he'd throw a fist, though Challenger Terry stepped in between them, saying, "There will be no fighting between trainees. Is. That. Clear?"
"Yes, sir," Dhane said, already knowing how to gain the Challenger's favor: two simple words, words that Kevin's group clearly didn't understand and instead said things like Whatever old man or gave exaggerated eye rolls.
Challenger Terry had a strong mastery of the glare, which may have been aided by the simple fact that, should he want, he probably could kill them all in a matter of seconds. This had the desired effect and everyone gave him the respect a Challenger was due.
With that settled, Challenger Terry marched his three groups to a waypoint stone, warned everyone to keep their arms and legs in the ride at all times, lest they get torn off, and triggered something.
Very much unlike the black portals to the realm of divinities, transportation via waypoint had a pleasant sensation of warm water rushing through every fiber of your being. Golden light seemed to imbue itself into each person's soul, swirling from head to toe, then all at once, it was over, and the world had changed.
Instead of standing outside of the city walls, fields of green grass spotted with hundreds of trees and their pink leaves, they now stood in the shadows of giant trees, a green canopy so staggeringly far overhead, it was dizzying to look.
"Where are we?" Bexley asked in wonder. Even if she didn't appear outright hostile toward Dhane, like that first day he so brazenly cataloged her bare form, the mere fact she was keeping her distance, stung.
People like Kevin were a dime a dozen. Trolls, ingrates, whatever. They were playing their preferred role, and any nasty comment they could throw didn't matter, even if they caught a piece of truth here and there. But someone outright disliking him because he wronged them? Made them feel unsafe or vulnerable? Dhane wanted to make it right, just didn't know how.
"You're all in the west biome of Ceratree," Challenger Terry said. "The mobs here—short for Monster or Beast—are typically lower level. This is a fantastic area for all manner of resource retrieval, be that from kills, finding chests, dungeons, or simply harvesting herbs and the like.
"We're on Ceratree waypoint number 67, in case you want to get back here at a later date. Travel only costs 50 copper, one way, making this an ideal place if you are below level 10."
Terry scanned over the three groups, pausing to consider each person, and giving his next words more weight. "If you're still alive, meet back here by 6:00 p.m. And set your alarms, the bus doesn't wait.
"I'll be in the area, keeping an eye out for any Trechtas or Oomvats. They are big ass monsters that occasionally stroll through. Just use common sense, guys. If you find something bigger than a building, don't go Leeroy Jenkinsing it, okay?"
With his speech over and no apparent questions, Challenger Terry summoned a giant wolf, mounted, and was gone. This left the three groups alone in the Wilds, standing on the only platform of relative safety for who knew how many miles.
Unlike everyone else, Dhane started in the Wilds. It wasn't this mystical place of danger, it merely was another place to explore. He was the first to step off the platform, leading Devron and Aaliyah down a winding trail of moss-covered rocks and damp soil.
Given the sheer size of the trees, it'd be impossible for any sunlight to reach the forest's floor. Instead, there were thousands of glowing fruit, hanging like teardrops the size of basketballs at every level.
The closest ones to the forest's floor radiated warmth, like flecks of the sun had been captured. And they gave off a musical chime, each a different tone, vibrating in the warm breeze that spiraled around trees.
Patches of lime-green grass with tall, thick blades, filled in the giant gaps between trees. Pink and yellow and white flowers grew off of everything. And just through a glade, an interesting plant sparkled. Dhane headed toward it.
"Shouldn't we," Aaliyah said, "stay near the others? Ya know, safety in numbers and all that?"
"Hells, woman," Devron said, "you want to be around those people?"
"No! Not really, though we don't know what's out here. One wrong turn and our party leader goes splat again. And that didn't work out so well last time, did it?"
"We'll be fine," Dhane said, kneeling next to the plant. There was nothing about it that would make it shimmer like it did, as if it were a sheet of polished metal, catching the light every few seconds. He grabbed the base of it and pulled.
The plant made a pop sound and came free, almost with no effort required. He then summoned his phone and deposited the item to a slot, tapping it for additional information.
─ Ceraleaf [Common] Herb
─ The Ceraleaf herb is used by assassins to create common, low-level poisons. These poisons add Damage over Time effects when applied to an assassin's weapon. Poisons are a temporary weapon effect that does not stack with other temporary effects.
"Whatcha gonna do with a weed?" Aaliyah asked.
"It's an herb," Dhane said and stood. "This challenge is about loot, which comes from everything. We don't want to be next to anyone else, fighting over the mobs, the herbs, the random treasure chests—as Challenger Terry mentioned—in order to win.
"This herb is used for poisons and can be sold to the system for 5 copper. I literally just picked up 5 copper. I could probably sell it for 10 copper to a merchant. That's the point—that's what we're here to learn. Adventurers aren't just here to kill, they venture out into the Wilds to retrieve stuff that others are too scared or too weak or whatever reason they have for not coming out here."
Aaliyah considered this, then asked, "And if we run into a strong mob?"
"That's even a bigger reason we don't want to be by the others. If we run into something beyond our skill level to kill, we can retreat. What happens if one of the other parties runs into something they can't deal with? We don't want them pulling mobs into our fights.
"This is a low-level area, a place for newbs. And we're far from defenseless, we've got you to kick ass, right?"
Aaliyah flashed a rather rare smile and shrugged. Devron looked surprised and a bit hurt, as if he had been trying to get her to smile for days.
"And look there," he said and pointed to a little white rabbit with tufts of black fur along its back. "A rabbit should drop meat and a hide."
"Heya little rabbit," Aaliyah said with a vicious grin. She spun her spear around, tip held out, and started creeping forward.
Dhane wanted to tell her to not mangle the hide, though it was a rabbit, not even a big rabbit. Maybe the size of two softballs. To kill it without leaving a massive hole in its coat would be a challenge.
Instead, and following more of an instinct than anything, he called out to the rabbit for its affinity. This didn't return anything of Light or Shadow, nor did it return a divinity. What it did do, however, was provide a name, level, and health bar: Raging Rabbit, Lvl. 4 with 134 health.
This tiny rabbit had 134 health? That was more than Devron, who had a sheer abundance of Vitality, especially for a mage.
The rabbit turned, and the black tufts of fur along its back formed the distinct shape of a skull. That alone should have given anyone pause, but Aaliyah either didn't see it or care.
She jumped forward and thrust her spear down into the back of the rabbit for 10 damage.
The rabbit spun around and shrieked a creepy-ass sound—like a dying kid—then one of its eyeballs inflated to just a bit larger than the entire rabbit had been before, completely shifting its weight forward, tiny hind-legs kicking the air.
Aaliyah, in a very unlike Aaliyah way, noped the fuck out of there, leaving a very surprised Devron at the front, waving his hands out as if to conjure a new and powerful spell . . . or was that sign language for What the fuck is that?
The creature made fast breathing noises, the watery, vitreous gel of its eye bulged, and its iris slid around to look at Devron and Dhane and Devron and Dhane until other parts of its body popped into a much larger form.
That high pitched whiney scream that emanated from the once tiny, vulnerable, and perhaps cute, rabbit, was now a full-on, rumbling roar.
Oh, shit brownies. . .. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 11 | "Aggro it!" Dhane yelled to Devron and ran to the side.
Devron, much to his credit, didn't sprint away, screaming profanities, and instead pulled a sphere of magic from his invisible bag, then launched it at the now six-foot-tall rabbit.
The blast definitely caught the rabbit's attention, dealing 12 damage and draining its health to 112/134.
It kicked the ground and launched itself forward, pummeling into Devron, knocking him to his back.
Dhane circled, Cobalin sword in hand, he triggered Venom Bite and rammed the sharp steel into the rabbit's back. He managed to attack it two more times—little red numbers of 16, 18, and 17, from backstab damage, floated skyward—before the rabbit spun, slamming its furry head into his chest, and sending him rolling out of the glade, across dirt and rocks.
Before he could push himself to his feet, a terrible weight landed on his legs. An odd sensation drained from him, and he knew his armor had taken the brunt of the attack for 28 damage.
The rabbit wasn't done with him and tore claws across his back. Again, it was an odd sensation. He could feel the attack, though it didn't hurt. Of course, once his armor's health was depleted, it wouldn't be sunshine and rainbows anymore.
A blast of white slammed into the rabbit, adding to that of the venom counter damage, ticking away 3 health every three seconds. None of this seemed to distract the rabbit from its mission of revenge.
Maybe in the future, he shouldn't unleash all of his damage in a single burst. Then again, maybe in the future, he'd have party members who didn't abandon him.
This singular thought seemed to summon Aaliyah back. She slammed her spear into the rabbit's side, then tore it down the length of it. This solved the problem of Dhane becoming rabbit food, and he finally was free to roll over, only to now be faced with the rabbit's fluffy rear end.
It wasn't a proud moment, but he triggered Venom Bite all the same and thrust upward. This had the collective effect of rending the last few hit points from the rabbit that led to its collapse on top of him.
Dhane exhaled, unable to draw breath. The only thought that kept him going was, Damn, we're going to get a lot of rabbit meat! Though then the rabbit shrunk back to its tiny, cute size—a fluff ball on his chest—turned white, and burst apart.
─ 1x Scrap Leather
Dhane laid there for a moment as the 1x Scrap Leather floated over him, waiting to be seized from the air. Apparently, there wasn't enough of the tiny rabbit to go around.
Devron held out a hand and pulled Dhane to his feet, then gave Aaliyah the stink eye.
"Don't you give me that," she said. "It was beyond my skill level! We discussed this. You said we'd retreat if we came across something above our skill level, right?"
Dhane sighed and accepted his scrap leather. "First," he said, "as acting party leader, I'm the one who makes that call, Aaliyah. Second, you can't say killing tiny rabbits is the extent of your skill level! I've seen you. You're a badass."
"But . . . didn't you see its freaky eye? That thing looked at me," she said and shivered. "Big rabbit, that's fine, whatevs, right? Though a big freaky eye on a tiny ass rabbit? Ewww! Let's just never fight one of those again, okay?"
As if summoned by her words alone, three more tiny rabbits hopped into the glade, followed by one twice their size: Raging Mama Rabbit, Lvl. 8, 318hp.
Dhane took a slow step back.
Aaliyah jumped, eyes wide, flicking her attention between Dhane and the cute and deadly family of rabbits, projecting a perfectly clear psychic question of Goddammit, we're out of here, right?
The rabbits all had different shapes of black skulls on their otherwise white fur, but were still in their tiny form, unprovoked by the three adventurers.
They're not aggressive. . . . In most games, and especially around the lower leveled areas, there were mobs that wouldn't attack unless provoked. These rabbits, despite their name, seemed to be like that.
Of course, provoked could mean any matter of things, especially in this world. Dhane motioned for the others to back away, then gave in to the delightful curiosity of an explorer with questions.
He stepped forward, ignoring Aaliyah's urgent whisperings of What the hell are you doing? Devron looked ready to throw a magic missile, and Dhane shook his head, signaling him to stop.
What was one magic missile against hundreds of health? If these rabbits were to transform, fighting would definitely not be an option. And, as luck would have it, a twitchy mage just might set off a series of unfortunate events.
This was why he preferred to explore alone. But alone he was not, and curiosity demanded its due payment.
Dhane knelt next to the rabbits and held out a hand. Since this didn't seem to trigger any rage-inducing Hulkifications, he did the next best thing and gently drew his fingers along the back of a rabbit.
The rabbit turned, twitching its nose, grass ends sticking out of its mouth. It was a curious, soulless thing. Did it feel or think, or was it an automated memory of something once living?
Soulless entities didn't have a divinity, so what brought them back to life? Or were they merely recreated by this heaven to provide the game pieces for players?
It didn't act like an animal. Didn't run away or . . . really, it didn't seem to react at all to his presence. He poked it. Nothing. He picked it up. Nothing. It was a shell of a thing, waiting to be damaged, waiting to unleash its inner monster.
And that's when he had a rather terrible idea. . ..
If you gave Aaliyah a knife, she'd brighten like a plump kid given a dozen tubs of chocolate chip ice cream with a side order of chicken nuggets. Give her a fluffy, cute rabbit, and it was like you dropped a grenade into her hand, one with the pin already pulled.
Her reaction was immediate.
For a fleeting moment, she held the white fur-ball—who was completely undisturbed by being tossed between people, chewing away at grass as if it could do nothing else—the next moment, it was a blur.
"What the hell!" Aaliyah yelled and Dhane held up a finger to silence her. He listened to the forest and its many twinkling, musical chimes. Then, somewhere in the distance, where the rabbit had no doubt landed, a deep roar sounded.
Perfect. Of course, now they should get a move on, lest the outraged rabbit decided to retrace its flight path.
Dhane quickly scooped up the mama rabbit, handed it to Devron who jumbled it like a new father, trying to figure out how to hold his baby.
"Don't throw it," Dhane said, then grabbed the two remaining, smaller rabbits. He jogged up the path, leaving behind the glade that held such fond memories of nearly being eaten.
At the waypoint stone, he turned to his confused and curious party members and shared the details of what could only be the workings of an evil mastermind. But this was a contest, full of uncertain rules.
The more he shared, the wider their smiles grew.
All trolls were aware of two things: first, they were without question, dicks; second, return pranks were fair play. If you couldn't handle a prank or being the butt of someone's joke, you most certainly shouldn't be a troll.
Dhane quite enjoyed this golden rule, for all video games had their fair share of trolls, and when he wasn't deep in unexplored territory, he loved helping aggrieved players get their fair bit of justice.
Aaliyah had no trouble finding Kevin's party, which wasn't too far from the party of three amazon warriors. Apparently, they operated off the idea of safety in numbers.
Dhane watched from the bushes as Kevin, with a long sword, dove forward and cut a gash of silvery-white through a harry monster: Nuloce Scavenger, Lvl. 2, 23/44hp.
There were three of the monsters, standing upright on two legs, about four feet tall, brandishing sharpened sticks at the adventurers. They had black faces with glowing blue eyes and orange, scraggly fur that covered most of their bodies.
One charged Bexley and stabbed her leg. A white -4 lifted into the air, signaling damage done to her armor.
She screamed, and the red-headed guy, wielding a large battle hammer, turned and slammed his chunk of metal down from overhead. He missed completely, but cracked the stone where the monster had been standing.
They were all perfectly distracted, engaged in their own fight. Dhane pressed the Send button on his phone to party chat, and three seconds later, the first steps of his plan started to come together.
A cute, fluffy mama rabbit fell from the sky and landed—hard—no more than three feet away from Kevin. The party leader didn't even see it. He triggered something and his sword illuminated with waves of golden smoke. In one quick attack, the Nuloce Scavenger fell, glowed, and burst apart.
Kevin laughed, then parried an attack from another Nuloce. It was at this time that the mama rabbit screeched its creepy-ass sound, and drew everyone's attention to it.
Devron climbed into Dhane's nook, laughing and eager to watch the chaos. Dhane seized the moment and tossed two more rabbits, aimed at points of retreat.
Kevin caught the movement and glared at him. He yelled something to his party and Bexley turned, her murderous brown eyes seemed to spark with light.
A bolt of energy exploded out from her arm, spiraling in the air.
Oh, shit brownies! Dhane jumped to the side, pulling Devron with him, and much like that morning, completely underestimated his new and upgraded body as an arachnomancer assassin.
They shot to the side and rolled a dozen feet, likely taking more damage than just getting zapped. Or . . . maybe not. The bush they had hidden behind wasn't much of a bush anymore.
And now to the surprise of everyone, the mama rabbit grew twelve feet tall and roared a sound that reverberated deep within Dhane's chest. She lifted up on her hind legs, then stomped with enough force to shake the ground.
"Hells, man, that's a big mama. . . ." Devron said.
What Dhane hadn't expected was the effect the sound of a mama rabbit would have on the surrounding area. A horde of little fluff balls came storming in from all sides.
Somewhere out there, Aaliyah shrieked, likely hightailing it back to the waypoint stone. There was a good chance she'd be emphatically against Dhane being the party leader tomorrow. . ..
The three amazon warriors sprinted over, spears in hand, ready to help against whatever was happening, but then abruptly stopped. Out of nowhere, a tiny fluff ball of a rabbit slammed into the party leader's chest. She caught it, then as it started to transform, screamed and quickly handed it off to the next girl, who repeated the process.
Kevin was all grins, running around enraged rabbits and throwing tiny ones. He chucked one so hard, like a football, it hit Devron in the chest and knocked him to the ground.
The forest was an ensemble of dying screams, mostly from rabbits finding their inner rage. Little balls of white were thrown like in a snowball fight, if only those snowballs also grew twenty times their size and then tried to eat you.
Challenger Terry appeared in a rush. He dismounted and cleaved an enraged rabbit in half before two others clobbered the man from behind. He lost his balance and disappeared beneath a small army of white fur.
And now the amazon warriors were chucking rabbits. The leader managed to peg Kevin in the face and was laughing so hard, she didn't notice the approach of mama rabbit from behind. She was smashed into the ground, and two attacks later became a burst of white light.
Dhane picked up two more rabbits and chucked them at Mr. Macho, who was already fighting against the swarm of beasts and losing. The tiny fluff balls bounced off his side and immediately started screaming bloody murder, distracting him.
The guy turned in surprise, then his freckled face seemed to lose all shades of color. He pointed at Dhane and yelled something that was lost to all the screeching cries, then a rabbit knocked the red-head to the ground, and he was gone.
Yup, he's going to be pissed. That thought zinged through Dhane with a little happy bounce. Trolls getting trolled. A little piece of justice to even the playing field.
Of course, everyone seemed to have gotten roped into the little game, even . . . Challenger Terry. . . . That might bite Dhane in the ass. But could he be blamed? He didn't outright attack anyone, right? Just unleashed a herd of angry, giant rabbits on them. Yeah . . . perfectly innocent.
There was something there about Mr. Macho's last moments of life, something odd that scratched at the back of Dhane's brain. He didn't seem to be screaming insults. In fact, it almost—not entirely, though almost—looked like he was trying to warn Dhane.
The guy was literally surrounded by enraged rabbits and wanted to warn him? Ha! Whatever. Dhane turned to Devron, but he was gone. He must have had the same idea as Aaliyah and ran for the waypoint stone. Good for him.
But at that revelation, Dhane noticed something rather strange: None of the rabbits were approaching him. That, and something was prying into his affinity from afar.
That first rabbit they had fought sure didn't have a problem with trying to kill him, so why the hell were these rabbits acting strange? Did they just not see him? He hadn't moved for a few minutes, maybe a passive bonus in the assassin class allowed him to evade notice.
With how everything exploded way out of control, he sort of just accepted the fact he'd die here. There was always a price to pay when seeking lady justice. But . . . if he could get away. . ..
He took a slow step back, to not dispel whatever effect was helping him, and bumped up against something furry. Oh, shit brownies. There went the idea of escaping.
He turned, drawing his Cobalin sword, for why not go out with a fight? Maybe he could kill one of these rabbits by himself and cash in on some sweet experience.
Instead of a white, fluffy, and very upset rabbit, there was a leg—a furry black and orange leg. And above? A gigantic spider, nearly a dozen feet tall.
He screamed a sound that was lost to all the other screams, mentally sending it away as he ran in the opposite direction, which just so happened to be swarmed with raging rabbits. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 12 | Dhane woke and sucked in a deep breath of cool, night air. He was lying on a slab of stone, somewhere in the west biome. Giant trees speared toward the sky, and the teardrop sun fruit, now radiating moonlight, looked like stars of glistening silver.
He had died, mauled to death by an army of his making. So why wasn't he back in the city? And where was everyone else?
His thoughts were slow, though once the gears started turning, the answers were quite obvious. People returned from death at the closest cemetery of their affinity. Of course, the Wilds had cemeteries for those of Shadow.
Well, that's just lovely. . . . Some rundown, ancient cemetery of Shadow was preventing him from getting back to the city. And if not this one, there were probably others. This meant that not only did he have to be the party leader, he also couldn't die without causing suspicion.
He summoned his phone and it was 9:37 p.m. Dammit! That meant the gates to the city were down for the night. This world really needed a teleportation scroll. Every game had one, and heaven just decided Nah, that's immersion-breaking.
Penny would probably be wondering where he was. He had only known her for a few days, but it felt like months, years. And she was the type that stayed up to make sure everyone got home okay.
Sure enough, besides the three missed calls from Nick, there were unread messages from her.
─ (4:37 p.m.) When's your training over?
─ (6:05 p.m.) I was thinking we could go out, like a real date. I know! Silly. Kind of backwards, though it could be fun, right? I just need to make arrangements with Kros, my boss. Maybe around 8?
─ (7:55 p.m.) Hey, is everything okay? People say training has been over since 6. . ..
─ (9:13 p.m.) Are you ghosting me? :(
Bah! Death was really the worst. He quickly typed in Ghosting! I suppose that's accurate since I died. ;) Then he hit Send, feeling a little odd to be texting while sitting out in the middle of nowhere, just him and the glow of his cell phone for whatever monster to find.
But then a return message vibrated and he couldn't quite care if there were monsters out there, watching, salivating.
─ (9:42 p.m.) Really! I'm sorry. I feel so so sooo stupid. Are you okay? Come over and maybe I can help. ;) [Eggplant emoji]
Even if he was standing on a waypoint stone right this very moment, it just wouldn't matter. He most certainly wasn't getting into the city tonight, and thus, no Penny, no steamy baths, no games of human pretzels. . ..
"I'm of Light, too!" he said to the darkness. The teardrop fruit chimed in response. Why not just give him a choice of where he wanted to respawn?
Of course, and now that he had thought of it, that was the whole reason the Cobalins were slaves. There was a cemetery of Shadow in the arena, forcing them to return to the very place they so desperately wanted to escape.
They've been dealing with this for who knew how many years or decades. And here he was, inconvenienced for a single night. But not only that, how was he supposed to tell Penny?
Dhane drummed a thumb on his knee. He couldn't tell her the truth, couldn't say he was stuck out in the damn forest. That just wouldn't make any sense. People didn't return from death to the Wilds.
Or maybe he could stretch the truth? He typed, You have no idea how much I'd love that, but I can't. [Crying emoji] After I Returned, I rushed back out to the west biome to help my party and . . . sort of got lost? He tapped Send and waited for what felt like an eternity.
─ (9:46 p.m.) There's no way you are out in the Wilds right now. I don't believe that. You're like level 1! Nope, not believing you. Prove it. Take a picture.
A picture? That probably would be the best way to prove where he was. He swapped over to the Camera app, held out his phone, flashed a peace sign with a nice smile, and captured the shot.
He typed in, Believe me now? Then attached the picture and hit Send. Part of him felt special for being out in the scary Wilds. Maybe Penny would think he was brave and adventurous, manly traits women liked, right?
He tapped into the picture and what a damn fine picture it was. It captured the silver moon fruit in the back. And he did look rather nice in the Midnight Leather armor—
Oh, shit brownies, the armor had no health anymore. He'd probably have to pay for the repairs and leave a phenomenal review or risk losing reputation with the merchants.
It wasn't like he wanted loaner equipment. Then again, without it, Aaliyah probably would have been the party leader, which would have resulted in all the many questions no one should be asking.
The image also captured something else, something a fair bit more malicious than the silver hanging fruit, something that had eight red, unblinking eyes, standing mere feet behind him.
A sheet of cold shot down his spine and his muscles reacted immediately. He exploded upward in a rush, from sitting to spinning in the air. He landed on the slab of stone, crouched and silent, Cobalin sword drawn, phone buzzing in his offhand.
There, as if waiting for his Return, as if trying to stare guilt daggers through his chest, were four . . . rabbits? Dhane exhaled a relieved sigh and chuckled, then his phone buzzed again.
─ (9:48 p.m.) Behind you!
─ (9:48 p.m.) You're too far away to call.
─ (9:48 p.m.) Dammit!
─ (9:48 p.m.) Are you still there?
─ (9:49 p.m.) Dhane?
He aimed his phone at the small, white fluff balls. "Smile," he said, mimicking the command, as if to show the rabbits how to smile. They, like the dumb bunches of fur they were, refused, choosing to maintain their mindless stare like zombies.
Oi, did this world have zombies? Yes, yes it did, but only in the swamp zone where the witchdoctors played with their voodoo magic. Sometimes, questions are rhetorical!
Now his brain wanted to dig into what witchdoctors were, how zombies functioned, were they the running or slow type, could they be killed with a blow to the head. . ..
Instead of digging into questions that would only create more questions, he snapped the picture and sent it to Penny.
He needed to get out of here. Even if he had to sleep outside of the gate, it'd be better to be there than here. That, and as soon as the gates opened in the morning, he'd be able to see Penny, grab breakfast, and get to training without being late.
The rabbits twitched like robots, running through a series of commands to move at this time, turn at that time, wiggle their noses, nibble on some grass. All three of— Wait, where did the other go?
Purple disks of light shifted down from above, sliding into his chest and surging a familiar warmth into the back of his head. Experience. He had just gained 108xp. . ..
He looked up, following the remnant trail of experience to eight, glossy black eyes, watching him. His muscles tensed and fired all at once, carried by the tiniest of instinctual thoughts, a war between fight and flight.
This time, influenced by the knowledge that he had died running from this very same spider earlier this morning, fight won out. He jumped forward and drew the Cobalin sword across the spider's front leg, leaving a silvery-white cut.
The giant spider scurried back three steps, scaring the rabbits away, and projected a high-pitched, feminine sound in his mind, Ouch!
Dhane jerked back, completely not expecting the ugly thing to . . . talk? To psychically speak in his mind like the Mother of Shadows had.
I so sorry, Daddy! the voice said, wobbly and uncertain. Please punish. I won't run this time. Punish, hurt, cut me, I stay still this time!
"What?" he asked. Daddy? The bewilderment lingered, mixing with his innate fear and anger of all creepy and crawly things. It was a concoction of emotions that left him stunned, not entirely knowing what to do.
I . . . I eat rabbit, no permission. I bad, bad-bad-bad. This why you cut? I moved. So bad, I am. Must take punishment from Daddy. Please, cut me, hurt me, I won't . . . cry. . ..
Could spiders cry? Gah, he needed to stop asking questions like this was Earth. Spiders didn't get this big. Spiders didn't psychically project words into people's heads, nor did they eat raging rabbits with over a hundred health for a snack.
"Who are you?"
I . . . you do not know?
"That's why I asked."
Yes! Of course. I am your Octoralis. She said it matter of factly, as if that in and of itself explained everything.
Silvery-white liquid started to drip from her wound and she moved to touch it with one of her many other legs, but then reconsidered, letting it drip.
So . . . this was his spider? He called to her affinity, not knowing what to expect, and a flood of emotions, images, and knowledge poured from her.
She had two affinities: the Mother of Shadows and the Sisters of Death. They shimmered in glossy black and white, with the distinct and familiar feeling of . . . himself. She was a part of him, made from him.
Everything she had done, he could remember. That morning, while he slept in Penny's bed, warm and wanting to stay there all day, he could see himself. Octoralis was the spider that touched his cheek, trying to wake him for a busy day.
Then, when all the raging rabbits were out of control and he was all but certain death would come, Octoralis came to protect him. The same thing happened when he saw the eight red eyes in his picture, the fear he felt summoned her.
Each and every memory was of her trying to help, to support her . . . daddy, her creator.
Then he attacked her. . ..
She was a mixture of excitement and hope and . . . fear. That fear brought a pang of guilt to ripple within his chest. She had done nothing wrong, it was just her form and size that scared him. They both feared the other, and yet she stayed her ground, willing to take her punishment, no matter what that meant.
"I'm . . . sorry I cut you," he finally said.
You are Daddy. It be your right. Cut me when I displease you.
Oh damn, she was like an abused child. "You didn't displease me. I didn't know you were my . . ." Oi, there was no way he would call her his daughter, and so instead, said, "Octoralis." Simply saying the name ignited a sense of understanding. It wasn't so much a name as it was a rank. Or both a rank and a name? She was his General, an implicit summon tied to his soul, not mana.
Octoralis, Lvl. 8, 274/280hp. Her level was tied to his Intelligence stat above 10. She also seemed to directly benefit from his second class. She was a spider with passive bonuses as if she were an assassin. That was probably why he could never sense her. She could hide and sneak better than he could, even while being in her giant form.
Her wound wasn't closing and he knew why. Summons didn't typically heal. He could desummon her and she'd slowly heal over time since she was linked to his soul, otherwise, he'd need to physically imbue mana into the wound. Oh, fuck that.
You-u-u want me to f-f-fuck what? She projected, shifting left and right, as if trying to identify the target to expend her affection. Did spiders really have— Eh, whatever.
"I was thinking it to myself."
Daddy want to . . . with—
"No! Freaking hell no." That was just wrong, so terribly, soul-shakingly wrong. "I was only reacting to new knowledge, okay? It's like saying, 'I'm strongly against that.' "
Against healing me? Her voice was small, a piece of that hope she had felt, flaked away. You are Daddy, you can leave me bleeding and hurt and pain. . . . It be your right. I no complain.
"You're in pain?"
Only if I move. Not big cut, but stings.
Dhane drew in and released a deep breath. Why did this stuff always happen to him? Better question, "You can read my thoughts?"
Yes. Of course. We are of same soul.
Well, there went all of his privacy. How did one control their thoughts to such an extent? Just by wanting to not think of anything private, he'd . . . think of Penny last night and how she curved—
No! And that was exactly the problem. No thinking of last night. But what about in the morning, her warm skin lit by sunlight, breathing each other's air like it was a new drug.
Dammit. It was practically impossible.
I like Penny, Octoralis projected. She is good soul, kind soul.
"How do you know Penny?"
I know . . . because you know?
So it worked both ways. It wasn't just thoughts. All of Octoralis's memories were his, and all of his, hers. She knew all about . . . everything.
You need not concern. You are Daddy. What matter if I know these private things. Never-never-never judge Daddy. Always here to help.
"Here," he said, "don't move. And I mean it!" He steeled himself, sheathed his sword, and jumped off the stone platform. Just as the intent was made clear in his mind, she held out her leg, prompting him to let out a breath and look skyward.
I . . . you . . . you said this thing, then projected other. . ..
It would take practice getting accustomed to communicating mentally. Perhaps he could tell her to just listen to his verbal commands for now.
The knowledge at the back of his head provided instruction. Mana pooled into his hand like flowing water of pearlescent white with shifting strands of other colors.
Dhane gently pressed the mana against Octoralis's cut, feeling 2 of his 90 points slip away. The wound immediately closed, leaving it whole and covered in nasty black and orange hair.
Thank you, Octoralis projected.
He stepped away, relaxing a little. It wasn't that bad. A giant spider would always be far less frightening than a small one, one that could crawl into his clothes, scurry across his skin while taking bites in its frantic movement to escape.
He shivered at the thought. But those were normal spiders. Normal spiders didn't talk. Maybe they wouldn't be so scary if he could simply tell them to stay in their corner of the world.
Oh, shit brownies. He totally forgot about Penny. He summoned his phone and there were a series of messages.
─ (9:51 p.m.) Haha, rabbits? They are so cute!
─ (9:51 p.m.) But I hate that you're stuck out there by yourself. . ..
─ (9:52 p.m.) I have an idea. You're going to owe me big, mister, and I know how you repay people. ;) [Peach emoji]
─ (9:57 p.m.) Alright! It's done. The PK guild has someone heading your way, using the geolocation data in your picture. I'm heading to the western cemetery. It should only be a few minutes.
Oh shit, shit, shit! That last timestamp was four minutes ago. And . . . of course, he could hear something in the distance, probably a giant wolf. If the PK guild helped him transition to a quick Return, he'd just Return to this damn slab of stone.
Then we go? Octoralis projected.
"How? I can't outrun a mount!"
You ride. I'm your Octoralis. . . . She stepped forward, turned, and crouched, revealing her mid carapace just above the spherical bump of her abdomen.
Now he could hear loud breathing. Definitely a wolf, maybe more than one. And . . . wolves can track his scent. . . . Shit.
We get away. I know this.
"Are you sure?"
Yes. Of course.
If he stayed, he'd give away the one secret entrusted to him. People would learn of the Shadow that could hide within the Light, and he'd be hunted. Dammit! He had no choice.
Dhane clenched his jaw tight. It's just a mount . . . a horrifyingly huge— No! No thinking. He jumped onto Octoralis's back. She swayed to adjust for his weight, and he took hold of her hair. Then, just as a giant wolf entered the cemetery, they shot away like a soundless shadow.
Octoralis was fast. She sprinted across little glades and over bushes and stones. Other monsters roared as she passed. A few raging rabbits started to transform. Parties of Nuloce Scouts were out on patrol, holding the radiant moon fruit for light. A pack of four jumped out of the way, yelling in surprise.
Dhane summoned his phone and brought up the Maps app. There were waypoint stones everywhere, each separated by five or so miles, connected by various named trails.
He was about to click one when Octoralis shifted and ran straight up a tree. He yelped, dropped his phone, and clung to the giant spider, face pressed up against her fuzzy body, fighting the impulse to shove away. They bounded to a second then third tree before stopping, two hundred or so feet in the air.
"More of a warning next time?"
I so bad! Yes, warning next time. But . . . we escaped?
Two wolf riders stopped by the first tree Octoralis climbed. They were whispering, and despite the distance, he could make out their words as if they were twenty feet away.
"Oh, my heavens!" It was a woman's voice with a Southern accent. "Jerry dear, did you see what I just saw?"
"Eh, ah . . . well, hmm...."
"Precisely. Poor lad. . . . Likely a dozen giant spider babies up there, all hankering to take a little nibble out of him. That's right down horrifying."
"Mhmm...."
"Well dagnabbit, I'd go after him, though I just had my nails done! Climbin' these here trees always breaks a nail. They're cursed, I'd say. Figure he'll die . . . eventually, you reckon? Might take a few days."
She paused, then shrugged. "Pity. Fixin we should get back to camp. Got us a real treat this time, ice cream from Merry's Shaved Peach, and I've heard it's simply delightful."
With that, the two of them dashed away.
Oi, the only problem now was Penny. She was expecting him to Return to the western cemetery any minute now. How long did it take to revive after a PK member performed their trick?
Walls be no problem for us, Octoralis projected.
Of course. . . . He summoned his phone and the Maps app again, then tapped the closest waypoint stone. It was less than half a mile away. Since he knew which way to go, Octoralis did as well.
She turned on the tree and Dhane shifted forward, hanging practically upside down. He squeezed with his legs as hard as he could while pulling on her hair.
Daddy, you hurt me. You no hold so tight. Make hard to move.
"I'll fall!"
No. Of course not, Daddy. You arachnomancer, spider rider. Let go . . . you see.
Let go? The ground swayed so very far below. Letting go now was like taking a swan dive off a fifteen-story building, trusting in a random, frayed bungee cord to keep him safe.
You no trust me?
He exhaled and slowly released his handholds, testing his weight. As he did, and though he could feel the gravity pull at him, it didn't seem to matter much. He sat upright without needing to hold anything.
A tiny wave of happiness shot through him. Octoralis was . . . smiling. They sprinted down the side of the tree to the ground, then followed the directions to the waypoint stone, cupped atop of a massive, petrified yellow rose with spiraling walkways to and from.
The back of his mind knew about this area, a history of something sad, but the details wisped away when he tried to access them. It didn't matter, not now. Maybe he could return one day and puzzle out the history.
They climbed the side and Dhane jumped off at the top. It wouldn't do one bit to suddenly appear at the city's waypoint stone with a giant spider. That'd cause nothing but trouble.
Octoralis understood this without him having to voice the thoughts, which was actually nice. She even dissolved to tendrils of smoke without being asked. Of course, she was still there, inside him, a part of his soul.
Dhane summoned his phone and since he was standing on a waypoint stone, the Waypoints app automatically opened. The whole world had 843 waypoints. Some were locked, private, or needed to be refreshed with a new mana reserve.
Any of the Ceratree waypoints, one through twenty, landed outside of the city gates, five waypoints per gate. He chose one outside the west gate and paid the 50 copper, bringing his total now to 72 copper.
Sadly, he wouldn't receive 5 silver for the day of training since he had died, earning him a second mark. But maybe 72 copper and some of the random items he scavenged, would be enough for a decent breakfast, provided that Penny's room was free. . ..
He tapped the Accept button with a bit more eagerness than was perhaps normal, and the world twisted apart, colors elongating, light and warmth filling him. It was over in a blink.
"Gates are closed for the night!" a male guard on the wall yelled down. "You can wait with the others." And there were others. Maybe twenty people, sitting out from the wall around campfires, some in chairs, others laying on mats.
Dhane crossed toward the people and walked around them, as if to find his own place to wait out the night near the wall. Some gave polite nods, others kept their focus on their phones, doing their best to ignore strangers and potentially awkward conversation.
There was no easy way for the guards to watch the happenings directly next to the wall. They'd have to lean out from an embrasure to peer down, and as long as they had no reason to do that, they were better suited to watch for distant threats.
Dhane followed the wall until it turned away from the group, then with a mental command, summoned Octoralis. She materialized from streams of smoke into a giant nightmare of black and orange fur. A giant nightmare that sent psychic smiles his way. . ..
He mounted and three seconds later, they were atop of the wall, in front of a rather terrified guard. The woman screamed an appreciable sound, one quite fitting if Dhane had any say in the matter, but a sound that called the attention of all the other nearby guards.
Octoralis reacted immediately. Before the guard could draw her sword, she bit the woman with two massive, black fangs. A white -50 lifted from the guard, followed by a red -24. This only ratcheted her voice to a higher pitch while trying to crawl away.
Guards were sprinting toward their fallen comrade, yelling orders. Two horn blasts reverberated across the stone, then two more sounded from the next section of the wall.
Dhane didn't need to kill anyone. These were just guards doing their job. The only thing he needed to do was get out of here. And at that thought, Octoralis shifted over the guard and sprinted down the other side of the wall.
But there were guards here as well. Dammit! They were forming up across the city, running to take up station at intersections, bridges, and watchtowers. Half a dozen guards pointed and yelled about the entity of Shadow, loose in their streets.
People screamed and ran to their closest store or house. Booths were knocked over. Performers lost their audiences and scurried to pick up unclaimed coins. Adventurers, decked out in an array of different styles of armor, drew weapons.
The whole thing was a damn mess. And it was then that Dhane realized what he had to do. Everything just clicked into place. He simply couldn't pretend to Return to the western cemetery where Penny was waiting. The PK guild failed and would report that he died before they could help.
He had to die. And now that he was in the city, he would Return here. With a bit of luck, he might even Return before the next training day started.
Octoralis sprinted down a side road closest to the main wall. Guards on top, leaning out of embrasures, yelled out the location of the enemy. There were just too many eyes on the massive spider. . ..
Dhane jumped off Octoralis's back and hit the ground running. He sent a mental command for her to create a distraction, then turned the corner into a dark and empty alleyway.
There, and with no small amount of trepidation, he drew his Cobalin sword, triggered Venom Bite, angled the tip toward his chest, and . . . decided it'd be better to die without his armor on. That made sense, people may be looking for this particular set of armor.
The pause for consideration also warmed a bit of frozen knowledge in his mind about suicide. Taking his own life had a greater penalty than death by the hands of someone or something else. He'd lose all experience he had gained toward his next level.
But he didn't have a choice!
He unequipped his armor and his normal clothes returned. Then, with sword out, ability triggered, he . . . Dammit! He didn't want to put holes in his new black shirt.
So he unequipped his shirt at the same time a woman in a nice frilly dress ran into the alleyway. She obviously didn't have any form of dark vision, for she stumbled on a box, screamed, and fell.
Dhane caught her, however, despite her slim form, she must have weighed over two hundred pounds. The sheer impossibility of that didn't seem to matter, and before he knew it, he was flat on his back with her on top, panting.
"What is this, Ulga!" said a deep voice. It was an adventurer with a battle hammer out, likely in preparation for the supposed invasion, but handy in other matters as well.
"I . . . I . . ." the woman stammered, sitting up and brushing back curly locks of blonde hair out of her face. She seemed, for the first time, to notice Dhane and smiled coyly, drawing a finger down his abs before realizing what she was doing. She jerked and looked surprised at the man wielding a giant hammer.
There were times when such situations demanded a quick explanation and apology, especially when faced with some muscled, Greek god of a man. Tonight was not one of those times.
Dhane put on his best irate glare and yelled from the cobbled stones of the alleyway, "Get your own woman!"
The woman stiffened at that, grinding her impossibly heavy buttocks into his hips, and let out a nervous squeak, words seemingly unavailable.
The man frowned deeply, brows pinched. One could crack a chestnut between those brows, though it wasn't enough to encourage a crime of passion, a murder in the dark alleyway.
Come on! What was this little thing called murder in a world where no one stayed dead? But it wasn't happening. The man had a respectable hold over his emotions.
So Dhane reluctantly upped his game. "Hey! Give us some privacy. She's mine!" And when that didn't do it, he reached up with both hands and cupped her breasts, squeezing and yelling, "Mine-mine-mine!" until something large and heavy descended upon his head. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 13 | Dhane woke with a distant ringing in his ears. He was lying on a stone slab inside an exceptionally decorated room. The walls were painted in swirls of gold and silver, like heavenly clouds, bright from both sunlight and moonlight hitting the shapes from different sides.
It was a small room. One entire side formed an archway out into a vast garden, covered in every type of flower and color, beneath a dim, early morning sky. Water dribbled nearby, running along a stone channel that connected with a small basin.
A lean man—white hair, eyebrows, and robe, all seemingly designed to match—stepped inside. He wasn't an old man, probably no older than thirty. His eyes mimicked the walls with flakes of gold and silver. "Welcome, Dhane," he said kindly and with a warm smile.
Dhane sat up and swung his legs over the slab's side, noting for obvious reasons, that he wasn't wearing a shirt. This didn't seem to bother the man.
"I am Owen, your Reditus." The word triggered new knowledge. A Reditus was like a priest that helped people return from death. They were counselors, therapists, listeners. Death could most certainly be a traumatic experience, which allowed the Reditus to soothe such distresses.
Owen sat on the slab. "There's nothing to be ashamed of dying during the act."
"The . . . act?" Dhane asked.
"Of sex—or passionate lovemaking, if you prefer. You'd be surprised at how often strangulation is taken too far, oftentimes, on purpose. I've heard there's nothing better than the orgasm of death."
Oh, shit brownies. That sounded terrible. "I didn't die," Dhane said, looking for the right word and deciding to copy the priest's verbiage, "in the act."
"Ah! I have jumped to the wrong conclusion, yet again. And you are mostly clothed. A good fourth of our Returned are naked and embarrassed, not that they need to be."
"That doesn't seem odd to you?"
"What is this world but oddities? The moment you think you've seen it all, something will come and turn your world upside down." His words were accented with something, and the man looked deeply into Dhane, producing a rather cold and alien touch.
Dhane projected his affinity of Light and divinity, not entirely appreciating the touch and certainly not wanting to reciprocate. Then again, calling for the affinity of a Reditus may be considered disrespectful.
"So! Dhane, follower of the Sisters of Death, would you like to tell me how you died?"
There was something about the man that didn't feel . . . human. In a way, he seemed similar to Gameus: no aura of warmth. It was sort of a disconnection from normality.
It was quite possible this man could see through lies with those arcane, godlike eyes of his. And so the best answer to give was a simple, "No thanks."
"I understand," Owen said. "And though you have not partaken of my services—which are open to you at any time, whether or not you have recently died—would you mind donating some mana?"
"You need mana?"
"Yes, the cemetery requires mana to work. And while it may seem odd, the Reditai do not have any mana in this world. We work entirely off of donations."
Owen summoned a pearlescent orb from the air. It slid down his hand, then up onto the tip of his finger, spinning slowly. "Any donation will help."
Dhane considered this, then shrugged. He summoned 89 of his 90 mana—not wanting to give it all lest he became Mana Drunk—and applied the swirling liquid of power to the orb.
Owen's eyes glowed a little, infused with shimmering flakes of gold and silver. He drew his brows together, a pinch of distaste or perhaps confusion wrinkling his nose. "Your mana is . . . quite pure."
"Mana has purity levels?"
"Oh yes, there is mana of Light and of vile Shadow." The way he said it seemed to imply he was expecting a tainted form of mana, as if he wasn't really after a donation at all.
Oh, shit brownies. Dhane died to throw people off his trail and yet here they were, a mana hound, testing him for impurities. But he passed! Even if there were suspicions, they had no proof. Their test failed and since he was of Light, their tests would always fail.
Dhane stood and quickly equipped his black shirt. Simply having a thin layer of fabric to cover himself with, seemed to dispel whatever was happening in the priest's head.
Owen stood and smiled, then offered his hand. They shook, and he said, "We appreciate your donation, Dhane of Light. Please go with peace and return should you find yourself in need of a good ear."
Dhane plastered on one of his fake ass smiles, nodded, said his farewell and left in such a way to reveal none of his uncertainties that boiled beneath the surface.
Outside in the garden, a dozen guards turned their stares on him, but did nothing to stop him from leaving. It was then and there Dhane vowed to never die again, to never speak to a Reditus priest, to never give the people of Light a reason to be suspicious at all.
From then and there, he'd be a model citizen.
Argh, shit! He barely had twenty minutes before training would start for the day. He sprinted down the street, past groups of people talking in wild excitement, past the ruins of a building that had lost one too many support beams and toppled over.
Good distraction? Octoralis projected.
Dhane jumped at the sudden mental intrusion, then twisted and turned, entirely expecting the large spider to be here in the busy street, in broad daylight.
But she wasn't.
The only things he found were the confused and curious stares from onlookers, no doubt wondering how the crazy guy escaped from the local asylum. No, there was no local asylum. Maybe they needed one. . ..
He tried to quiet the rush of his thoughts and projected back, Yes, it was a good distraction. This brought a swirl of happy warmth through his chest, a feeling that fought against the wave of itchy terror, as if spiders had burrowed into his skin, into his mind.
There was no time for this, no time to tear his clothes off and poke around them with a shoe of +1 Spider Squishing. All he could do was hope, really hope, that there were no tiny spiders on him, whispering into his ear.
I not physical, Octoralis projected. You have strange fear, Daddy.
To which Dhane responded with a series of emotions, ranging from anger to fear to annoyance. This seemed to quiet the soul spider of haunting, leaving him to concentrate on where he was.
He turned at one street early, opting to avoid Nick's booth lest the man wanted to ask him about the broken armor, or load him up with new projects. This led to a rather long detour, and by the time he reached Cali Bali, he managed to run out of Stamina.
Penny was sitting at the bar, picking at the food on her plate. She turned a curious glance his way, then brightened immediately with a radiant smile. "You're back!"
"But . . . not . . . for long," he said between breaths. Nick hadn't been kidding about expending all of his Stamina. Every muscle in his body seemed to burn, his lungs were dry and scraped with each inhale and exhale, making him cough. "I have . . . to get to the arena before I'm late. But wanted to see you first."
"Of course, you've got training. I'm just so glad you're not out there anymore. What happened?"
"Death, death"—breathe—"and more death. Good thing we can't truly die."
"Take this," she said and handed him her cup. "You're crazy. You know that, right? Aren't you afraid of dying?"
He took a drink of something sweet. It immediately gave him back 20 Stamina and removed his Exhausted trait. "What is this?"
"Oh, it's Oomvat Berry juice and . . . slightly spiked. I had a terrible night, okay? Don't you, of all people, judge me. It's your fault. How am I supposed to sleep knowing you were stuck in the Wilds? Hmm?"
Dhane placed the cup on the bartop and pulled her into a hug. "I'm truly sorry and most definitely in your debt."
"My debt?" she asked, pulling away. "The PK guild said some massive spider pulled you up into the trees." She shivered at the thought. "They failed and returned my payment...."
"Yes, that did happen," he said. "I can definitely check off being food for giant baby spiders from my bucket list."
Penny recoiled. "How are you even remotely sane right now? If only I acted sooner...."
Dhane laughed. "And here I thought you liked spiders!"
"Not ones that eat you! And I was joking . . . teasing, flirting, whatever you want to call it."
"Look, it's not your fault that I was out there, Penny. And I'm in your debt because you were the only person who tried to help. But, gah, I have to run. Let's do something tonight at eight, okay?"
"Really?"
"Of course, I have to pay back my debts, right?"
"Right," she said with that radiant smile of hers. "Tenfold!"
"Ten restless nights. . . ." he said, then kissed her so she knew he would never ever, ever ghost her.
Dhane made it to the arena with time to spare. He felt great, like he had chugged a 5-Hour Energy drink and was ready to get stuff done. It was a new day with a new challenge waiting. Perhaps this time, they'd win and score 5 extra silver.
He jogged up the steps where the groups were talking among themselves. Devron waved him over. The man was all smiles. Even Aaliyah, sitting on the stairs, seemed in good spirits, which was definitely out of place for her.
"What happened?" Dhane asked, suspiciously. "Why are you guys so happy?" Maybe they finally did the deed. . ..
"Hells, man, we won!" Devron said.
"Yesterday's challenge?"
"You bet. And if it weren't for your bit of insight, it wouldn't have happened." Devron summoned 5 silver coins and handed them over. "That's your portion of our winnings."
"What insight was that?"
Aaliyah stood, arms crossed. "He's talking about loot. That the challenge ain't just about killing mobs and shit."
"Truth!" Devron said, now beaming. "But that's neither here nor there. The other teams got wrecked something awful when the rabbit hit the fan, if you know what I mean. And since you died—"
"Again," Aaliyah said.
"Shh, lady, I'm telling the story this time."
"Whatevs, man."
"Anyway, where was I? You died! That's right. When you died, the soul stone transferred to Aaliyah. When she died, it transferred to me. And I thought, 'Well, I can just sit here and do nothing or pick herbs.' I mean, why not, right?
"And that's what I did. Herbs, herbs, herbs, all day long. Turns out, you can make some decent money collecting herbs. And did you know that every stack of 10 herbs is worth more than selling them individually?"
Huh, that was an interesting tidbit. It probably applied to all stackable items, at least to some degree. So 10x Duram Boar Meat would earn more than selling 10x of them individually. Kind of the opposite of wholesale.
"And you know what?" Devron asked. "I wouldn't mind just going back out again to collect resources. I even got myself a sickle! Hells, man, it makes harvesting herbs more efficient. And while it's equipped, I can see other herbs, like your Ceraleaf. I couldn't even see them because I'm no assassin."
"What about training?" Dhane asked.
Aaliyah threw up her arms. "Man, that's what I've been asking. He's eager to ditch our party now that he's discovered his green thumb."
"I'm not growing plants, Aali," Devron said. "I'm harvesting what's there. And I'm not saying we split the party or anything like that, but we don't need training, do we?"
"Whatevs Dev, it's easy money, and you never know whatcha gonna learn. Yesterday it was herbs, today could be something better."
"And that's why I'm still here, alright? Not taking off unless you two are on board."
Aaliyah was about to say something else, though the arena door opened and Gorlan stepped out. The Master of Arena led a train of exhausted Cobalins, all hauling their own blocks of stone, all wearing scraps of clothing.
The sight of them, their miserable state, their complete lack of hope, it was heart-wrenching. Then Kuby stepped out of the door, looking afraid, eyes skirting this way and that while trying to stay in line.
The Cobalin spotted Dhane, and for the briefest of moments, the sides of his lips tugged upward. One of Gorlan's helpers cracked a thin stick against his back, making him cry out and stumble forward.
"Today!" Gorlan said in his booming voice, holding an uncharacteristic grin. "You get to kill your first Cobalin!"
The Cobalins didn't even react. They seemed entirely aware of why they were there. Perhaps death, to them, was a momentary release from this hell. Maybe they volunteered.
With Gorlan's few words out and mixing with the groups, the man turned and entered the main gate to the arena. Everyone followed him through the maze of large hallways that eventually led out to the sands.
There were a few Reditai off to the side, wearing their long white robes. All of them, male and female, had white hair like Reditus Owen, despite their otherwise youthful, serious complexions. Their eyes sparkled in the sunlight, shimmering bits of gold and silver.
Had they always been at the trainings? Perhaps they were there to assist those who died. But if that was the case, he would have seen them on the first day of training after he died to the dummy bird.
Devron frowned and whispered, "Ugh, man, I don't see what so grand about killing slaves. We could be independent, make our own choices, you know?"
It wasn't a bad idea. In fact, being out on the arena floor where Cobalins were lining up to be slaughtered, leaving felt more and more like the right decision.
Ever since he joined this training, he had taken on more risk of being discovered. What type of risk was there to just go out into the Wilds and harvest resources?
A day of hard work, of exploration, of finding little treasures to bring back to the merchants, that sounded like so much fun. They could even buy rudimentary items, like an axe and pickaxe, to further improve yields. And should they run into the occasional mob, there was nothing wrong with a bit of experience.
"Alright," he said and Devron looked surprised or . . . something: a flicker of different emotions.
"You mean it?"
"Yeah, I think going—"
Gorlan thrust a meaty finger his way. "Winners of last challenge, you're first! Come!"
Everyone turned to watch Dhane and his party. Kevin, being very un-Kevin-like, flashed him a thumbs-up and grinned. There really was no understanding that guy.
Aaliyah tilted her head with a bit of exasperation toward where Gorlan waited. She seemed to say, Everyone is waiting, let's gooo! Then, when Dhane didn't move, she decided to lead the group instead.
They walked to the front and a helper shoved Kuby from the line of Cobalins. The small, green Cobalin, stumbled into a circle, dug into the sand. He stood at the center, shaking and holding his stone.
"Cobalins!" Gorlan yelled, "are of Shadow. They threaten our world, our people. Left unchecked, they bring destruction!" He pulled his great axe from his back and pointed it at Kuby. "Kill your Cobalin and gain rank. Be paid 10 silver instead of 5."
It was like a brainwashing exercise. Everyone would be forced to kill a Cobalin to normalize it, to paint them as the enemy, and ensure no one even tried to talk with them, to understand them, to befriend them.
Gorlan pointed his axe at Dhane. "You're first."
Kuby slowly nodded his head, prepared to die. But why? Dhane volunteered to join this training, he most certainly could volunteer to leave it. And so he said, "I'm not killing a defenseless slave."
"What!" Gorlan yelled.
"And if this is the type of training we're to expect, I'm done. You can keep your silver."
Gorlan's face scrunched up and darkened. A jagged vein, running from temple to forehead, throbbed, like his face was a mask and whatever underneath it, fought to escape.
"Hells to the yeah," Devron said. "I'm done, too. This ain't what I signed up for. You don't teach anything, you throw challenges at us and watch us die. And you think this is some lesson? Where's the challenge? It's just sad, man. You've got a Cobalin fetish or something."
"That's a mark!" Gorlan said. "To you both. Kill your Cobalin!"
Dhane shook his head and turned away, stepping directly in the path of the Reditai, led by a tall woman with fine white skin and hair, perfectly tied to fall artfully down her back. Her eyes were more silver than gold.
"Take the whole party," the woman said and guards marched forward at her command.
Take? Dhane took a step back. All of the groups of trainees were watching with wide eyes. Some cupped their mouths, others were just loving the drama. Kevin seemed upset for some reason.
"You have no jurisdiction here, priest!" Gorlan yelled. "These are my trainees. This is my arena!"
"Is that true? It sounded like they left your counsel. Even so, we act on the Royals' authority in response to allegations from one of your own trainees. We are well within our rights."
A trainee? It had to have been the red-head, the guy that had pointed at the giant spider behind Dhane right before dying to a horde of enraged rabbits, and the guy who current stared at the arena sands, unwilling to watch.
"That is absurd!" Gorlan yelled.
"You wish to train traitors, Master of Arena? We all have our responsibilities. If we're wrong, we'll pay these trainees their day's worth of silver and you can have them back. No harm done."
A guard grabbed Dhane's arms, forcing them to the middle of his back, wrapping his wrists in something that surged with hot energy.
"You're . . . arresting us?" Dhane asked. "For not wanting to kill a slave?" It was ridiculous, but at the back of his mind, he knew it was far more than just that. This had only fed more into their suspicions. Shit! And all he wanted to do was be a model citizen, to blend in.
"I ain't with them!" Aaliyah yelled, shrugging off a guard. "You want me to kill a Cobalin, right? Ain't got a problem with that." She spun her spear around and marched up to Kuby, who was stiff-backed, holding his stone like a shield.
Aaliyah swung the butt end of the spear around, slamming it against Kuby's stone and knocking it to the sand. She then triggered something and the spear shifted so the point was forward again. She jabbed the tip into Kuby's stomach.
The Cobalin cried out and fell to his knees, the silvery-white of his soul leaking from the deep puncture wound. Then she struck again, and again, tearing the light out of him and spilling red damage numbers to float skyward.
The glow of white started to envelop Kuby's form, but she kept attacking. "Goddammit, they are so stupid!" she yelled. "They just wanna pick herbs all day, though that ain't what this place is all about."
Finally, with her last attack hitting nothing but sand, she stopped. She was . . . crying? It was so far from the Aaliyah he knew, Dhane didn't know what to do.
All he could feel was a swirling mix of emotions, some not his own: a deep anger, a hate, a desire for justice for Kuby, for all of the Cobalins. Maybe they were his emotions, just reflecting back at him from the entity that shared his soul.
I'll kill them! Octoralis projected. Daddy, please. Let me fight-fight-fight, I can do it, I can hurt them, give pain.
No. The Reditai were only suspicious. If a giant spider appeared and started attacking everyone, that'd be the end of it. They'd know he was an entity of Shadow without a doubt.
"I want the entire party," the Reditai leader said, her cold silver eyes taking in all the other trainees, as if daring them to force her hand and take more than just the one party.
Aaliyah, now acting very much like Aaliyah, whipped her spear around and jabbed the tip into a guard's mouth. It looked like it would kill him in a single thrust, though she couldn't be more than a level 2, and the guard had armor.
A -24 in white, shifted out of the guard and floated skyward. The guard staggered back and fell to the sand, just as another guard took his place. It required three guards to shove her to the sand and bind her hands with red rope.
The Reditai leader stepped up to Dhane and whispered, "Your eyes betray you, shadowling. You cannot deceive me. I'll deliver the truth, and then you'll only know suffering for pretending to be one of us."
Something like that really demanded a witty reply. Dammit! He wasn't in the right mindset for witty. But he also didn't quite care about respect or what was socially accepted. He called to her affinity, sought it with his soul, as if to take it and strangle it.
And in doing so, grabbed nothing. No affinity of Light or Shadow, just an empty void. She smiled an eery smile, an inhuman smile. But then there was something deep within that void, as if hidden, a mystery, a thing to be discovered.
Dhane smiled back and whispered, "Whatever you say, Veritus Scyla."
She jerked away as if he had bit her nose, a flash of fear across her face. The reaction seemed so over the top until the knowledge at the back of his mind filled in the gaps.
The Veritai were high ranked priests of the Light, truth seekers, hunters. And in being a truth seeker, they took on a secret name that only other Veritai would know. To know the name of his enemy gave him power.
Oh, shit brownies. He had to just beat the damn hornets' nest with a baseball bat. There was no knowing what she thought, glaring at him from those silver eyes, but it couldn't be good. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 14 | Apparently, high ranking priests of Light didn't appreciate their souls being sucked on by shadowlings. Once outside the arena, the guards blindfolded Dhane with a thick, black cloth, wrapped so many times around his head, and so tightly, his brain felt ready to explode.
He was shoved into a carriage of sorts, arms held by a guard sitting on either side. It was downright uncomfortable, sitting with his hands bound behind his back, cold and tingling from blood loss. He tried to adjust his wrists—find a less painful position—and the moment he did, a jolt of hot energy surged up his arms.
He yelped, and the muscles along his back, contracted involuntarily, making him arch and smack his head against something hard. It lasted for only a second, leaving the smell of burnt flesh in the air. The guards snickered and Dhane thought to let Octoralis eat them.
Oh, Daddy, can I?
The temptation burned strongly, though they still had no proof he was of Shadow. Revealing his class would confirm their suspicions. Not to mention, attacking a bunch of guards in the middle of the city would only get him killed. These thoughts were enough of an answer, and Octoralis projected disappointment.
Dhane took in a calming breath and tried to listen, to focus on the things happening around him. A guard said something to the driver, then a whip curved through the air and cracked. Something large and furry grunted. The sounds of metal wheels with twelve spokes each, ground against the stone and vibrated up from beneath.
Okay. . . . Well, this all brought about an interesting revelation, one that seemed quite late to the party: he didn't need to see to see. It was as if he were a spider, sitting on its web and listening to the vibrations of its world, only, in this case, everything was connected: the guards, their weapons, the people outside gawking at the passing carriages.
It all looked like it did when he was in the Cobalin's fodder pit, no source of light at all, just the lines of everything, as if they gave off a slight glow. But it wasn't a glow, it was a vibration.
Sight was like a cone, it directed his attention to what was ahead. Even in a pitch-black cave, the fact he expected to see within this cone of vision, limited him to it. Without that limit, and a lot of concentration, he could feel his way out in all directions.
There were at least two other carriages, one ahead and one behind. Beyond that, the lines became blurry. Maybe . . . the cone of sight wasn't such a limitation, but a focus.
In the Cobalin cave, he didn't have any problem seeing as far ahead as he could above the surface. However, trying to sense all directions at once, or even directions he wasn't facing, seemed limited to thirty or forty feet.
No one spoke during the fifteen-minute ride that continually crept upward, like they were ascending a mountain, or . . . of course, the palace roads. And Dhane was perfectly happy to sit and explore this newfound ability.
Guards shouted commands, wrought iron gates swung open, and people—some in armor, some in flowing fabrics—ran and walked and talked and pointed.
Ha! Words were nothing more than vibrations, sound waves. It was why he could hear the wolf riders last night, despite the distance. It only took a bit of intent to zero in on what he wanted to hear.
"Is that," a woman said from outside, "the Veritai?"
"Must be," a man said.
Another man turned to the couple. "My friend in the arena said they caught the monster that invaded last night."
The woman looked relieved. "Oh, thank goodness! Such vile things shouldn't be in..."
Her voice faded away as the carriage turned into a side road, one that ran into a tunnel. Or perhaps a cave. Once through the opening, the ceiling curved upward and around stalactites that had been brutally hacked off.
The smells of fresh air, the feel of a slight warm breeze through windows, and the sounds of foot traffic all changed. It grew colder, damper, and the sounds had an echo.
A few minutes later, the carriage came to a stop and Dhane was shoved out of a door into an underground courtyard of sorts, nicely arranged with circular patterns of cobblestones.
"I ain't a Shadow!" Aaliyah shouted. She struggled against two guards, wearing her own blindfold, trying to fight and failing terribly.
Devron stepped out of the third carriage without protest and unassisted. In fact, he didn't even have a blindfold on, nor were his hands tied behind his back.
Veritus Scyla stepped out after him. She summoned a bag of coins, the amount hidden on some label Dhane couldn't see. The label wasn't physical, and thus didn't vibrate, though the bag seemed large and heavy.
I hurt him! Octoralis projected, feeding streams of rage into Dhane's chest. It stung and ached and throbbed. Devron? Out of everyone, Devron was the absolute last person he'd have thought to backstab a friend.
The guards shoved Dhane toward a large doorway. Crystals hung from the rock ceiling, likely filling the cavern with light. He walked, but also paid acute attention to his once friend, as if he could seize the man with tendrils of darkness and scream What did you do!
"You should remain in the palace for a day," Veritus Scyla said, quietly. "That should absolve you of any suspicion. Then you can return to training if you like."
"You gonna release Aaliyah, though, right?" Devron asked. He deposited the coins to his phone. "It's like I said before, she has nothing to do with this."
"You have my word. That is if our tests prove that she's not of Shadow. You understand, do you not? We cannot take such chances that the corruption hasn't spread."
Devron looked down, fists clenched. He nodded and followed the high priest and her entourage. Servants approached, guards saluted, and people spoke their greetings.
The guard on Dhane's right smiled and tapped the other guard. He was carrying a spear, a follower of the hawk. Apparently, even men could be Amazonian princesses.
The guy thrust the butt end of his spear in front of Dhane's feet. Really? One would think the guards would be more professional than this, especially in the employ of the Veritai.
Dhane casually stepped over the spear, which produced a set of deep frowns from the two guards. The other guard motioned for the spear wielder to try again, as if the first time was some fluke.
Apparently, it wasn't enough to just try again, for the two guards moved in such a way to really drive Dhane to the ground in a display of incompetence, to show that those of Shadow couldn't even walk properly.
The amazon thrust his spear at Dhane's feet, but angled it a bit higher to make it impossible to miss this time. The second guard shoved Dhane forward.
Dhane used the force from the second guard to twist and step over the spear, then locked it between his legs and twisted around again. The spear jerked out of the grip of the one guard, swooshed, and clanged against two helmets, knocking the guards to the cobbled floor.
Everyone's attention shot to Dhane. He stopped. The spear clattered to the cobblestones, and he pretended to look around, as if lost, then proceeded to wander in the opposite direction of the doorway. "Hello? Where am I supposed to go?" he called, lacing his words with innocence.
"Incompetent!" Veritus Scyla yelled. "These men are no longer in my employ. Juchon?"
"Yes, high priest?" a man said, stepping out from the small crowd of servants. He wore a full suit with a thin tie and stood at average height. Perhaps everything was average except his attire and his complete lack of hair.
"Take the shadowling to that fool Ink Master of yours. Stay with him until the tests are over. Is that clear?"
"It'll be done, high priest."
Juchon jogged up to Dhane and gently pinched his sleeve, as if touching him would be enough to corrupt the man's soul. "Right this way, sir. And be mindful, we have many guards. An attempt to escape will only result in a painful punishment."
"Escape?" Dhane asked, feigning surprise. "I just want to clear my name from your witch hunt."
Juchon didn't have a reply to that and instead, led Dhane through the large doorway to an even larger hallway of glossy stone. It was interesting how he could tell—the vibrations seemed smoother, cleaner.
The walls were decorated with many frames of large canvases, covered in varying layers of paint, not really forming anything of note, except for maybe indistinct figures. It was like appreciating the art by how it felt to slide your fingers across the surface.
Juchon led Dhane to a curving stairwell as wide as the main hallway. A squad of four guards followed them. Aaliyah was somewhere above, noticeable only by her distinct footfalls on stone. She had stopped fighting for the moment.
Two levels up and at the end of a smaller hallway that opened into a rounded room, Juchon stopped. There were padded benches along the wall, forming a sort of waiting room with one large door.
Juchon tugged Dhane's sleeve and explained where the seats were. Dhane pretended to feel around for the benches with his foot before taking a seat next to Aaliyah.
The man gave the guards precise instructions, then turned to the door. He raised a fist, as if to knock, but then exhaled a breath and pulled the door open, slipped inside, and closed it behind himself.
This seemed to cut off a lot of the vibrations Dhane could feel. There were shapes like chairs and a desk, though they were fuzzy and dim.
Dhane leaned against the cold wall. This whole place felt uncomfortable. It was too cold, too precise, too clean, too ornate, and seemingly void of anything living, like flowers or trees.
If he had to be in a cave deep underground, he'd much rather be with the Cobalins. They had a sense of family, of warmth, of fun and spirit. All of their buildings were imprecise, plopped down at the wrong angles, and yet if he could, he'd snap his fingers and switch places without a second thought.
Of course, the Cobalins also had Taco Tuesdays, tabletop games, and a complete lack of torture chambers. One or more of those things seemed quite nice at this given moment, which only reminded him how he had missed dinner and breakfast.
He sighed. "So, how's your day going? Anything new?"
"New! They think I'm a Shadow because of you!"
"Hmm, not going well then?"
"Goddammit, not well at all!"
She seemed scared, covering it with anger. But she didn't have anything to fear. She wasn't half Light and half Shadow like he was, made responsible for balancing the two affinities, ally and enemy to all.
And though he didn't know, they just might have a way to confirm their suspicions. Oh, how he wanted to talk with the Mother of Shadows, ask her Is this what you wanted?
But besides the state of the world, the injustices happening every day, he couldn't help but think he was going to get stuffed in some forgotten place for all eternity, and Penny would think he abandoned her, ran for the hills, or something ridiculous.
Sadly, he couldn't just outright ask Aaliyah to pass on a message without giving everyone more reason to doubt his innocence. So he asked instead, "Hey, just in case you don't get out of here, want me to pass along a message to someone?"
"What the fuck, man! You thinkin' I'm a Shadow?"
Dhane shrugged. "I don't know, are you?"
"NO!"
"I'm sure a Shadow would say that...."
"It's cuz I'm black, ain't it? That's why you thinkin' I'm a Shadow."
"Hmm? I don't think you're a Shadow."
"Right. Look me in the eye and— Pfft. Whatevs, man."
"No message then?"
"Fine. Tell Dev he'll make a shitty herbalist."
"I . . ." Dammit! Devron was cool. He was the guy that helped people, made them laugh, and feel included. And now Dhane was supposed to hate him? He finally said, in a more serious tone, "Aali, Devron is the reason we're here."
"Dev? Because he wants to abandon training? Pfft."
"No, because he collected a bag of coins by telling the Veritai that we were of Shadow."
". . . Whatevs, man," she said, voice tainted with an edge of doubt. "You don't know him like I do. He . . . he wouldn't do that."
From the other side of the door, a man yelled, "I can't test them blindfolded, you inbred dolt! It's an inkblot test. 'Tell me what you see. Black? Black! You must be evil!' "
Dhane leaned closer to Aaliyah. "If I don't get out of here, tell Penny at the Cali Bali inn, okay?"
The door opened and Juchon rushed out, then turned, finger raised. "The high priest demands—"
"Out!" a short, old man yelled, standing atop of a chair. He had a wild beard that dropped all the way to his waist. "You have no say here anymore, Jui. I don't want to hear it. Just because that woman is of weak soul, doesn't mean we have anything to fear."
"I can't leave! I'm to stay until all—"
"Juchon! You bald, insecure aberration. Until you return my damn shampoo, of which I have no inkling of an idea of what you are using it for, you are NOT WELCOME here."
"But—"
"DID. I. STUTTER?"
Juchon snapped his mouth shut, took in two deep breaths while staring daggers at the old man, then turned away with as much sass as he could manage.
He marched up to Dhane, looked like he'd grab his arm, but instead, pinched his sleeve and pulled on him to stand. "You are . . . to be tested by the Ink Master." His voice shook. "Walk this way."
"Jui!" the Ink Master yelled.
"I'm leaving! And until you return my dome wax, I'm keeping your blasted shampoo! I'm the one who bought it in the first place!" Juchon stomped off down the hallway, leaving a waiting room full of guards and an awkward silence.
The Ink Master hopped down from his chair and entered the waiting room. "You two," he said, pointing to two guards, "wait inside my office. Someone remove their blindfolds. Honestly, if those of Shadow could just peer into our souls and suck out all our vitality or knowledge, we wouldn't be winning, would we?"
A guard raised a finger as if to say something, then the Ink Master said, "It was a rhetorical question. Now, off with the blindfolds."
A guard moved up behind Dhane and untied the blindfold, then unwrapped his head. The light was suddenly a painful experience. It washed out all the little vibration lines, filling everything with distracting colors.
The Ink Master wasn't an old man. His beard was actually a bright pink, feathery scarf. He had light brown hair, neatly combed, and fair, lightly tanned skin.
"Right," the Ink Master said, "come and take a seat, we have a lot to cover."
Dhane sat in a little round office with two little round windows. Green fields and pink trees stretched toward the horizon. Beyond, looming over the entire world, was the massive Paradeise Vono, the Heaven's Mountain.
The Ink Master rounded his desk and sat in a chair barely a foot off the ground. He then proceeded to crank a device, slowly ratcheting his seat a half-inch higher with each slow rotation.
The man had olive green eyes that watched Dhane for the three solid minutes it took before the Ink Master was at a height suitable to converse.
"Apologies," the Ink Master said. "I am Albert, the Ink Master for Ceratree City."
"You're a psychologist?"
"No-no, I just told you, I'm the Ink Master."
Dhane scrunched his brows together. "You were talking about reading inkblots. I've taken three psychology classes. Aren't you giving me a Rorschach psychology test?"
"Well aren't you a mind wizard. I sure hope you're not of Shadow, they already outnumber us, they don't need intelligence as well. But no-no, that is not what an Ink Master does. I follow the Owl with a specialty in ink magic.
"Using you as a conduit, I get to see into your soul. All of your secrets, your lies, your truths, they'll be rendered in ink. I have my doubts that you are as they claim. A shadowling? What an outrageous accusation, however, you might be aligned to their cause, and I will dig that out of you."
Oh, shit brownies. Dhane didn't know anything about getting through a lie detector, other than maybe giving himself some form of pain on every answer. But this? This was a hundred times worse. How could he hide his true nature from something so invasive?
Albert reached out and a long needle formed in the air. He took it and motioned Dhane to move closer. "Your hand, please."
Dhane held out his hand and Albert tapped the needle to the end of his index finger. It didn't hurt whatsoever, though a pool of his shimmering silver-white soul, beaded there until the Ink Master pinched the air and pulled.
A string of Dhane's soul arched through the air. Albert summoned a large sheet of paper that covered his entire desk, and the soul struck at the very center.
Every shade of gray ink bled into the paper. Blotches formed in random places, almost looking like a storm cloud. The ink constantly moved, shifting darker and lighter.
"I see. . . ." Albert said.
Well look at that, he lasted a good five whole seconds. If this large sheet of paper covered in black ink didn't outright confirm he was of Shadow, what would?
"Yes-yes. . . ." Albert said and looked intensely at Dhane. "You have a very strong mind. Most people have random thoughts, though the ink hasn't taken any shape with you. Curious, I say."
"Is that a bad thing?" Dhane asked, feeling a modicum of relief.
"Bad? Heavens no, it just means I have a challenge, and I do like my challenges." Albert cracked his knuckles and summoned a tiny notebook and pen. He scribbled something then asked, "Who is your divinity?"
The first thing to flash through Dhane's mind was the Mother of Shadows. Shit! He quickly focused on the Sisters of Death, watching the ink to see what would form, but it continued to shift around, formless.
Of course. . . . The Mother of Shadows gave him protection from mind-reading. He had to allow his mind to be read, his affinity to be seen, his divinity to be known, just the same as when people called out to his soul.
He projected the Sisters of Death, perhaps a few moments too late, and the ink quickly shifted to form the symbol of the snake divinity.
"Ha!" Albert yelled. "I can feel you refusing to give answers, though I am a master, mind you. It is only a matter of time. Now onto more interesting questions.
"Ceratree City, as you no doubt know, was attacked last night. Do you—" Albert stopped talking when the ink pulled away from the symbol of the snake and formed a highly detailed image of . . . Octoralis.
Wait, he didn't project that!
Oh no! Octoralis said in his mind. I'm bad, bad-bad-bad! The image animated, now showing Octoralis hitting her head with her front legs as a form of punishment.
"Most interesting," Albert said and smiled. "We are getting somewhere now. Maybe—and I really hate to admit this, but maybe . . . the high priest is onto something after all." He wrote something in his notebook.
"Dhane, how do you explain your knowledge of this spider when you were reportedly dead?"
"I . . ." Dhane said, thinking fast. "I died in the Wilds from a giant spider attack. The PK guild can confirm this. Everyone said a spider attacked the city, so maybe the two...."
"Yes-yes, it's quite plausible to mix the two events. But what on earth is it doing?"
"That's . . ." Dhane paused. Octoralis shifted left and right as she continued to pummel her head, repeating bad-bad-bad, stupid spider, Daddy in danger because of dumb me. "That's," he continued, "the . . . mating dance."
"Oh my! I'm so very sorry."
"Me too."
Stop it, he thought back to Octoralis, then realized that while he may have mind reading protection, she didn't, and she was currently in his soul.
Albert wrote something in his notebook, mouthing the words Fornicates with spiders.
"Whoa! I didn't want to!"
"Hmm? Well, I can't see how that can be verified. These are merely the facts. But I'll add a note." He mouthed, But says he didn't like it.
Oi, like that didn't paint him in a bad light. Dhane was losing this damn fight of wits. And worse, Octoralis knew everything that he did and could likely project incriminating evidence.
Dhane focused on the vibrations in the room. Everything vibrated to some degree, everything was in some form of motion. Even so, while he could see normally, focusing on those vibrations were quite difficult. He barely made out the guards standing only a few feet away, hands on weapons, watching the animated ink with great interest.
He summoned Octoralis under the desk in her smallest form, which happened to be a few inches. She materialized from strands of smoke that seeped out of Dhane's skin. . ..
He froze for two seconds, gauging the room for a reaction that never came, then let out a slow breath. Stay out of sight, he thought to Octoralis.
I will, Daddy. I stay here. I no bite tiny man.
As soon as she had materialized, the ink lost its form, which seemed to dispel the room. Dhane needed to gain an advantage here, needed to distract the Ink Master somehow.
"Can I . . . that is," Dhane said, "do you mind if I take notes?"
"Notes? How peculiar. I suppose I don't mind, though whatever you write will stay with me and can be used against your case. Understand?"
Dhane nodded and the Ink Master summoned another small notebook with pen and handed it over.
"I'm going to say words and see where your thoughts take us," he said and paused for a moment before saying, "Food, friend, lover, divinity, enemy, ally, Light, Shadow, slave, Cobalin."
As the Ink Master listed words, Dhane carefully projected images of . . . an impossibly dense roll, Nick, Penny, the Sisters of Death, the Raging Rabbits, Aaliyah. But for Light and Shadow, he didn't know what to project and instead projected Kuby for slave and Cobalin.
"Okay-okay. . . . Show me something sad," Albert asked.
Dhane had an idea, and since it aligned well with telling the truth, he confidently projected Kuby's death. The ink swirled together to show the frightened Cobalin. It moved just as he remembered it, then Aaliyah attacked.
"This?" Albert asked. "You think a slave of Shadow dying is . . . sad?"
"Hmm," Dhane said, then grabbed his notebook and wrote something. "Interesting."
"What is? What are you writing?"
"Nothing of consequence. As to your question, that is what I projected."
"How odd. I sense no deceit from you. You do know why you are here, correct?"
"I understand the allegations."
"And you know that the Cobalins are our enemies?"
"Of course."
Albert wrinkled his forehead and stared for a moment, then asked, "Show me something that made you upset."
Again, revealing the truth was easy. Dhane projected Challenger Terry backhanding Kuby and the stone falling on Kuby's foot. The ink swirled to show that amused gleam in Terry's eye as he smiled at the poor Cobalin.
Albert wrote something in his book, then paused. "I don't think you understand the severity of your situation."
"Most interesting," Dhane said and wrote something else.
"What is interesting! How are my comments interesting? You are providing quite the damning evidence against yourself and you think my comments are . . . interesting?"
"Yes, very troubling, actually." Dhane wrote some more and nodded to himself as if the words on the page revealed some deep and important truth.
Albert jumped out of his chair, took two steps across the desk, and snatched the notepad from Dhane. He read the notes aloud as if doing so would reveal new truths that could be rendered in ink.
"'The Ink Master is in favor of slavery. He has no problem with abuse and torture and . . . war crimes'? You're twisting everything!"
Dhane motioned for him to continue.
"'This evident form of apathy points to depression from a recent breakup that the Ink Master is . . . clearly not over'? You know nothing of my life! I am so . . . so very over Juchon."
Dhane raised an eyebrow. "The simple fact that you haven't returned his property," Dhane said, now steepling his fingers as a show of confidence, "suggests that you don't want the special connection you have with Juchon to end."
"No . . . I . . . you...."
And now for a rather large risk, a cringeworthy one. It was time to make use of those psychology classes and repeat the words all psychologists seem to memorize before finals.
"Albert," he said in a soothing, soft, and very practiced tone, "this is a safe place. We bring the truth to light so we can understand it. Tell me how you feel about this new truth you've been suppressing."
The Ink Master slumped, then sat on the paper, ink swirling around his form. New images materialized to show Albert and Juchon together on a hike, rowing a boat, eating dessert, fighting real dust bunnies. The images laughed and talked and loved in perfect silence, a silence only art could depict.
"We got into a fight," Albert said and sighed. "The priests of Light have changed, have become more assertive, demanding, perhaps even vicious in their pursuits."
"So Juchon is stuck between his loyalty to his job and his love of you?"
"And he chose her!"
Dhane pointed to a new swirl of ink, revealing a rather ugly depiction of Veritus Scyla, her hair messy, eyes evil, face contorted in rage. Clearly, this was how the Ink Master saw her, the woman that stole away his love. "Might it be more complicated than that? Does Juchon love his career?"
Albert looked down at the table where Juchon was laughing at some unknown thing. "He does. He's the kindest soul, wanting to help ease the pain for those who die in this world."
"Albert, I don't think Juchon is over you."
"What? You don't?"
"Of course not. He's holding onto your shampoo for the very same reason you won't give back his dome wax. Neither of you wants this to end, and instead of trying to understand your feelings, you are both controlled by fear."
"Fear? It's not—"
Dhane raised his hand to cut him off. "Both of you have the same fear of losing the other, of being hurt. You lash out with insults because you're trying to distance yourself so that when the inevitable happens, it won't hurt as much. It's a fear of emotional anguish."
"But he chose her over me...."
"You gave him an impossible choice that's clearly eating away at him. Relationships are about compromise, are they not? As I see it, there's only one real question here. Do you love him?"
"I . . . do. I do! I need to . . . to talk with him! I need to explain myself and fix this." Albert jumped to his feet. "It's so obviously clear now."
Dhane nodded and helped him down from the desk. He motioned for a guard to open the door and let the Ink Master out. "You do that. We'll meet again next Wednesday at the same time?"
The Ink Master nodded emphatically. "Thank you, thank you! You wonderful, brilliant, beautiful man!" He ran down the hallway, feathery pink scarf flowing behind him.
Aaliyah, her blindfold removed, crooked an eyebrow. The guards exchanged confused looks. Then Dhane smiled and said, "Next?" |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 15 | The rest of the day was met with pokes and prods, pain and insults, and a whole lot of suspicion. No one was able to crack the Mother of Shadows' protection on his mind.
When they wanted to see his affinity, they saw him in all his glorious, untainted Light, following the Sisters of Death. When they tested his mana, it was pure. When they stabbed him, he bled like any other creature in the world. And of course he did. They probably just wanted an excuse to cause him pain.
One bright man decided that screaming random insults would get his dark and evil energies to manifest. When nothing happened beyond a slight giggle—how was "Shriveled up granny toes" an insult?—they washed their hands of him and sentenced him to the dungeon.
The guard, a woman with massive hands, pinched the back of his neck, fingers digging into his skin and drawing flakes of light. She unlocked a wooden and steel door with her phone and shoved him forward.
The cell was a good three feet below, at the end of stone steps. She barked a deep, meaty laugh. "Watch that first step!"
But then, of course, Dhane already knew of the first step and easily touched bottom, spun with arms still achingly bound to his back, and gave an elegant, performers bow.
She screwed up her face—looking quite constipated—sniffed, then slammed the cell door shut before walking the long distance back down the dark, damp, and cold stone hallway.
"Visitor, visitor!" a spry old man yelled from the corner, lit only by a dim crystal. A thick metal collar wrapped his neck and was chained to the wall, maybe eight feet long.
The man had a long white beard that dragged along the floor since he didn't walk upright, moving at a constant crouch. His arms and legs and pretty much everything else was bone thin and knobby.
"I love visitors!" he said, voice scratchy and high pitched. His head was kinked all the way to the left, staring from blue eyes, thick wedge-shaped eyebrows playing pinball.
At this point, it had become so common to call out to people's affinity, Dhane didn't even realize he had done it. The man had a tainted affinity of Light, following the Monkey.
"Hello," Dhane said with a bit of uncertainty.
"You see my soul, you did, you did! You looked, you peaked, you pervert!"
"I'm . . . not—"
"You are, you are! No request for permission, you just look and take and think you know, but know you do not. I am more than Light or Shadow or symbol, I say!"
Dhane considered this and nodded slowly. If it weren't for the knowledge at the back of his mind telling him that such requests were considered a social norm, he'd feel—and had felt—them to be quite invasive.
But socially acceptable or not, this particular person didn't appreciate it. He said, "I'm sorry for not asking permission."
The man smiled, then stood upright to nearly seven feet tall, tapping a finger to his lips. "Unexpected reply," he said, his voice less scratchy, more full and considered. "I think we will get along quite well. I am Reditus Leon."
A Reditus! Down here in the dungeon? Dhane stiffened. All the priests from their mysterious sects were strange in one way or another. They had that inhuman feel to them, as if only pretending to be human, but entirely something else.
I eat him? Octoralis projected.
No, Dhane thought back and felt Octoralis grumble about not being fun, then seemed to catch herself and started apologizing profusely about how bad she was and what type of punishment Daddy should give her.
One of these days, he'd find a way to just let her kill and eat whatever she wanted. This thought brought a swirl of warmth to his chest, a smile from the soul spider.
"It would seem," Leon said, "you're not a fan of the Reditai. Please, my boy, enlighten me."
"Why are you down here?" The mere suggestion of a priest of Light being locked up beneath the Royals' palace was absurd.
"He answers with questions. . . . Why are you down here?"
"The Veritai think I'm of Shadow. They think I'm a vile evil that needs to be smooshed at the end of a stick."
"Ah, and are you what they say you are?"
"Take a look if you want. I've passed all of their tests, what's one more?"
Leon laughed a hearty laugh and stepped forward. The chain attached to his collar grew taut, then the man pinched the sides of the metal and unlatched it from his neck. "Turn, let me see your bonds."
Dhane turned and a moment later, the energetic material that wrapped his wrists, fell away and vanished. To simply be able to hold his arms ahead of himself was a divine gift.
Leon turned him back around and considered him with a serious look, a look that didn't seek his soul, didn't ask for his affinity. "I don't care about affinity, Light or Shadow."
"Wait, really? You're a priest of the Light and you don't care about affinities?"
"Affinities reveals nothing of the character. But more in a moment! Come, sit, partake of my food and be welcome! I have not had a visitor for some months now."
"Months?"
Leon turned and waved him over to a small cot against the wall. He had little bowls, cups, and tiny bags that rested on a stone shelf to one side, oddly not stored in his Inventory app.
This all reminded Dhane that he had access to his hands again and could message Penny. It had been a very long day, and who knew if Aaliyah had been released, or if she had, whether or not she delivered his message.
He summoned his phone and it flickered, the screen was transparent, bolts of red electricity dancing from corner to corner.
Dhane frowned and Leon said, "Oh, don't—"
It exploded!
A blast of energy surged into Dhane's hand, arm, and chest. It burned like someone had thrown a Molotov cocktail at him, spreading hungry flames across his clothes to scorch and sizzle and melt away skin.
He screamed and danced, slapping at his clothes that were most definitely not on fire. And then the sensation was gone. But not just that, he hadn't even lost health.
"What the hell was that!"
Leon looked pained. "I was getting to that, my boy. It appears I should have warned you sooner."
"You think?"
"Well, let's not get testy about it. This is prison, you can't summon your phone here. And now you know. Come, sit."
Dhane stood there, glaring at the Reditus as the man poked about his meager belongings. There were so many questions to be asked, so many unknowns. Of course, annoying the old man wouldn't help, so Dhane, with an ample amount of reluctance, sat on the cot.
Leon grabbed a cup and held it up to the wall where water trickled through a crack. Once full, he sprinkled something in it, stirred it with his finger, and summoned an already lit, wax candle, onto the floor.
The flame danced, casting a warm glow to counter that of the cold, dim light from the crystal in the wall. Leon held the cup over the flame.
Dhane sighed. "I don't even know why I'm here. I mean, they ran all of their tests. Why can't I leave?"
"If you were of Shadow, you certainly wouldn't be here with me. They'd throw you in with all their captured mobs. They'd treat you like an animal or slave."
"So why am I here?"
"My boy, that I cannot say. I imagine they believe time will reveal the truth, that if you were of Shadow, pretending to be of Light must require significant effort."
"If that's true, why am I here with you? Wouldn't they be worried I'd kill you?"
"Or I you," Leon said. "You think I'm feeble, though I can hold my own, that I can."
"Fine, either way."
"We share this cell because it's the only cell for those of Light. Prisons don't really exist in this world. The threat of being thrown in prison for eternity is enough to keep people in line."
Leon poured the cup out into a new cup and handed it to Dhane. "Drink this. It's my feel-good specialty."
Dhane accepted the cup and smelled the liquid. It had a sweet scent and was already hot despite only being heated for a few minutes. He tried it. The warmth, tinged with a fruity flavor, pooled into his chest.
Then the world shifted on its side. The candle's flame grew and turned at precise angles, drawing round and round into a hole at its center.
Dhane couldn't move, didn't want to move. All of his thoughts seeped out into a void of nothingness, replaced by the flickering of fire, replaced with the warmth it provided.
Leon's voice wafted over the display of shifting colors and turning shapes. He had a soothing, calm voice, saying words over and over until those words took on the shape of butterflies with a color and pattern of flickering orange flame.
Then all was replaced by nothing.
"Breakfast!" a deep voice called from the cell's door.
Dhane snapped awake, lying in the corner with a blanket over him. He half expected to be hungover, to have a headache, to feel his pulse echo in his ears as his stomach twisted in knots. . ..
But he felt perfectly fine.
"What did you say?" Leon cried back in his crazy man voice, hunched over, head kinked to the side. "Son, speak up, speak up! My hearing isn't what it used to be!"
"I said BREAKFAST, you old man! And don't you eat both of them." A tray slid down the stairs, slapped against the cell's floor, rotated once, and came to a stop. Two plates full of eggs, bacon, sausage, and toast with purple jam, clinked against each other.
Dhane was famished. He hadn't really eaten anything for well over a day now. While he didn't feel weak, there was a gnawing ache in his stomach, a demon of a thing demanding to be fed.
He threw off the blanket and scurried over to the tray.
Leon shoved him back, screaming, "My food, mine, mine! Pervert doesn't get food"
"Share dammit!" the guard yelled, though Leon kept screaming. Finally, the guard opened the door and marched down the three stone steps to the cell.
He was a big man in full armor, brown skin, broad chest, and a sharp, no-nonsense glare, aimed at Leon and his two . . . empty plates. "You've gotta be kidding me. Ugh! I hate this job."
Dhane was still staring at the empty plates. His stomach was still staring at those empty plates. How did so much food disappear in a matter of seconds?
I eat him? Octoralis asked, and at that moment, Dhane was conflicted between letting his soul spider eat the wiry old man, or doing it himself.
The guard shook his head, grinding teeth. "You're the biggest pain in my ass, you know that?"
"What? Speak up!" Leon yelled back.
The guard looked like he'd summon a weapon and chop Leon into tiny pieces, but instead, he marched back up the stairs and slammed the door. Footsteps clinked down the tunnel, leaving the old man alone, locked in a cell with . . . the darkness.
Before Dhane could tear a limb off the man, Leon straightened and smiled. He summoned the food back to the plates, as if pulling it out of his Inventory app.
"Hungry?" Leon asked and handed Dhane a plate.
"How are you doing that? And why?"
Leon shrugged and settled back on his cot. "They don't serve lunch. Now Tanner, our lovely guard who has kept me company all of these months, has to get another plate made up for you. It's good for him. Being a guard can be quite boring, I imagine."
It was a solid answer that Dhane simply couldn't care about at this pressing moment. He shoved his mouth full of eggs and managed to bite a piece of bacon, sausage, and toast before swallowing.
"Last night," Leon said after a few minutes, "got a bit interesting. To imagine, you passed all of your tests only to let your guard down with little old me."
"What are you talking about?" Then again, he couldn't quite remember what had happened. Couldn't remember getting the blanket he had, now wrapped around himself. Couldn't even remember lying down to go to sleep.
"I gave you a little of my feel-good concoction and you spilled all your little, dark secrets. I imagine you're the first human I've met to be of Shadow."
Dhane stopped eating and just stared at the old man and his slight grin, eyes sparkling with a sense of victory. Tiny shards of ice sprouted legs and squirmed their way down Dhane's spine. Dammit! He was entirely too trusting and should have never accepted a drink from a complete stranger.
And what could he say in response to that? He didn't even know what the old man knew. In fact, all of this could simply be a game to get Dhane to reveal himself.
"I'm not of Shadow," he said as simply and casually as possible, then continued to eat.
"Now-now-now, we're already past that. Maybe you didn't tell me last night, not with me giving you my medicine to help you sleep, but just now when you thought your secret had been discovered. You revealed everything I needed to know."
"I don't know what you're talking about." And no, he thought to Octoralis, you cannot eat him. She sent back a mental sigh.
"What I said last night was the truth," Leon said, placing an empty plate to the side and leaning against the wall. "I don't believe what's being preached is true, that those of Shadow are evil. Your affinity has nothing to do with morality or your character."
Dhane swallowed and considered Leon. "You never told me why you're here, a priest of Light, locked up in the only cell for those of Light."
"Oh? I suppose I didn't. It's only fair to share if you care, am I right?" he asked, smiling. "I'm here because the Reditai have changed. Not all of them, of course, but enough to overthrow order. I stood opposed to the changes, changes that threatened the balance of this world.
"What better way to silence the opposition than to throw the leader of said opposition"—he motioned to himself—"into prison? But it's not like I don't get my perks. Those of the Reditai who remain unchanged, often visit and give me gifts to pass the time."
"What do you mean, changed?"
"You're asking for information incredibly sensitive. . . . But if you are what I think you are, I'll tell you everything I know."
"I just have to show you my affinity."
"Yes. I already know, of course, though trust goes both ways."
Dhane considered this as he chewed. The single truth that Leon had shared, the bit of information he had already heard from Mahai and the Mother of Shadows, was that the balance of the game was being threatened. It was the entire reason he had both affinities, of Shadow and Light, to be the bringer of balance.
And now Leon spoke of the very same problem. He had been thrown into this prison cell for standing against the problem. Or . . . he was conveniently placed here as another test. . ..
Everything had a risk. People did what they could to limit those risks, but sometimes they'd find themselves in a condition like this one, where there was simply no way to know whether he could or couldn't trust the old, crazy man across the cell from him.
Then again, the potential to learn something not even the Mother of Shadows knew, could change everything.
Perhaps he could get Leon to sweeten the deal so that even if this were a trap, he'd gain something. "It's a deal," he said, "if you show me how you're interacting with your phone without summoning it."
Leon laughed and sat up. "Of course, my boy. Your phone is a part of your soul. When you summon it, you only give it a physical manifestation. That doesn't mean it has to be physical."
Huh. So his phone worked very similarly to how Octoralis worked. She was always there, a mere thought away that could also be summoned into the physical world. With that bit of knowledge, he felt for the device deep in his mind, in his soul.
"It's very hard to learn," Leon said. "It's like bending reality to your will. I've trained a few priests of Light in the technique, but it can take months before—"
Dhane withdrew his Cobalin sword. The outline of it shimmered in the air, exactly where he intended it to be. He touched it and the gleaming, silver metal materialized.
Leon gaped, forehead screwed up.
Dhane laughed. It felt good to laugh after everything that had happened. And now he understood how his phone worked, he wanted to check for messages from Penny. But that could wait. What Leon knew was of vital importance.
"Go ahead," he said, "call to my affinity."
Leon nodded and sent a tentative touch. It didn't feel anything like Reditus Owen, who was cold and inhuman. This was like any other request from an adventurer or merchant.
Dhane projected his affinity of Shadow, following the Mother of Shadows, and his affinity of Light, following the Sisters of Death. He could feel the affinities, see them in his own mind's eye.
Leon's eyes widened. "Two affinities?"
"I'm not pretending to be of Light, I am of Light."
"This is remarkable, my boy! You are the answer we've been waiting for. Proof that the changed are wrong. I need to get a message to the other Reditai."
Distant footsteps vibrated down the hallway, but it wasn't just one set, as if belonging to the guard returning with another plate of food, it was many.
"People are coming," Dhane said.
"Damn it all!" Leon whispered and motioned Dhane closer. "Listen to me. The Reditai were normal players, the same as merchants and adventurers. We cared about helping people overcome traumatic deaths. The Changed Reditai and Veritai wanted to take this further, they wanted to purge the world of Shadow. They...."
The cell door opened and Veritus Scyla stepped inside, guards following behind. "Hello, Dhane. I trust—"
"Veritus Scyla."
"Don't you EVER use my name! It is not yours to speak, shadowling." She took in a deep breath and raised her head so she could glare down her nose at him. "It seems you have tricked everyone of your true nature. But you can't escape the test of death near a cemetery of Shadow, can you? Where will you come back, hmm?"
"You can't do that!" Leon cried, taking on his crazy man act again. "You can't, you can't! Against the laws to kill."
Veritus Scyla scrunched up her nose when she looked at Leon. "How the mighty have fallen. And yes, I can kill him, I can tear out his throat if I should want. The Royals' have given me this right, and I'll exercise it however I please.
"Now, guards, I see Dhane's bindings have been removed. Please secure him for our final test. And Dhane, look on the bright side, should you revive in a cemetery of Light, you'll have proven yourself innocent." She smiled at that thought, as if she knew without a doubt that he'd Return in the cemetery of Shadow.
A guard pulled Dhane's arms behind him and wrapped a familiar, energetic rope around his wrists. The guard then turned him toward the door.
Leon jumped up. "I say my goodbye, my goodbye. You take my friend, you do! Let me say my goodbye!"
Veritus Scyle flexed her jaw and turned toward the stairs.
Leon hugged Dhane and kissed his cheek, his nose, and his forehead. "Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye my friend." Then he leaned in close, whispering, "They're sacrificing souls. They don't Return. Consuming them for power."
A guard tore Leon away and shoved him down on his cot. Then Dhane was led out of the cell, every bit of him tingling from the new, terrible knowledge that he could forever die, be consumed. And if he could, so could everyone else.
Oh, shit brownies. . .. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 16 | As it turned out, the only cemetery of Shadow in the city was beneath the arena. It ensured that the Cobalin slaves that worked there, or were sacrificed in the games there, couldn't escape.
And now, Dhane sat on a stone slab, surrounded by priests, entirely . . . naked. Or nearly naked, if a black leather collar with symbols around the band, counted for something. To Dhane, it very much did not.
When genitals were given enthusiastic, unimpeded access to fresh air, it simply did not matter what else he wore—be it long socks, puffy black gloves, or even a damn ski coat—he was naked, perturbed, a little embarrassed, and a lot cold, this here being deep underground where sitting on smooth stone provided a modicum more comfort than a sheet of ice.
Worst of all, they didn't give him the decency to cup himself, not with his hands still tied behind his back, sending jolts of electricity up his arms at seemingly random intervals.
The whole thing screamed orgy gone wrong. Very wrong. And somehow he was the one to be sacrificed to the sex gods. . . . Perhaps it would have been less uncomfortable if everyone else was naked.
Then again, probably not.
Veritus Scyla stood at the head of the slab. She seemed entirely content, as did the other priests. The only other person in the room that appeared less at ease than Dhane, was the poor PK guild member . . . Aditi, the Indian girl who had handed him a brochure in the marketplace.
She probably didn't think this was the type of work she was signing up for and looked ready to hightail it out of there, given that she was constantly staring at the open hallway.
"This," Veritus Scyla said, "is a death test. The Royals have given us permission to use this test to weed out those of Shadow among us. There is no way to cheat this test. If you are of Shadow, you will Return to this cemetery of Shadow.
"It is not our goal to harm those of Light. As such, we shall use the gifted PK guild to help provide these tests in a humane manner. With us today is Aditi, to perform our first death test."
Aditi gave an awkward smile and half-wave to the silver and gold eyed priests. They didn't seem to care how humane the death test was. Given what Leon said, they looked hungry, ready to consume his soul.
I kill them! Octoralis projected, along with swirling emotions of fear and anger. This evoked questions about how sentient and aware she was. And if she were made from his soul, why was she a she?
None of that mattered right now, not with the wolves waiting to rend him, limb from limb. But . . . No, he thought back to her. Right now, death was the only way to slip into the realm of divinities and talk with the Mother of Shadows.
"Go ahead, Aditi," Veritus Scyla said, motioning to the PK guild member. "Please help shed light on our accused."
Aditi stepped forward, eyes flicking about the others. She finally looked at Dhane, then looked down his body before snapping back up to his eyes. "Umm . . . hi newb," she said, voice shaky.
"Just do your job," he said and tried to give her a reassuring smile, though the knot in his chest wouldn't allow it.
"Only thought we'd go on a first date before we got this far, yeah?"
Dhane laughed and she smiled.
"You'ah not hurt?"
"Enough!" Veritus Scyla yelled and Aditi shrank. "Perform your duty and be done with it."
Aditi nodded vigorously. "I'll do the needful," she said, then summoned a dagger. It was a basic weapon, the blade thin and long, resembling more of a thick needle than a dagger.
She placed the tip above Dhane's heart and gathered pearlescent mana that seeped into the metal, making symbols glow. Then she pushed.
It didn't hurt. The blade pierced skin, becoming transparent, like it struck his soul instead, drawing no damage numbers. Something swirled into his chest, into the back of his mind, similar to the sensation of someone requesting his affinity.
This . . . entity, asked that he accept it as his temporary divinity, to be Returned immediately, to bypass the normal transition from death to life. It felt like no other divinity, a hollow, mechanical thing, a tool more so than a god.
More important than anything, it gave him a choice: to die and Return, or to reject the offer and live.
No, Dhane projected back. He didn't accept the divinity, nor could he. If it bypassed the divinities, then he'd have no way to speak with the Mother of Shadows. He'd Return to this very slab, only to then be sacrificed and die for real.
But it was more than that, to reject the fake divinity's offer meant he wouldn't return immediately. It gave others time to do something. . ..
Dhane focused on his phone, feeling it deep within his soul. There were missed calls from Penny and Nick, and a dozen texts, the details of them blurry, fighting with all the thoughts that crowded his mind.
He tried to project a message to Penny, though it didn't work. He had to silence his mind and concentrate on each letter on the keyboard.
Aditi pinched her brows together in confusion. She slid the metal out of his chest, then stabbed it back in, as if she had missed the vital organ the first time. Then she did it again and again. "It's not working...."
Dhane closed his eyes to better focus on his soul keyboard. It was like typing with only his pinkies. It didn't help that with each passing second, death grew closer. If he didn't send a message now, it'd be too late. No backspacing, no fixing typos, just the raw message of text and a prayer that Penny would understand.
"This, like, never happened before," Aditi said, pulling the dagger out of his chest again. The vibrations of her turned it up in her hand, inspecting it for damage.
"Fine," Veritus Scyla said, "then a normal death will have to do."
Pain speared through Dhane's back and he screamed. A -18 in red lifted above him, taking with it his focus. The phone shimmered away in his mind's eye.
Aditi jumped back, eyes wide. The other priests summoned weapons, a tinge of excitement sparkling in their eyes, lifting the corners of their lips.
A priest drew a blade across his arm, another stabbed him with a tiny knife. His health dropped to 8/45, and another priest thrust a long, curved sword toward his stomach.
Dhane pinched his eyes shut, shoving himself deep into his mind, and clasped his phone. He couldn't finish the message. Dammit! But he could send it.
A dense, hot pain surged through his abdomen, igniting a fire in his kidneys, marching fire ants of agony up his chest. His phone shimmered, growing transparent and he used every bit of focus to smash the Send button.
─ (9:47 a.m.) Help the reditai have me beneat harena wil sacrifce soul tell oth
Everything grew cold and gray and slow. Aditi had her back to Dhane, running toward the open hallway and away from the den of monsters, gleefully slicing away his silvery-white soul.
The agony lasted only a second or two longer, before it slipped away with everything else, the world turning darker and darker.
Dhane stood in the void. There weren't any statues or pedestals or . . . anything. He drew in a deep breath, the memory of agony still fresh at the back of his mind, then exhaled slowly, letting it drift away.
Still, there was nothing. What's going on?
Do not know, Octoralis projected.
"You're here, too?"
Yes, of course. I always-always-always with Daddy.
Something about that had a soothing effect, that no matter what happened, he could depend on his . . . spider. He was never alone, never lost to solitude. This all prompted the realization that he had come quite a long way in just a few days.
But now they were here. . . . The Mother of Shadows must have brought them here, instead of just giving him life again. The fact that she wasn't present sent alarm bells ringing, red flags flying, and a sense of dense, anxiety to nestle up into his chest and squeeze that thing that beats.
Dhane summoned Octoralis. Smoke shifted off his skin— Oh, shit brownies. He was still naked, except for this stupid leather collar. "Hey, look away."
Oh, stupid spider! Dumb me. Turning-turning-turning, Octoralis projected and turned around.
He mentally opened the Clothing app and re-equipped his clothes. The more he interacted with his phone without summoning it, the easier it became. Perhaps it was only easier now because he was in the realm of divinities.
The collar, however, would not unequip. It seemed affixed to his neck, vibrating with the same sense of energy that empowered the ropes around his wrists. Even in death, he was bound.
He closed his eyes and focused in each direction. The void's eerily smooth, cloud-like floor, gave off no vibrations. It was strange and wrong, a sensation of constantly on the verge of falling since the floor didn't feel like it existed, like standing on a sheet of perfectly clear glass over the Grand Canyon.
The only good thing that this provided was a complete lack of competing stimuli. It felt like he could reach out in any direction as far as he wanted. He swept his focus out and around, further and further, straining his mind to see any—
There! Something like a blip on a radar appeared and vanished. Octoralis crouched and he jumped onto her back, hands worthlessly held behind him. They raced across the nothingness, a shadow in the darkness.
After a few minutes of sprinting, the distant vibrations grew more pronounced, more clear. It was a sound like music, played on the lowest strings of a giant cello, casting forth immense vibrations, a spotlight.
It took another ten minutes of sprinting before they came to a pedestal, connected with thick strands of spider silk, vibrating whenever one of the Sisters of Death slid across them.
"What is happening?" Dhane asked.
"It worked," the Mother of Shadows said, relief in her voice. She stood on her pedestal, shimmering silver legs and ruby body, as if some unknown, unseeable light glowed from above.
"Barely," Altera said, coiling her black form. "Must everything be ssso unfair! And now our time is practically over."
Niveus slithered around the pedestal, bringing her head up next to the Mother of Shadows. "Which meansss we cannot wassste what time we have."
"Dhane," the Mother of Shadows said, "everything is spiraling out of control. When the Veritai apprehended you, they did something that blocked us from seeing you, from sensing that you even existed. And now I see why."
"You do?" Dhane asked, hopping off of Octoralis.
"That collar is imbued with symbols of disguise. It is a magic from Butterfly, a divinity of Shadow. I should have seen this! When I first lost contact with the Cobalin slaves, it should have been obvious that those of Shadow had been betrayed. . . ." Her voice seemed more distant, quiet, like someone had started turning down the volume.
". . . would make anyone," she continued to say, softly, "appear to be of Shadow. Return to a cemetery of Shadow when..."
Oh, shit brownies. . . . If this collar made anyone look like they were of Shadow and return to a cemetery of that affinity, then Veritus Scyla probably didn't even know he was of Shadow.
It's all a ruse. They didn't care about the war, they simply wanted more power, more sacrifices, more souls. She used Devron's accusation for justification, then forced Dhane to wear the collar for the death test, to provide evidence. . ..
The priests of Light will be cherished for their work, will receive more power, more souls, and eventually, no one will be able to stand up to them.
The Mother of Shadows and the Sisters of Death started to shift away from him. Dhane walked forward, never quite closing the gap. His transition from death to life was finalizing. He'd be torn from this realm and Returned to who knew what waited for him.
It was at that moment he realized that this just might be the end for him. He could wake from this dream and be sacrificed to fuel whatever powers the priests of Light were after.
If the Mother of Shadows couldn't sense him, couldn't watch over him, then she didn't know what Leon had told him in the prison. She didn't know what the priests of Light were doing.
The Mother of Shadows was saying something, but Dhane cut her off. "The priests are sacrificing souls for power!" he yelled, voice sounding quiet. "They are consuming souls!"
"Survive!" the Mother of Shadows projected to his mind. "Whatever you do, escape and survive. You are—"
Dhane woke on a cold slab of stone, hands smashed beneath his back. He sucked in a breath, steeling himself for what was to come. They'd fight! They'd fight with everything they had until the damn priests were forced to kill him and wait for his next Return.
He wouldn't give them a chance to perform whatever soul sacrificing ritual they had planned. If they wanted his soul— Dammit! Come and pry it out of me!
Octoralis agreed, pounding the rhythm of war deep within his soul, feeding him with a rage that silenced all other emotions that would only hinder him.
He shifted his weight and performed a perfect kick-up, landing on his feet and taking in the room. There were no . . . priests. It was just him and . . . Challenger Terry, comfortably sitting in a chair, scratching at his blond beard, reading.
The man looked up, completely unconcerned with Dhane's glare, and slid a bookmark into his book titled Fifty Shades of Love. "So it's true, then."
"Where are the priests?"
"You look like you're ready to run a marathon Naruto style."
"What are you doing here?"
"Getting paid. Ten silver an hour to sit and read. Those priests are probably back in their little cave bunker, licking their wounds."
"Their wounds?"
"Oh yeah, and they are not happy. Once news got out that the priests had a human of Shadow, people were clambering to see you. You're public enemy number one, a damn celebrity. In fact!" he said and summoned a white card, "I'll remove your wrist binding if you sign this for me."
"I. . . . You didn't answer me about the priests."
"It's nothing. The priests put up a big fuss about throwing you in prison for eternity, but that's no fun. People want to see you die a terrible death in the arena!"
Of course they did. . . . "When?"
"Tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day. That is until the people get sick of seeing you die."
Dhane scrunched his brows together. "And if I win?"
Terry laughed a deep, jolly, booming laugh. "I mean—" he tried to say, but looked up at Dhane's glare and then continued, gasping for breath, wiping tears from his eyes.
"It's not that funny!"
"You're what . . . level one, two? You've got no hope in there. People aren't paying to see a fight, they are paying to see a slaughter." He let out a breath, shaking his head. "It's like watching a Challenger fight a Cobalin!"
"And if the Cobalin won?"
Terry fell out of his chair to his knees, his laughing, echoing throughout the room. "Oh man! Oh, haha! You should be in comedy. A Cobalin win? Are you insane? Have you seen a Cobalin?"
I eat him! Octoralis projected and Dhane hesitated. He was so prepared to fight, to kill anything in his path, but the priests were gone. Without the priests, there was no immediate threat of being sacrificed.
Attacking Terry, a Challenger, would get him killed. And death would rob Dhane of any time to prepare for tomorrow. He was only safe while the public found him interesting. The moment they stopped paying the ticket price to see him killed, he'd be tossed into the priests' stew pot. The End.
Dhane drew in a settling breath. He needed to bide his time. Maybe the unchanged Reditai could help him, that was, if what Leon said was true, that Dhane's existence proved the changed Reditai as being wrong.
He stepped off the stone slab, gave Terry an unamused glare, then turned to show his wrists. If the Challenger wanted his autograph, so be it. He hated the burning, electrical rope.
"New terms," Terry said, standing.
Dhane turned back. "What do you want now?"
"Nothing too crazy, just a picture. No one is going to believe your signature is the real deal without a picture. You have anything shadowy you can do?"
Dhane had an idea and so nodded.
"What about your clothes. That's not very frightening."
"You do know that I'm just like you, right?"
"How do you mean?" Terry asked, brows pulling together as if the very notion of them sharing anything was disgusting.
"I'm a person. I lived and died on Earth. I loved video games and books. You're treating me like some monster, just because in this world, I follow a different divinity."
"That's what a monster would say. Here's the thing, shadowling, you are a monster that looks like a human. Your divinity is unholy. You were put on this world to give us real people a challenge, an objective. So you can pretend to be human all you like, though you're not . . . tricking . . . anyone."
"Gah! How stupid are you?"
Terry shifted so quickly his arm blurred. It slammed against Dhane's cheek, sending him head over foot to the ground, like a wrecking ball had crashed through his skull.
"I am a Challenger! You'll show me respect, shadowling. Is. That. Clear?"
A silvery-white glow leaked from the corner of Dhane's eye. He touched it with his fingertips automatically, his mind reeling from how fast everything had changed.
That heat, that rage, that need to survive against all the odds, stormed through his chest. He ground his teeth, staring at the Challenger, as if he could tear his soul free and shove it down a garbage disposal.
Was everyone like this, so damn blind and ignorant? They danced to the music of the game, not capable of thinking for themselves, or . . . were they too afraid of what they'd find? Afraid of change and losing their position in this world, even if it meant tormenting a few souls.
Dhane didn't answer Terry's question. The man wouldn't get any respect from this shadowling. No respect, no autograph, no picture. The only thing Dhane would happily give him was a slow, agonizing death.
Bide my time. . . . The thought slivered down his spine, almost as if it came from somewhere else. An echo from a distant place. It was a truth that he was so eager to throw away. But for what, pride?
Dhane looked away, and though it tore his soul asunder, he said, "Yes . . . sir," nearly growling on that last word. It was the best he could do. He'd rather have called him a shit-head that deserved no respect, but he clamped his jaw tight so no such words would slip out and find themselves freely heard.
Terry stood over him, an imposing figure in his dark leather and chain armor. He grabbed Dhane's arm and yanked him to his feet, triggering the ropes that bound his wrists.
A hot jolt shot up his arms, forcing him to arch his back. He managed to not cry out, only because he had focused so much effort on keeping his jaw clenched.
If it weren't for Terry, he'd have arched his way back to the ground. Even so, Terry watched with a disturbing grin. This guy had a love affair with torture. If he could get away with it, he'd probably tie Dhane up and cut his flesh away, one tiny snip at a time.
Unfortunately for Terry, and quite fortunately for Dhane, Terry apparently had orders. If the Challenger was good at anything, it was following orders.
The two of them marched down a series of stone hallways, barely lit by dim crystals every ten or so feet. Sounds of all types slipped along the stones, vibrating the air. It was a cacophony of chaos, growing louder with every step.
At the end of the final hallway was a large door, wrapped in bands of steel. A barred square at the door's upper center, looked into a massive room, crawling with vibration lines that revealed cages . . . pens, full of creatures of every type.
Terry knocked on the door twice.
A face appeared beyond the barred opening of an Asian guard. His chubby cheeks covered in uneven facial hair, as if he didn't quite understand how to shave.
The guard's mouth dropped open slightly and he fumbled with a heavy lock before opening the door. "Sir! Th-this is the, uh shadowling?" The man's chubby face expanded to a chubby everything else, barely covered by the standard armor of plate, the joints bulging and bending in the wrong places.
"You were to have a cage ready." Challenger Terry said, all humor he had displayed minutes ago, gone completely. He seemed like an entirely different man, on edge, ready to hurt something.
"Of-of course, sir!" the guard said. He slammed the door shut and slid a chunk of metal into the wall, then grabbed a mounted torch. The torch decided it didn't want to go, and the man cursed, laughed nervously, and yanked on it all the more until the handle snapped in half.
The guard pretended nothing out of the ordinary had happened and waved for them to follow. He walked ahead, leading the way into a grand chamber, barely lit by dim crystals, half of them exhausted of mana, casting large swaths of the chamber into darkness.
The guard's torchlight flickered about him, spreading its orange-yellow glow out into the black void where things watched, their eyes like burning disks of metal.
The chamber seemed as big as the above arena. Monsters were separated by type, filling pens with a dozen of them of various levels and sizes. They growled and hissed and attacked the bars that held them captive.
Finally, the guard stopped next to a sizable, empty cage. It had a cot, blankets, and a basin with fresh water running into it. He summoned a ring of keys and proceeded to unlock the door when Terry said, "No, I don't think this will do."
"It-it-it won't . . . sir?" the guard stammered.
"You're thinking of this shadowling as a person. It clearly isn't," Terry said, then started to walk down a path, lined with other cages of every size. He eventually stopped next to a tiny cage, one maybe three feet tall with little symbols carved into the top. "This one."
"But— I-I . . . see what you mean, sir. Of-of course! Whatever cage you believe is best."
Bide my time. . . . Dhane reminded himself, drawing in a deep breath and doing his utmost best to ignore Terry, to ignore everything he was trying to do to get under Dhane's skin.
The guard opened the small door and Terry shoved Dhane down into the tiny, cramped space, hands still pinned behind himself, now pressed against bars while his knees had nowhere to go but into his chest. He didn't even have enough room to sit straight up, the cold metal ceiling, forcing his head to the side.
Terry kicked the door shut and laughed. "A little cage . . . for a little monster."
Dhane glared, then before he could clench his jaw shut and fight back saying anything at all, the words slipped out, "Your cage must be huge, shit-head."
Maybe it was just the glow of the torch, though the man seemed to have changed color, a darker shade, one that went well with the vein popping out of his head.
Challenger Terry grabbed the bars of Dhane's new home, twisted and, threw it. The world whooshed by, followed by a deep clang of metal against stone that exploded in blinding waves of vibrations.
The cage rolled more than once, then slid a few feet. Dhane's weight pulled him forward against the cold metal bars that cut into his knees and one ankle. He could barely breathe with his whole weight compressing against his lungs.
"Leave it there!" Terry said to the guard, who had scrambled to fix the cage, to return it to a place of order.
The guard immediately stopped. "Of-of course, sir!" Then without any further words, the guard left with Challenger Terry, their torchlight growing distant, leaving behind Dhane, tossed away like garbage, confined, miserable . . . enraged.
Dhane tried to calm himself, tried to control that thrashing organ in his chest. He couldn't breathe—minute after passing minute—and the more he worked himself up, the worse it became. He needed to calm down. He needed to be in control.
And yet, his mind continued to race through everything that had happened, through everything that would happen, all the way until he would cease to exist in both body and soul. The panic seeped into his lungs, into his muscles that wanted to move, to not be contained anymore, to—
Stop! Breathe. Focus. He shoved everything away, replaced it all with a solid blackness: a void of thought, of emotion, of pain. He took in slow, measured breaths, accepting the reality as it was and his place in it.
Then, with all the distractions gone, he pieced together bits of a plan. A plan to survive. A plan to get revenge. A plan that started this very moment. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 17 | Dhane had one massive benefit wrapped into a tiny package. His Ring of Rest combined with the fact that he had only really been awake for a few hours—death wasn't without its perks—meant he had the entire night of full, restless energy to prepare.
This combined with the tiny and oddly overlooked fact that he was of Shadow, gave him an element of surprise. No one knew what he could do. To shove him into a tiny, weak cage and leave him far away from supervision, only revealed arrogance and stupidity.
But he only had one chance here. They wouldn't make this mistake twice in a row. If a spider bit you, it was only human nature to avoid the spider in the future. Then again, this was a heaven of people who had died, so perhaps such reasoning wasn't sound.
The monsters in the closest pen to Dhane's cage were growling, reaching long claws through their bars, as if they had any hope of succeeding in snagging a midnight snack. But no, they were a good six feet away, controlled by their programming despite the impossibility of their desired task.
When he summoned Octoralis, the growling immediately cut off. Her form, nearly a dozen feet tall, dwarfed all of them, and soon thereafter, the monsters were huddled on the far end of their pen.
"Push me over," Dhane said.
I can do it! Octoralis projected. She tentatively touched the cage and pushed. It shifted once and clanged like a gong. Well, so much for being quiet.
She then stuck her ugly face— Sorry! he thought back to the flood of emotions that swirled in his chest. She . . . broke the lock on the cage while Dhane kept his eyes pinched shut.
It was one thing to ride the top of a giant spider, and another to have a staring contest with all of those . . . eyes, inches away from his face. "And I can't help what I think, okay?"
Daddy no like me. . ..
"I like you perfectly fine," he said, then did his best to roll out of the cage, which turned out to be a pain in the ass, smashing fingers, scraping knees as he tried to wiggle out of the tight confines.
Finally, he stood and stretched and breathed, savoring the tingling sensation of freedom. Well, freedom from the tiny cage. He still had the damn electrical rope around his wrists and was somewhere deep below the arena, full of guards and challengers.
Octoralis projected an emotion of disbelief, accented with sadness and a feeling of being unwanted.
"Hey," he said, standing a few feet from the thing of nightmares. Looking up at her face, her eyes, her fangs, made his skin crawl. "I mean it. I like you. I trust you. I'm just also a bit terrified of you. Are you scared of me?"
Octoralis shifted left, then right. Yes. . ..
"Do you like me?"
Of course, Daddy!
"Well, it's a lot like that for me. Now, shall we go say hello to our warden?"
Octoralis projected a smile and crouched. He jumped onto her back, careful not to give the electrical eels around his wrists a reason to be perturbed, and she sprinted forward.
This massive chamber was divided into eight pens, each large enough to hold a dozen or two monsters of a single type. Octoralis moved down the center path, then veered to the left, following a smaller path to a dead end.
She shifted up the wall without a bit of trouble, and with Dhane being an arachnomancer, even one without the use of his hands, he had no problem holding on with his supernatural, gravity-defying ability.
They shot across the wall, onto the ceiling fifty feet up, and eventually found themselves above an unsuspecting, chubby guard, eating what looked like a slice of cake while reading something on his phone and chuckling.
Octoralis crept forward along the wall and down toward the guard. They were perfectly silent and practically invisible. Even if the guard looked up to see what that sense of doom was all about, he probably would have shrugged and gone back to stuffing his face.
They could kill the man and escape through the labyrinth of tunnels. But Dhane had a different plan, one that didn't get him surrounded by enemies and a swift kick to the realm of unliving for eight or so hours.
Besides, there was no knowing what would happen if he killed the guard. Maybe they had an alarm system of sorts that would send out a text message to everyone. Killing would be the last resort.
Dhane let go, flipped, and turned in the air, landing in front of a very surprised guard. The guard immediately coughed a chunk of cake that splattered on Dhane's black shirt.
"Dude!"
"Oh-oh! I'm so, so-so-so sorry!" the man said, doing his best to smear half dissolved white . . . stuff into Dhane's shirt. "I mean, you scared the—"
"— cake out of you?"
The guard stopped, then started to smile, almost looked like he'd laugh, but then something must have tickled his brain because it all shifted to a scrunched-up forehead. "Wait a single lickin' minute, y-you are supposed to be in a c-c-cage."
"I had to go to the bathroom."
"Huh?"
"It's a joke," Dhane said and sighed. "Here's the deal. Actually, what's your name?"
"Tom."
"Here's the deal, Tom. I didn't like that cage. Can you blame me?"
"Oh-oh, nooo, not at all."
"It was a bit small, you know?"
"Yeah! I had the per-perfect cage for you."
"I saw that. It was nice. Everything a monster, such as I am, would want. It had a bed, fresh water, and space to move about." As he explained these good elements of the larger cage, Tom nodded, as if he had thought through these things and was in complete agreement.
"So," Dhane said, "would it be too terribly out of the question to request that as my cage?"
"Not a . . . problem! I'd be ha-happy to assist." While such a statement routinely found its place in bland customer service, Tom seemed to really mean it.
The guy deposited his slice of cake to his phone, dismissed the phone, then turned and regarded the torch mounted on the wall. He took hold of the thick shaft that was very much bolted into place and started yanking.
"I don't . . ." Dhane started, but then the torch snapped in half and Tom smiled like he had won another participation prize.
Tom waved Dhane to follow and so he did. They walked down the main path, Octoralis a few feet behind them, only noticeable by how the different monsters reacted.
Some monsters had high levels and were not bothered by a giant spider. Other monsters enjoyed their fight or flight programming, sprinting outright into the bars at the far ends of their pens.
Tom laughed. "They uh, sure are acting strange around you."
"I doubt it's me," Dhane said, glancing back at Octoralis. She laughed, much like a smile, though more bubbly.
"You kidding me? They've never been like this. I think you've got to be the real de-deal. Got to trust the instincts of monsters, ya know?" He reached the large cage and summoned his ring of keys.
"Hey, can you free my wrists?"
"Well, don't know about that."
"I'm going to be in a cage, aren't I? Have you tried to sleep with your arms tied behind your back?"
"Plenty of times!"
"Oh, really?" That seemed rather unexpected. "Why would you do that to yourself?"
"You do what your dominatrix says...."
There was an awkward pause, then Dhane said, "Well . . . how did you like it?"
He shrugged and looked down. Apparently, he didn't like it much at all. "I'll ta-take it off once you're inside, ya?" Then he froze like someone paused an old VHS video, right down to the slight twitching.
Octoralis was looking over Dhane's shoulder, giving poor Tom the stink eye, or the you-better-do-what-Daddy-says eye . . . eyes? The simple knowledge that she was there, peeking over Dhane's shoulder, visible by the hundreds of tiny, dim vibration lines, was almost enough to get him to take two leaping steps away, but he held his ground.
Evidently, there was something between fight and flight, for it didn't appear Tom was breathing. Maybe this had something to do with his death, his inability to move despite something very dangerous looming overhead.
"Tom?" Dhane tried.
"Aiwawoo...."
"I love you, too. . . ." Dammit! His hands were still bound behind him and now Tom was unresponsive. One would think a keeper of monsters would be more accustomed to such things.
"Tom!" Nothing. "Tommm?" More nothing. "If you don't take off my bindings, I'm going to feed you to my spider. You understand?"
This seemed to break his infinite loop of big-spider big-spider big-spider. He jumped into action, eagerly removing the lightning rope.
And it was about damn time. If Dhane was never again bound by one of these terrible ropes, it'd be too soon. They were the invention of an evil madman. But . . . it might come in handy.
"Alright, now give me the rope and the keys."
"Th-the . . . keys?"
"Yes. Tom, I am giving you a choice. You can either be spider food, or—since you seem like a decent guy—you can step into this fine cage, and not have to worry about a painful end."
Tom unlocked the cage, dropped both the lightning rope and keys into Dhane's hand, then stepped inside. He didn't even wait for Dhane to close the door, opting to do it himself in an energetically swift fashion.
"Smart guy," Dhane said, then mentally deposited the rope and keys to his inventory. This got Tom to raise his eyebrows.
"How did you do-do that?"
Dhane snapped his fingers, pointed, and smiled. "Come to the dark side, we've got cookies."
"Do you have dominatrixes?"
"No. . . . Not yet?"
"Do I get my own spider?"
"Maybe. . .? What's your Intelligence?"
Tom lit up with a bit of excitement, before spurting, "It's a four!"
Dhane made a few Ahhs and Uhhs before saying, "Sure can. But I have to be honest with you, I didn't think you'd be interested at all."
"No one likes me here," Tom said. "I get the most bo-boring work. Don't even think this place had a gu-guard before me."
"You're the only one?"
"Ya. I sleep down here, too."
"Oh, damn, that's rough. So why do you do it?"
Tom frowned and shrugged. "Pays well. No one . . . will pa-party with me. I'm only a level 4 ta-tank. They say I ta-talk funny, but I can't help it! It's who . . . I am."
Stuttering was a speech disorder, though this was heaven. Shouldn't such things be cured? Maybe they were and Tom didn't realize it. He was stuttering out of habit?
"Tom," Dhane said, "you can party with me."
"Really?"
"Of course. That is . . . if I can escape...."
Tom shook his head adamantly. "There's no way. There are a do-dozen gu-gu-guards between here and . . . the Hall of Guilds."
Well, damn, back to Plan A.
Dhane scratched at the leather collar around his neck. It surged with hot energy, promising him a great sense of pain should he try to remove it. If it were anything like the electrical ropes, having an explosion of energy shoot up into his skull would be most un-fun.
"Alright," Dhane said. "Can you take this collar off?"
"I think so. . .?" Tom said and reached through the bars.
Dhane backed away, holding up a hand. "Whoa-whoa-whoa, think? This thing is packed with a nuclear reactor. Can you show more confidence than that?"
Tom grinned, and it was a good look for the guy. "I've ne-never removed one before, but from what I've heard, it only prevents the wearer from ta-tampering with it."
Dhane considered this for a moment, then decided it was worth the risk. But just in case the man tried anything funny, Dhane unsummoned Octoralis and summoned her again inside the cage.
Tom watched the trails of smoke shift through the bars, then he dropped his jaw as a slightly smaller version of Octoralis materialized directly behind him. "So . . . co-co-co-cool...."
Maybe Tom really did want to be of Shadow. Dhane said, "She's just there for insurance, okay? Go ahead and take this thing off me."
Tom nodded and reached through the bars again. He tugged on something, making the collar tighter, its hot energy vibrating into his spine, running feelers up into his brain. Then it was off. It didn't so much as release a static shock.
Tom held the wicked device out, expecting Dhane to take it as he did with the rope and keys.
"Put it on," Dhane said.
"Huh?"
Tom might be a trustworthy fellow, sincere in becoming a follower of Shadow, but after Devron's betrayal and Leon's tricks with his drugs, trusting wasn't high on Dhane's list right now.
Assume they are out to get you, he thought, because it's probably true.
"It prevents you from summoning your phone," he said. "Or really, it dissuades you from summoning your phone. And take it from me, if it's anything like the prison, you really shouldn't summon your phone once you are wearing it."
"But—"
"Tom. When the others come down to get me, if you don't have that collar on, they'll wonder why you didn't contact them, right?"
"I-I . . . see," Tom said, shoulders slumping. Perhaps he saw the implied distrust, saw that Dhane still had Octoralis in Tom's cage, waiting for the guard to wrap the device around his throat instead of doing it in the morning.
"Hey, I didn't lie. If I somehow get out of this, you're welcome to join my party."
Tom nodded and smiled. "So what are you go-going to do?"
Dhane raised his arms and looked about the massive chamber full of neatly prepared monsters. "Enjoy the all you can eat buffet." |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 18 | Sarah walked down one of the way-too-many-god-awful tunnels that plagued this arena. She could never remember which direction to go, and the Maps app was a piss poor, piece of shit.
She was grinding her teeth when she finally hit the cemetery of Shadow, took a confident left turn down a hallway, leading a troop of guards, only to stomp her foot and spin around.
The guards all clanked to a stop, running fronts into backs, shouting and cussing, then doing their best to make way for their leader to squeeze her tiny frame past them.
She flicked a red curl from her eyes and glared at the terribly unhelpful, stupid sign that read Up up, Down down, Left right, Left right, B A Start.
Gah! They had time to put up lame nerd shit, but couldn't possibly be bothered to provide any fucking directions! She inhaled to the point of explosion and blew it out like a red dragon. In doing so, a tiny, wiggling worm of a memory popped into her head and she grinned, saying with total confidence for the sixth time, "This way!"
She followed the hallway that connected to more random hallways, before eventually coming to a large door wrapped in steel bands. A barred hole at the upper center looked into an eerily quiet menagerie.
She couldn't see worth shit. Half the damn crystals in there were out of mana. Next time, she'd bring her own crystal, a lovely ruby to match her eyes with its stirring glow.
Sarah gave the wood two hard knocks and waited. The guards behind her also waited, no doubt nervous about the shadowling human. To Sarah, the idea was quite fascinating.
Could monsters really pretend to be humans so convincingly? She had to know. It was worth navigating the labyrinth and getting lost only a half dozen times to find out.
And where the hell was the guard? She knocked again, harder this time, just in case the fatso down here somehow missed it the first time. Of course, doing so stung something fierce. She grabbed her knuckles, counted to three, and the pain was gone.
A whole minute later, she was ready to huff and puff and blow the damn thing down. Her eye twitched. All that walking, all that anticipation, and now she was stuck here staring down a damn boring door.
"Bloodbag, get up here!" she yelled.
The guards shifted to the side to let a young man pass. He was barely eighteen, freckled, nervous, and awkward. "Yes mistress?" he asked in his uncanny, high-pitched voice for a guy.
"Wrist. No not your right wrist. I swear it's covered in shit half the time. Give me the left one."
"But we don't—"
"Left, now! Before you find yourself in a cemetery, missing the big event!"
Bloodbag hurriedly rolled up his left sleeve and held out his wrist. She took it, none-too delicately, and bit.
People didn't have blood, of course, though that didn't matter to vampires in this world, followers of the bat. They didn't have their own mana, and so drinking that of others, allowed them to cast spells and empower their bodies.
Sarah gulped and Bloodbag moaned softly, health points slipping away. His heartbeat pulsed through his wrist, faster and faster as she sucked. Then she pushed him against the wall, feeling a deep need to just bite a chunk of his neck out.
Her chest rose and fell with a tingle of excitement to release her inner demon. No . . . not today. . . . To kill the kid today, right before an exciting arena event, would be brutishly rude, far more than was proper. Besides, she half forced him to come so he, too, could see the shadowling before everyone else.
Bloodbag swallowed, lower lip trembling, eyes watching her mouth as if he was working up the courage to kiss her.
Sarah pushed him aside, then kicked the door cleanly off its hinges, expending some of that mana that swirled warmly in her chest and down her extremities. Oh, how wonderful it was to be a vampire.
She marched into the massive room, a room that had always been pandemonious, a grating noise from a hundred or more monsters, cycling through their obnoxious noisemaking programming.
But now? It was silent. So incredibly, stupidly, silent. There was absolutely no way the monsters would just stop yapping and yowling. It was a silence that screamed. It cut deeply, holding a warning that even made her, of all people, uncomfortable.
It was a warning of danger, of pain, of nightmares—a warning of a shadowling, pretending to be a human. A dozen guards fanned out to the sides. The door guard was nowhere to be seen.
She walked forward, stepping on the door, the steel straps, bent in an attempt to defend against her kick, now made the door more bowl-shaped, wood splintering at the edges.
Sarah shifted a bit of her borrowed mana into her eyes, All the blacks and shadows of the room, lightened as if the crystals had immediately renewed their mana reserves.
Her breath caught in her throat. What the fuck. . .? There were no monsters, no skeletons, no Durum Boars, no Katsen, or any of the other mobs they kept here for the arena games. The place had been cleaned out thoroughly, left empty.
No . . . not empty, certainly not empty. Down the center path, all the way against the far wall, she could see something. A shadow sitting on something white.
The guards looked to each other, uncertainty lingering in the air. The captain asked to call for another troop as backup. She agreed, impatience and caution warring against the other.
Grr, it'll probably take them half an hour to get here.
Five minutes later, another dozen guards marching into the room, and she let out an annoyed breath. The one and only damn question she wanted to ask was, how many of them knew the way and didn't once advise her? They just watched her get lost!
But were she them, and with her reputation? Perhaps it was understandable. Or perhaps they'd all end up as blood bags for this insult, and she could seriously fill her own mana reserves.
"Challenger Sarah," the captain of the new troop said in greeting, but then drew her sword and looked around.
What a dullard, to walk down the hallway and not sense something being out of the ordinary until now? And that was why these worthless guards would never be challengers. They didn't have the instincts for the fight, the drive to improve.
Sarah didn't answer the woman and instead started marching down the main path with her small army behind her. They'd serve as a distraction if it came down to it.
Halfway to what only could be the shadowling, she stopped by a cage. The damn fatso door guard was peacefully snoring inside. Why kill everything except for this moron?
Sarah kicked the cage hard enough to bend one of the bars. The entire cage, one of fairly decent size, lifted off the ground a few inches and slammed back down to the stone.
The fatso turned on his side, saying, "Yes mistress, I can take another...."
"Get your ass out of bed!" she yelled.
This prompted the guard to jerk awake and fall out of his cot. He scrambled to his feet, looking at all the faces of laughing guards before settling on hers. His eyes widened. "Ch-ch-challenger Sarah!"
"What the hell are you doing in this cage?"
"I-I-I..."
"Speak, goddammit!" It was like talking to a damn toddler.
"Th-the shadowling," the guard said and motioned down the path. "He uh . . . forced me."
"I can see that. How? Did he just ask you to lock yourself up, did he bribe you with a wagon of cupcakes"—the guards laughed—"did he mind control you?"
"I-I . . . ca-can't remember...."
"You're worthless, you got that? A worthless piece of shit! Whatever! You're not my problem. Someone else can let you out, or maybe you can starve to death as punishment."
She glared at the man for five more seconds, then huffed and marched onward. What a stupid, stupid idiot. But could the shadowling have some form of mind control abilities? Could he erase someone's memories? Nothing should be able to do that. . ..
Sarah held out her hand and a large portion of her mana, surged down her arm like chips of burning coal, glowing beneath her skin. Blood swirled out from her palm into the shape of her blood scythe, black and red, with an impossibly sharp, jagged edge.
The guards drew their own weapons: swords, spears, bows, and one had the glow of a mage, preparing whatever spell such a low leveled mage could prepare, probably nothing more than a light spell.
The white thing she had seen from across the massive chamber, was nothing but hundreds of bones, shapes into a . . . throne? The figure at the top sat back, legs crossed at the ankles, wearing black leather armor. He had a cowl that hid his face in shadow, except she could see perfectly, see a mask of bone shards without eye sockets.
Sarah stopped, a forbidding sense of dread seemed to exude from the figure in wisps of darkness. It was so damn exciting! Her heart did a little dance, her energies wanted to taste him, to feel his life force and see what made him different.
She reached out with her mind and requested his affinity, requested a sense of familiarity, to try and understand this . . . thing of darkness. Nothing was there, no spark of life, no Shadow or Light, no name or health.
A statue? A trick?
He uncrossed his legs and sat up. "Are you my escort?" His voice sounded young but mature, maybe late twenties or early thirties. It was a confident voice, matching his confident and at-ease posture.
But . . . shadowlings can't talk! Those of shadows were like any other monster, entities made from darkness for those of Light to slaughter. And yet here she was, standing below, unable to sense him while also, hearing his words.
"Yes, I am—"
"— Challenger Sarah. I have conditions," he said.
He knew her name? "Conditions?"
"Yes. Something I expect in exchange for my cooperation."
She frowned. "I know what a condition is! You are a prisoner. You don't get to have conditions."
"I don't agree."
"It doesn't matter! You are—"
"Silence!" the shadowling bellowed and cages rattled. The guards took a step back, little -1s in white, floating above them. Then, in his normal voice, he said, "I am the King of Shadows. I have gone along with your capture to appease my curiosity."
King of Shadows? Warmth spread up her neck—this man was so imposing, so demanding, she oh so desperately wanted to remove his mask. Was there a monster beneath it, something soulless, black tar, a dozen eyes or mouths, something disgusting? Or a man, a human, an entity that could send shivers down her spine.
"I will compete in your arena," he said, "though should I win, you are to let me leave with my Cobalins."
The Cobalins? Of course . . . they were of Shadow, and if this were their king, he'd want them back. "And if we win?"
"Then I remain your prisoner."
"That's it?"
"If you do not agree, I will not fight. Your people will not get their show. I imagine the arena would look the fool for false promises."
"If you don't fight," she said, "you'll be killed. That's what everyone is paying for, after all."
"And should I die before the grand event?" He casually held out a hand and a long dagger materialized from nothing. It was drawn from his inventory. But without a phone? He then angled the blade at his chest.
Shit! Stupid, stupid shit! The Master of Arena would be fucking infuriated if the shadowling were to die before the event. Everyone would be. They'd get hundreds of negative reviews for false advertising, the System might even drop a fine, and she'd take the blame.
"You see?" the King of Shadows said. "You can have my cooperation. All I ask, on the condition that I win, you release me and the Cobalins. They are not meant to be slaves, abused by your kind. Kill them if you must, though play by the rules of the game."
She bit her bottom lip, thoughts racing, twisting . . . distracted by his sheer commitment and total lack of fear. His very voice commanded her attention, regal. This . . . was a king.
Sarah stepped forward despite the protests of her guards. "I don't have the authority to grant your condition," she said and he started to pierce the dagger into his chest. "But! I can make your case, as long . . . as you meet my condition?"
"Go on."
"I don't believe you're human. No human has ever been of Shadow. Show me your face."
"I agree to your terms, but only you."
Sarah glared at her guards and they promptly turned. When they were all facing away, the King of Shadows stood. He was at least six feet tall with good posture.
He carried himself down the bone steps with such poise, such elegance, smoothly gliding from one step to the other despite being completely blinded by the mask.
He stopped a mere three feet away.
She swallowed the forming knot in her throat. Her inner demon swallowed. Anticipation buzzed in the air like she stood on the cusp of a giant storm, powerful bolts of lightning ready to strike.
He didn't even reach up to the mask to remove it. The shards of bone that were fused together, shifted away into smoke, revealing a gorgeous man.
He had thick, dark brown hair that curled, hanging just below his chin. His irises were a teal with strands of blue and green. His . . . lips, velvet. He expressed no emotion, just maintained a state of deep mystery and perfection.
Oh, she'd give anything to bite his neck. Just a nibble, a lick, a taste.
"Satisfied?" he asked quietly, intimately, his teeth white, and the points of his canines longer than normal, almost as if he were a vampire. This little fact danced through her, like her nerves were playing ping pong.
She wasn't breathing. Oh, what was air in the presence of divinity? Though when she did breathe in to quell that quiet ache in her chest, he smelled of desire.
"Are you single?" she blurted. What the fuck. . .? Out of everything she could have said. . . . Not only that, but he was eternally off-limits, the enemy, the king of the enemy!
His mask reformed and he shifted away, ascending back to his throne. It was such a sharp and painful answer, not a No or Yes or a polite rejection, it was nothing and everything at the same time, and in that, it was probably the only answer he could give.
Once sitting again, the King of Shadows said, "I have upheld my end of our agreement. Please see to it that my conditions are heard."
30 minutes earlier. . ..
Dhane quickly added the finishing touches to what actually looked like a pretty neat throne. It started more like a glob of white with a stool at the top, but four hours later, it had stairs and skulls and bones sticking out every which way.
The inside was entirely hollow, built up by all the small cages he could find. It gave the throne some height, so he could look down on whoever came to escort him to the big arena event and his supposed slaughtering.
Dhane wasn't an artist by any stretch of the imagination, though the Building app included a lot of preset designs. Construction worked off of matter. To build a house, wood and stone would be the most efficient and cost-effective materials.
But all he had were monster hides and meat and various scrap items from all the loot he had collected. The app took everything without complaint and charged a whopping 5 gold, 34 silver. Apparently, the provided loot wasn't remotely close to the construction materials needed, and the app was making up the difference with money.
It was a damn fortune. But . . . mobs also dropped money. And what was money if he couldn't spend it? He paid the price and still had 64 silver and 37 copper left, a decent chunk most capable of affording a grand meal at any Ceratree City restaurant.
The thought enraged his poor stomach. Being a prisoner was most definitely no fun. However, such thoughts, as painful as they were, kept him working. Soon. . ..
The throne had grand ambitions, diminished by his lack of resources. It would have been so awesome to create an Iron Throne, made from a thousand swords, but instead of swords, bones.
Oh well. It still came together quite well, leaving him with just enough bones for the final touch to his great charade: a mask befitting the King of Shadows.
The people wanted a show, why not lean into their expectations? Why not pretend to be this dark thing that they were all so afraid of, that they wanted to see slaughtered in the arena?
Since the mask didn't have to provide armor or attribute bonuses, it was rather simple to make. The Crafting app included designs and tools to modify materials. He shattered bones into shards, then fused them together, paying 26 copper.
Not only did the mask provide an air of mystery, it also effectively blinded him, making it easier to shut out his vision and focus on the vibrations. In battle, seeing in all directions could be his way to survival.
A loud clatter rang across the massive chamber and people stormed in through the main entrance. Dhane quickly climbed the stairs to his throne and sat, then equipped his mask.
This will work? Octoralis asked.
"Honestly?"
Always, Daddy.
"Even in the worst-case scenario, the moment we're above ground, we can run. Walls can't stop you."
I am Master of Walls!
"The King of Shadows and the Master of Walls. We make a good team."
But what of Penny?
A cold, painful uncertainty swirled into his chest. He had tried to contact her last night, through messages and several calls, though she never once replied or answered.
She didn't even reply to his request for help before the priests of Light killed him. Her other messages didn't seem out of the ordinary. Aaliyah must have explained everything, but why the silence now?
What if she was in trouble because of him?
What if Veritus Scyla arrested her?
We will find her, Daddy.
Dhane smiled. He did his best not to think of the only other thing it might be, that Penny, learning that he was of Shadow, didn't want anything to do with him. He had lied to her, this person who had fought so hard against the corruption of Shadow in her own affinity.
He might have only known her for a few days, and yet, that thought was soul-shattering. He hoped against all hope that it wasn't this last possibility, that she'd at least hear him out, provided his plan actually worked.
There was a small army of guards following a woman. She didn't seem to be wearing armor, not with how the fabric hugged her slender form, curves instead of angles.
She stopped at Tom's cage, then kicked it. And wow . . . the entire thing lifted off the ground and clanged back against the stone, loudly. The vibrations were nearly blinding, washing out everything else for a few seconds, the lines turning to blurs.
"Get your ass out of bed!" she yelled.
"Ch-ch-challenger Sarah!" Tom said a moment later. So the woman was a Challenger. . . . She seemed to hold the same sense of arrogance and mightier-than-thou attitude as Terry. Perhaps all challengers were like that.
"What the hell are you doing in this cage?"
"I-I-I..."
"Speak, goddammit!"
Dhane ground his teeth, noting how they felt a little different. The ends of his canines were longer, sharper. Apparently, gaining thousands of experience in a single night had changed him somehow.
What else had changed?
You are more pretty, Daddy.
"Pretty?" he asked.
More like me!
Oh . . . lovely. . . . He had always wanted to be more spider-like.
Octoralis smiled, sending a flurry of warmth into his chest, evidently—and thankfully—missing the sarcasm. He sent his own emotional smile at her, one that wasn't forced.
Maybe being more spider-like wasn't a bad thing. She made all the difference. Without her and her eagerness to help, he'd be alone, stuck in a tiny cage, and wouldn't have gained eight levels last night, which for a dual-class, was quite the achievement.
While it did take twice as much experience to level than everyone else, the level requirements started low and climbed quickly. Twice as much of a few hundred experience wasn't much, not compared to his next level, level-11, that would take 10,526 more experience.
Tom had said something, stuttering with apparent nervousness. This was the man's true test, to be faced with those of his own side, those of Light, and go along with Dhane's plan.
Challenger Sarah said, "I can see that. How? Did he just ask you to lock yourself up, did he bribe you with a wagon of cupcakes, did he mind control you?"
And Tom replied perfectly, "I-I . . . ca-can't remember. . . ." Score! Tom would be getting a spider hug and whatever cookies Dhane could figure out how to make, the guy was coming to the dark side.
I give hugs!
"Without fangs."
Of course, Daddy! Octoralis projected with incredulity.
Now, everyone would think Dhane had some type of mind-altering abilities. Anything that distracted them or confused them, would help sell the illusion he was trying to create.
Challenger Sarah went off on Tom, calling him names and putting him down. He was a nice guy and this woman was tearing away every shred of self-worth he had managed to build up.
Was it odd to feel protective of the guy? To want to step out of the shadows and defend him? Tom was a friend now, stuttering and all. And yet, Dhane couldn't leave, he had his own role to play.
The small army advanced and Dhane leaned back and crossed his ankles, aiming for a look of casual indifference.
Challenger Sarah summoned a scythe. It formed as if by some type of liquid that shot from her hand. All of the other two dozen guards, drew their own weapons, a fantastic show of strength, one that made Dhane a little nervous.
Octoralis helped blur away the unwanted emotions and focus instead on anger, on the injustice toward Tom and the Cobalins, on what the priests of Light were doing. He uncrossed his legs and sat up.
First impressions were everything. He lowered his voice, taking on the air of nobility, of importance, and said, "Are you my escort?" The words slid along the dark, cold stones. Nailed it!
"Yes, I am—"
"— Challenger Sarah. I have conditions," he said, cutting her off. It was what a king would do, right? Speak over that of his lessers.
"Conditions?"
"Yes. Something I expect in exchange for my cooperation."
She frowned a delicate mouth. She was probably very pretty and used to getting her way in all things. "I know what a condition is! You are a prisoner. You don't get to have conditions."
"I don't agree."
"It doesn't matter! You are—"
Dhane triggered Modify Vibration, a new skill that gave him control over the vibrations around him, including that of sound. This could amplify the vibration to deal damage, though sounds were considerably weaker than applying it to his weapon.
"Silence!" he shouted, enhancing the sound. It burst out of him like a bark from a three hundred-foot dog, which was perfect. Perfect except for one tiny little miscalculation, that being his mask.
The bone shards were perfectly aligned to reflect sound back. Dhane clenched his jaw shut and gripped the armrests of his throne lest he grabbed the sides of his head to stop his brain from rattling.
Three seconds later, the pain was gone, as was 1 point of his health. Hopefully, no one was paying attention to that, for not only did it reveal he had hurt himself in the act, but that his armor had no health. . ..
He continued, using his regal voice, "I am the King of Shadows. I have gone along with your capture to appease my curiosity. I will compete in this arena, though should I win, you are to let me leave with my Cobalins."
"And if we win?"
"Then I remain your prisoner."
"That's it?"
"If you do not agree, I will not fight. Your people will not get a show. I imagine the arena would look the fool for false promises." Or rather, he desperately hoped that was the case. The knowledge at the back of his mind held nothing about how the arena functioned. They may simply postpone the event without a problem.
"If you don't fight," she said, "you'll be killed. That's what everyone is paying for, after all."
"And should I die before the grand event?" Dhane held his hand out, then focused on his soul phone. The Inventory app opened and a second later, his Cobalin sword materialized.
This little trick Leon had shown him, made a huge difference. Challenger Sarah and the guards that were spread out behind her, looked awestruck, like he was David Copperfield and just performed some bout of unexplainable illusion.
He angled the dagger at his chest, and their expressions amplified, shifting to a sort of panicked horror. "You see? You can have my cooperation. All I ask, on the condition that I win, you release me and the Cobalins. They are not meant to be slaves, abused by your kind. Kill them if you must, though play by the rules of the game."
Sarah stepped forward despite the protests of her guards. "I don't have the authority to grant your condition."
Dhane shifted the thin slice of steel toward his chest.
"But!" she said, quickly. "I can make your case, as long . . . as you meet my condition?"
Huh, what condition could she have? A condition unrelated to the arena, to the Cobalins? He nodded slowly and said, "Go on."
"I don't believe you're human. No human has ever been of Shadow. Show me your face."
Gah! He didn't want to be known. The more people who could recognize him as the one of Shadow, the harder it would be to sneak back into the city without guards freaking out.
But she held a firm stare, as if everything rested on his answer, that she'd abandon him here to rot in this massive hole in the ground lest he eased her suspicions.
He said, "I agree to your terms." Then as the words left his lips, he realized that this was only her condition, and added, "but only you."
Challenger Sarah glared at her guards and they quickly turned around. She had a fierce authority over them. No . . . more than just authority or rank, she held a sort of fear. Perhaps the two of them weren't so different. Were they both wearing masks for power?
He stood and channeled every fiber of his being into what it was to be a king, how he should look, how he should move. He stepped down the stairs, giving each movement careful, exhausting attention. To slip or trip would end his illusion.
Three feet from the woman, cut by curving lines of vibration, he deposited his mask. It dissolved to tendrils of smoke, which seemed odd. It was another one of those small changes.
Challenger Sarah had vibrant red hair that curled, and eyes to match. Her skin was alabaster white, a statue of stark contrasts. She wasn't breathing. Her eyes slid from his, down to his neck, then she licked her lips, seemingly unconsciously, sizing him up as if for dinner.
"Satisfied?" he asked, almost in a whisper, his voice unwilling to comply. He kept his expression as solid, as regal, as mysterious as possible.
"Are you single?" she blurted and her eyes widened, then her cheeks flushed. The change was so fast, from this hardened, unbreakable woman that commanded with fear, to a schoolgirl with a crush.
See! Octoralis projected. You are pretty!
Dhane quickly summoned back his mask before he broke character, then turned and ascended the stairs, as if running away from the girl with a haunting beauty and a cold heart.
Once sitting again, he said, "I have upheld my end of our agreement. Please see to it that my conditions are heard."
Challenger Sarah almost looked depressed. Her brow, furrowed. Eyes now evaluating the bones of his throne. Finally, she nodded. She marched away, leaving all but two of her guards to watch the King of Shadows. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 19 | It took well over an hour before Challenger Sarah stepped back through the far door. It was a small eternity of sitting on a throne that while impressive looking, and perhaps a little cool, could definitely use a pillow . . . or ten.
It didn't help that twenty-two guards were staring at him, like he was about to descend upon them and consume their souls. They fidgeted there, whispering to each other, as if he couldn't hear every word, every heartbeat.
"I feel . . . weird," one man said to another.
"What do you mean, weird?"
"I can't remember what I had for breakfast."
"Bah. Don, you never remember what you ate last."
"Not true!"
"Your last dinner?"
"I had . . . stuff."
"Is that your final answer? Want to use a lifeline?"
"The shadowling is making me forget! It's stealing our memories."
"Of your dinner?"
"And . . . other things. I'm sure of it!"
"You're as dense as a rock, Don. I doubt the King of Shadows has any use for your memories."
Dhane agreed, nodding before he could stop himself. A tiny bit of imagination and acting seemed to have paid off incredibly well, maybe even too well.
"He moved again," a different man said.
"Shut up."
"We're going to die. And we're not coming back."
"Shut up, shut up, shut up!"
"Our souls . . . will scream in agony for eternity."
"He's just a monster, like a Cobalin."
"A king of monsters...."
Sarah was taking her sweet time, walking the distance down the main path.
Another guard, a female, asked, "Where's Don?"
"Dunno," a second female guard said. "You guys meet for breakfast?"
"Yeah, at the Secharo. They have the best muffins in all eleven zones."
"I love that place! They paint little wooden birds every Sunday."
"Is that—"
Challenger Sarah stepped through the guards and all the whisperings stopped immediately. They seemed to fear her more than they feared him. What on earth did she do to garner such a reaction?
"You have an agreement," Challenger Sarah said. "You are to compete in the arena this afternoon, if you win your challenge, you and your Cobalins will be free to go."
Well . . . that all seemed rather easy. Or maybe they were just going along with his request. If they won, it wouldn't matter. And if he won, they would certainly have other challengers available to attack. Then they'd just have to wait for him to Return and overpower him. . ..
It was a start, and if Dhane got the Master of Arena, or whatever other important figure to agree to the terms publicly, going back on their word would only hurt their reputation.
Dhane stood, relieved to finally move. He descended the stairs and Challenger Sarah held out an electrical rope. "I am not wearing that."
"But—"
"I am cooperating and you have your guards. If you keep your word, I'll keep mine. Those of Light are trustworthy, are they not?"
"Of course we are."
"Good. When an agreement is struck, only the dishonorable, the deceitful, the trash of the world, would ever consider breaking the terms. Do you agree?"
"I do," Challenger Sarah said with confidence. She might not be the nicest of people, but perhaps she was honor-bound. He could respect that. She deposited the electrical rope to her phone, then turned and chose a guard to lead the way.
Dhane stepped up to Don and put a hand on his shoulder. Everyone watched, and the guard froze. He had little brown eyes that showed a lot of white around the sides.
"Don," Dhane said in his deep, regal voice, drilling in the fact that the King of Shadows knew the guard's name.
"Yes . . . s-s-sire?" Don said with a squeak.
Dhane let a tense moment hang in the air, then said, "You had a muffin. It was delicious." He let go and followed a confused Challenger who then shrugged.
Don, whispering to his friend, said, "He's right! I can remember now!"
"Oh no. . . ." his friend said.
"What? What's oh no?"
"He upchucked your memory. Maybe he altered it."
"Al-al-altered it?"
"Are you still Don, or are you just pretending?"
"I don't really feel different."
"Of course, you would say that. The shadows have taken you...."
"No, they haven't! I'm still me!"
"You don't have any desire to hurt anyone?"
"I . . . well . . . maybe. I want to stab you. But I've always wanted to stab you! Your pranks go too far."
"Challenger Sarah!" Don's friend called. Sarah turned and glared. "Permission to detain this guard. His mind has been altered."
"That's not true!" Don yelled.
"I can take him to the Ink Master to be certain."
Challenger Sarah looked like she'd cut their heads off for their audacity to bother her. She considered Dhane for a moment, then said, "Fine. And take that stuttering fatso as well. I want a full report."
"Yes, ma'am!"
"But it's not true!" Don shrieked, shoving away from his friend. "I'm per—"
"Shut up!" Challenger Sarah yelled. "You will go to the Ink Master or I'll drink your stupid body dry and you can go to the Ink Master once you Return. Understood?"
Don nodded enough to practically pop his head from his shoulders. He didn't say another word and Challenger Sarah motioned for the leading guards to continue.
They walked out of the massive chamber into the labyrinth of hallways. Once they were well out of normal earshot, Don's friend snickered and said, "Now we can get good seats in the arena."
"Are you for real! What of the Ink Master?"
"She didn't tell us when . . . did she? Owe! Fucking hell?"
"There, I've done it. Don't tell me you didn't deserve it. And it wouldn't have hurt one bit if you kept your armor repaired!"
The hallways twisted, turned, and broke off into myriad passageways, most dark and cold, water dripping from cracks. Not a single sign provided directions. It was truly a labyrinth, which left Dhane wondering how they moved mobs to the above arena.
Eventually, at the top of a series of stairs, they entered the Hall of Guilds. A hundred or more people in all forms of armor and clothing styles, talked and laughed from benches and fountains and massive guild doorways.
That buoyant sense of jabber grounded to a screeching halt as people took note of Challenger Sarah and her . . . guest. They no doubt knew, in no uncertain terms, that she was escort to the one and only human of Shadow.
They stared like hungry lions, sizing him up. Everyone wanted to see his affinity. Their requests were a firehose of sensations, squirming their way under his skin and into his soul. Though, he wouldn't appease their curiosity and refused them all.
It was a psychic slap, a shock, an affront to their ways. And since he had no interest in their affinities, it was a complete dismissal of them as insignificant.
This had the intended effect. All the many challengers and their guests, looked ready to pounce, to rid their glorious Hall of Guilds of the walking stain.
The guards shifted their attention away from Dhane and instead, positioned themselves to protect him. Challenger Sarah marched ahead, casting glares where glares were needed casting, the recipients recoiling from her attention.
She turned without issuing a single word and marched into a guildhall. The moment they were out of the main hall, everyone outside started talking. It turned into a commotion of mixed words that were hard to piece together.
Challenger Sarah led him to a small but fancy room of smooth stone, framed paintings, and plants. It had a table, chairs, and the smell of distant food being cooked. "Until the event," she said, "you are the guest of my guild: Sanguis."
"Latin for Blood?"
"It is?" she asked and looked to another guild member who shrugged. "You know Latin?"
"Doesn't everyone?" he said as a joke, though his kingly voice didn't quite know how to joke or be sarcastic while maintaining character.
She furrowed her brow, trying to see through his mask of bone, then asked, "Just how old are you?"
And that was an interesting question with some interesting implications. It played nicely into his web of misdirections. He chose not to answer the question and instead asked, "Is that not considered a rude question?"
"Oh! I . . . suppose it is. . . . Well, I'm twenty-six, and I've been here for eight years."
"Why are you telling me this?"
She bit her bottom lip. "It's not rude if I share, then maybe you will. . .?"
"And if I said I was over a thousand years old?"
"A thousand years," she said in a small voice. "But Challenger Terry, he said you were a new trainee."
"A disguise to find my people."
"I— I . . . have to go." She turned to the guards and issued commands that he was not to leave the room for any reason, then told him a full breakfast would be served soon.
She left in a hurry, leaving Dhane there in the middle of a room with two doors and four guards. Perhaps it wasn't the best idea to bolster himself up so much. . ..
The four guards were watching him with a keen focus, enough to make anyone blush. At least he had a mask. Their heartbeats were elevated, dancing to the rhythm of fear. One particular guard, a female with hair pulled back in a ponytail and eyes darting about his figure, as if not knowing what was safe to look at, had a rather fast heartbeat.
"Are you unwell?" he asked her, thinking of the best way to sound proper, kingly, saying unwell instead of okay.
Her eyes grew so wide it was like she was having a heart attack, then she toppled over, out cold, a sprawl of armored woman on the floor.
Okay, alright, maybe he did lay it on a bit thick, leaned a little too hard into this new persona. It was just so damn easy, and kind of fun, despite all the long boring bits of being a prisoner and the potential of eventually being sacrificed in the name of the Light.
He was stuck between wanting to help the poor woman and wanting to maintain character. He stepped aside and sat at the table, then said, perhaps to alleviate the woman's embarrassment once she came to, "It seems I drew too hard on her mind."
After that, the guards promptly decided to wait outside of the room. All of this was going to bite him in the ass at some point. A person's fear wasn't something to mess with. It grew and became irrational. Irrational people did irrational things.
We escape, now? Octoralis asked.
But how? There were still an army of guards and challengers between here and the outer walls. Besides, if there was a chance he could win an arena challenge and free the Cobalins, he had to try.
A tall man with pale skin and thick black eyebrows, wearing a white apron, stepped into the room carrying a large tray. His face was covered in sweat, dripping down from his chef's hat, like he had stepped out of a sauna.
His hands shook as he placed a dozen dishes onto the table. Then, once he was done, he held the tray under his arm, bowed slightly, and turned to leave.
"Did you poison this?" Dhane asked. It was a serious question, something that kept coming up since Leon's little spiked drink incident. To a chef, though, it was a terrible accusation.
"Certainly not!" the chef said, snapping his eyes from Dhane to the food and back to Dhane. He then huffed, grabbed a sausage and bit it. And when Dhane said nothing, the chef took a bite of pancakes, all the while trembling, as if his life would be forfeit in a matter of seconds.
"Are you hungry?" Dhane asked, then motioned to the food as if to say, I have plenty to go around, which he really did. The chef had prepared enough food for six people.
This got a completely different reaction, a realization seemed to crawl into the chef's head that he was, in fact, eating the King of Shadows' breakfast.
He jerked upright, straight backed, then said, "I'm quite full, thank you. Is there . . . anything else . . . you . . . need?"
It seemed like Dhane's mask really perturbed the man, especially when Dhane picked up a fork with perfect precision. Maybe the chef was lost on how someone could eat while wearing a mask. Maybe he thought the mask itself was Dhane's face. Yes, that would be quite perturbing indeed.
"That will be all," Dhane said as a dismissal, and the chef needed no other words to quickly turn and dash from the room.
Dhane was starving. It seemed like his meals were always few and far between. His last meal was with Leon, a whole day ago. No lunch, no dinner, and no midnight snack during the long night.
And since there was so much food, Dhane quickly piled all the extra bacon, sausage, toast, croissants, boiled eggs, fried potatoes, and pancakes onto a large platter, then mentally deposited it to his Inventory app.
There. He now had plenty of food storage. It was all breakfast foods, though he wouldn't have to skip a meal simply because he was chained in some dungeon or running for his life in the Wilds.
The chef re-entered the room, carrying three pitchers full of different colored liquids, and enough cups for all of Dhane's imaginary guests. He paused, not having been gone for thirty seconds, and gaped at the table.
Dhane, being the quick thinker he was, simply said, "Complimenti al cuoco." It was one of those bits of language he had picked up over the years of study, a taste of Italian, which really wasn't his focus, so he probably used it or said incorrectly.
The chef deposited the pitchers and cups, then ran, lest the scary King of Shadows decided the food wasn't quite enough for his enormous appetite and moved on to things with souls.
Having been under the scrutiny of so many people, it was quite peaceful to just have the room to himself. He could breathe, relax, and shed this persona.
He dismissed his mask and dug into his food until he couldn't eat another bite. The drinks, a whole three gallons of liquid—like seriously, did they expect him to drink all of this?—were milk, a sweet lemonade, and something of mixed berries.
He poured himself some milk and deposited the three pitchers to his inventory. Having an Inventory app was just so damn convenient. Thieves probably loved it.
Are you ready? Octoralis asked.
Even though the question was vague, he understood the intent behind it. Was he ready to go out into the arena where hundreds or thousands of people would cheer for his death?
Was he ready to face a challenger, a warrior in this world who had focused only on obtaining strength while this was only his, what . . . sixth day?
A thrum of nervous anxiety slithered into his chest. He took a deep breath, mentally preparing, imagining himself out there on the hot sand and what he'd have to do to win. But he had never seen an arena battle, let alone dueled someone. . ..
Octoralis eased away that uncertainty. Whether or not he was the most prepared for this, it didn't matter. He had but one chance to make a difference, and he had her to help him.
This was probably the best time to review all the skill choices he made last night. Dhane summoned his phone and opened the Character app. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 20 | For a full detailed explanation of game mechanics, skills, and passives, please refer to the appendix.
Dhane's stats had made a rather large improvement over a single night, all because of how levels translated to skills, and how skills affected attributes. Every skill had an attribute type. Learning a new skill, or leveling an existing skill, provided +1 from that skill's attribute type.
Skills were literally the way to build and customize a class, and all classes had their own sub-class styles of play. An arachnomancer could invest in summoning or support or melee combat, depending on their chosen skills and attributes.
Assassins could invest in ranged or melee combat, or focus entirely on playing in the shadows with backstab and critical strikes. They even had a few crowd control skills like Snake Bind, allowing for great flexibility in strategy.
In addition to earning an attribute for whatever new or upgraded skill was chosen, all players received an implicit +1 to their Vitality per level.
And this all kind of sucked for Dhane. Every level would cost twice the amount of experience. This all meant he'd have less health, fewer attribute points, and fewer skills or skill levels overall.
It was a double-edged sword, a handicap in one area to gain a significant advantage in another. He would have had no hope in killing a hundred monsters last night by himself as a level 2 assassin. But he was not just an assassin, he was an assassin with a giant soul spider.
The passive bonuses each class received made up the difference in lower overall stats. And not only did he benefit from these passive bonuses, but so did Octoralis. Better, there were more unknown passives to be unlocked at higher levels, so who knew what advantages may come from that.
Lastly, while everyone else received a single new skill option with every other level, Dhane received two. He may have fewer levels, though there were skills across classes that gave him a unique advantage that no one else had.
─ Dhane [Arachnomancer, Assassin] Lvl. 10 (33,474/44,000)
─ Stats:
─ Health: 85/85
─ Mana: 110/110
─ Stamina: 140/140
─ Attributes:
─ Strength: 8
─ Dexterity: 12 (15)
─ Intelligence: 22
─ Vitality: 17
─ Passive Bonuses [Arachnomancer]:
─ [Soul Spider] Unlocked at Lvl. 1
─ A slice of the arachnomancer's soul is taken to form his or her Soul Spider, a summoned creature that is bound to its creator. Unlike normal summons, the Soul Spider does not require mana and can heal over time while desummoned.
─ Level: 12 [Intelligence - 10]
─ Health: 180 [15 * Soul Spider Level]
─ Damage: 72 [6 * Soul Spider Level]
─ Size: 1 Inch to 12 Feet Tall [Soul Spider Level]
─ Spider Rider (Unlocked at Lvl. 1): The arachnomancer is capable of riding spiders large enough to mount. Unlike normal mounts, spiders may climb walls and ceilings. As long as the arachnomancer intends to remain on the spider, gravity becomes relative.
─ Vibration Sight (Unlocked at Lvl. 1): Spiders are incredibly sensitive to vibrations. Even the most immobile and silent things, give off a sense of energy, be that from itself or reflecting the living world.
─ Arachnomancers gain the sense to visually see vibrations around them. This ability can be focused in any direction or all directions at the same time. Since illusions do not give off vibrations, they are often ineffective.
─ Attuned Hearing (Unlocked at Lvl. 1): As all sounds are vibration waves in the air, an arachnomancer is capable of hearing sounds much farther away than is typical. They are also able to focus on a specific location up to 300 feet away, allowing for long-distance eavesdropping.
─ Arachling Language (Unlocked at Lvl. 5): All spiders in Olindale speak and write Arachling. This passive allows for communication with wild spiders. Further, arachnomancers are capable of identifying spider relics, weapons, armor, and jewelry.
─ Spider Climb (Unlocked at Lvl. 10): The arachnomancer gains the ability to defy gravity, similar to spider riding. It takes a constant focus to bend the laws of physics and affect the relative world. As long as there is a surface close enough to touch, it can become the new "down."
He could climb walls? Hmm, not climb. Climb would imply he needed to use his hands. But no, he could literally walk up a wall like he was the Goblin King in the Labyrinth. He could even sit on the damn ceiling if he wanted to. This was an explorer's wet dream, to have nothing off-limits.
─ Passive Bonuses [Assassin]:
─ Improved Agility (Unlocked at Lvl. 1): Assassins are agile, flexible, and strong. They can flip, roll, summersault, run up short walls, and if they ever fall, they always land on their feet. This boost in agility helps avoid attacks and improve positioning in battle.
─ Backstab (Unlocked at Lvl. 1): An assassin has one key benefit over all other classes: an attack to the back of a target will always trigger a critical strike, dealing 150% damage [100% + (Dexterity - 10)%].
─ Silent Step (Unlocked at Lvl. 1): Whether the assassin is running, walking, or in the middle of battle, their steps are always silent. They can step on a dry twig and emit no sound. They can dash across a field of broken glass and be unheard.
─ Shadow Fade (Unlocked at Lvl. 1): Shadows are a friend to the assassin. By remaining still within a shadow, the assassin fades, becoming a piece of the darkness, hidden to all but the keenest of eyes. This transition takes 10 seconds and lasts until the shadow is gone or the assassin moves.
─ Summon Mount (Unlocked at Lvl. 5): Upon achieving level 5, the player gains a soul linked mount of his or her choice. This mount is limited to transportation and will be desummoned if it takes more than a fourth of its health in damage. Options include horse, giant wolf, stag, ram, bear, sumilian, and giant fox.
─ Mount: Horse
─ Level: 10 [Player's Level]
─ Health: 100 [10 * Player's Level]
─ Critical Sight (Unlocked at Lvl. 10)
─ All entities of Olindale have weaknesses. At level 10, the assassin gains the ability to see the locations where a strike will yield a critical hit.
─ Subsequent strikes to a weakness increase critical strike damage by 20% with each hit. This bonus resets after 10 seconds or after dealing non-critical strike damage.
And now for the skills he chose. Having such a high Intelligence stat would be completely wasted if he didn't pursue the summoning element of the arachnomancer class.
But . . . spiders. The mere thought of the tiny things seemed to send them crawling down his spine, their many little legs tickling as they went. He shivered. Though, if he were to be powerful enough to not only survive today, but balance the world, he had to build to his strengths. . ..
─ Skills [Arachnomancer]
─ Exploding Spider [Int] Lvl. 1
─ Mana: 30
─ Damage: 33
─ Duration: 44 Seconds
─ Size: 1 - 6 Inches Tall
─ Summon an exploding spider that lasts 44 seconds [2 * Intelligence]. The spider can be given a target, a route, a guard position, or a patrol. It detonates either by command or automatically for 33 damage [Skill Level * 1/2 Intelligence].
─ Skill Modification: Disguise (Unlocked at Lvl. 3. The exploding spider can take on any color or pattern the summoner chooses.)
─ All skills at level 3 gained a modification choice. A mod introduced new ways to use the skill, but was optional. For Exploding Spider, there were two options: Disguise and Swarm, which summoned 3 smaller spiders, each dealing 1/2 the original damage.
─ While Swarm provided the potential to do more damage, the spiders would be easier to spot and evade, not to mention slower for being half their original size. Plus, Dhane had an inkling of a strategy developing. Could spiders trigger his assassin's backstab damage?
─ Venomous Spiders [Int] Lvl. 1
─ Mana: 18
─ Damage: 2 Venom Counters DoT
─ Area: 88 Square Feet
─ Launch a swirling mass of spiderwebs and spiders at an area of 88 square feet [(3 + Skill Level) * Intelligence]. All enemies within the area receive 2 venom counters [1 + Skill Level].
─ Each venom counter deals 1 damage every 3 seconds for a total of 9 seconds. If the target is hit with another venom counter before the effect is removed, the timer is reset.
─ Maximum of 5 active venom counters from Venomous Spiders.
─ Modify Vibration [Dex] Lvl. 1
─ Mana: 16
─ Damage: 5
─ Duration: 8 Seconds
─ Vibrations are everywhere and can be enhanced or diminished. Enhancing a sound makes it louder, while diminishing a sound makes it quieter. A blade that vibrates can do more damage. An enemy's sword or shield that vibrates may become uncomfortable to hold.
─ The effect lasts 8 seconds [Skill Level * 1/2 Dexterity] and increases damage by 5 [Skill Level * 1/3 Dexterity] per attack when amplifying vibrations to a weapon. This effect is different based on the material: Weapons 100%, Sound 20%, Water 10%.
─ Web Wall [Str] Lvl. 1
─ Mana: 30
─ Health: 240
─ Area: 110 Cubic Feet
─ Duration: 44 Minutes
─ Generate a wall of thick spider webs with 240 health [15 * Skill Level * Strength]. The wall lasts for 44 minutes [Skill Level * Intelligence] and can cover up to 110 cubic feet [5 * Intelligence].
─ The arachnomancer—and anyone touching the arachnomancer—can step through the wall unhindered, though anyone else will have to destroy the wall in order to pass.
─ Skills [Assassin]:
─ Venom Bite [Dex] Lvl. 1
─ Mana: 8
─ Damage: 5 & 1 Venom Counter DoT
─ Imbue your next attack with venom, dealing an additional 5 damage [Skill Level * 1/3 Dexterity] and adding a venom counter to the target.
─ Each venom counter deals 1 damage every 3 seconds for a total of 9 seconds. If the target is hit with another venom counter before the effect is removed, the timer is reset.
─ Maximum of 5 active venom counters from Venom Bite.
─ Venom Extract [Dex] Lvl. 1
─ Mana: 14
─ Damage: 5 per Venom Counter
─ Any venom counter an opponent has received—including counters that have concluded their effect within the last 2 minutes—can be extracted, dealing 5 damage [Skill Level * 1/3 Dexterity] per venom counter.
─ This is a touch effect and removes all venom counters from the target. The location of the touch determines the amount of damage and whether or not a critical strike is applied.
─ Shadow Shift [Dex] Lvl. 1
─ Mana: 15
─ Distance: 45 Feet
─ Delay: 1 Seconds
─ Smoke Trail: 10 Seconds
─ After a 1-second delay [1 / Skill Level], teleport between shadows that are no farther than 45 feet apart [(2 + Skill Level) * Dexterity], leaving behind a trail of smoke that can be seen and followed for 10 seconds [10 / Skill Level]. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 21 | Dhane inhaled deeply, held the air for a long moment, then slowly let it flow from him, taking all the anxiety, the fear, the uncertainty away. . . . Except—dammit all to hell!—it wasn't working.
Not even Octoralis's soothing could hide the fact that every passing second brought him closer to the big event. The stone walls and floor and ceiling all seemed to vibrate, to pulse with an electric energy from all those people excited to see him die in some nightmarish fashion.
He had read through every skill option and purposely designed his character to achieve the highest amount of damage utilizing backstab and venom counters. But he was effectively a glass cannon.
85 health. It was more than twice what he had started with, though these challengers weren't typical players, they were battle-hardened, hungry for power and progression, going up against the evil, mysterious, ancient King of Shadows. . ..
The arena wouldn't throw their lesser challengers at him, not with all the mind games he had played, and definitely not with two hundred Cobalin slaves at stake. They'd use their best to guarantee a sound victory, a display of triumph over the King of Shadows.
Shit, shit, shit. . ..
Worse of all, it was entirely his fault. He wanted to give them a show to ensure he wouldn't get tossed away to the priests of Light, but now they expected him to be this big, bad, and dangerous entity.
What was he thinking?
He had absolutely no chance, and that was the truth of the matter, a mouse against a viper. Killing a hundred mobs, locked in pens as they were, may have given him a boost, sure, though he was still a newb that hadn't even used half his skills.
Then we escape, Daddy! Octoralis projected.
Yes. That was the only option here. He would be the dishonorable, the deceitful, the trash of the world, but . . . he could live. What was honor in the face of strategy? It was smart to trick his enemies and live long enough to gain power. Throwing himself onto his sword wouldn't help anyone.
Okay, okay. . . . If his goal was to escape, he needed to at least know how Spider Climb worked. The passive bonus allowed him to defy gravity, much like how Spider Rider worked.
Dhane stood. The ceiling was maybe twelve feet high, everything was carved from tan stone. He stepped to the side of the room and brushed fingertips along the wall. The main requirement was to be within reachable distance, which he was, about two feet away.
And then what? He just had to think that it was—
The world shifted and the wall yanked him forward. His whole body slapped the stone like a bellyflop from the high dive board. But the wall didn't splash and give way. No . . . in this situation, he was the one to give.
His breath escaped his lungs and took a little detour while pain roiled across his chest. His cheekbone stung where he slammed it against the stone in an attempt to turn.
And just like every other time something terribly unpleasant—also known as painful—happened, precisely three seconds later, he was perfectly fine.
This little fact didn't stop his automatic exclamation of profanity. In situations such as this, that was simply the expected method of coping.
Now, having copiously coped and endured Octoralis's mental giggling, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and crawled up the wall.
He was on the wall. It was so damn cool, all until the door swung open from behind. He quickly summoned his mask and rolled to face two wide-eyed guards.
Dhane almost said something like Hey guys, just hanging. . . . Or maybe a more exasperated I'm stuck! But he had a persona to maintain, a persona that took a little bit of thought to get into the right mind space, yet his thoughts seemed entirely lost in all that gray matter up there.
Instead, he arched his back, arms twisting at odd angles, and exhaled loudly, as if to expel the demons that nested within. He was a cross between Emily Rose and Darth Vader, in critical need of an exorcism.
One guard slammed the door shut so fast that, while being thoroughly focused on the single task, failed to understand the simple fact of why the door wasn't closing. That fact happened to be his partner's head.
By the time the door was securely shut, locked, bolted, and covered in a thick layer of cement, the other door opened to a kitchen. Four guards charged in with weapons drawn—the chef in the background, frozen in mid pancake flip—and Dhane repeated his theatric display.
His audience quickly about-faced, and the room returned to its calm, quiet, if not a little boring, state.
This is fun, Octoralis projected.
"If you mean antagonizing the enemy who has the power to lock us away forever as fun . . . I suppose it is a little fun." A little fun and a little stupid, but he had already planted his seed of fear into the hearts of men, perhaps it would give him the opening he needed to get away.
And with that thought, Dhane stood. The floor became a wall with a table and chairs stuck to it. He stepped over a framed canvas, feeling a sense of wrongness spiral into the back of his mind.
The world had turned on its side, but that wasn't the wrongness that continued to seep through him. That sensation was a desire, a need for him to step back into the normal world, the normal flow of things, where gravity pulled in one direction.
The longer he stood there, the greater that sensation grew. It became difficult to think of anything other than the absolute requirement that he return, return, return. It hit like waves or echoes or a heartbeat, growing louder with each pulse.
His feet slipped, his stomach turned, and the pull of gravity shifted. He spun in the air and landed softly on the actual ground. Everything returned to normal, silent, still.
Then the door opened and Challenger Sarah stepped in, her guards quick to follow. She looked at Dhane, then looked back to her closest guard and raised an eyebrow.
"He-he—" the man said.
She pinched her fingers in the air and the guard immediately stopped talking, then she turned to Dhane and said, "My very idiotic, stupid, stupid guards said you were acting suspiciously in here. I'm sure they would have had more information if they remained inside!" The guards studied the floor. "But guards will be guards. Always incompetent. So what were you doing?"
"Wall yoga," Dhane said in his kingly voice.
"Yoga!" Challenger Sarah yelled, then laughed. "The King of Shadows does yoga?"
"Yes. When you've lived for as long as I have, you find comfort in morning routine."
The reminder of his supposed age seemed to excite her. She gazed up at his mask, her heart doing a little skip. "And the sounds you were making?"
"Breathing exercises." It was a bit far fetched, a bit silly, and perhaps a lot unlike a king, though it fit his horror-filled display while avoiding the unasked question of how he managed to get on the wall in the first place.
Challenger Sarah slapped the back of her guard's head. The force of the blow flattened the man to the ground. She shook her head and flicked a curl from her eyes. "Well then, you should be prepared for your arena debut. Follow me."
There was nothing in Dhane's skills or passives that explained the tiny changes he had experienced from leveling. No information on why his teeth were a bit sharper, or why withdrawing and depositing items to his inventory did so with tendrils of smoke.
Of course, he wasn't the only person who had changed in some inexplicable way. Challenger Sarah, for one, certainly strayed from the norm.
She didn't have white skin as anyone would normally understand it to be; she was chiseled from alabaster, a statue of cold perfection. Then there was her unnaturally bright red hair and matching eyes—eyes that sliced into anything they peered at—not to mention her fangs.
And what of Penny? She had a glow to her, a warmth, and gorgeous blue eyes that, come to think of it, seemed quite impossible. They were crystals of color that glimmered like ocean waves in sunlight. Magical.
Was she here at the arena, waiting to see for herself whether or not the stories were true? Is she okay. . .? A quick thought to his Messages app revealed nothing new, just a screen of old blurry texts.
A slice of heavy, worrisome reality, pressed down on his chest. He hated not knowing what happened. Hated thinking of the worst and hoping for the best, that somehow, and completely unlike the worrywart Penny he knew, she had missed his messages.
Challenger Sarah arranged her guards around him, giving stern instructions. She didn't flinch in the face of confrontation. If a guard looked at her the wrong way, she'd flatten him or her right then and there: no warning, no apology, standing one moment and on the edge of death the next.
Finally, she looked him over, eyes lingering on his neck, sending his goosebumps to play hide-and-seek from this predator. With a slight nod, she marched to the front of her procession and led the way.
Unlike the first time, the people that crowded the Hall of Guilds were not stunned into a sense of fearful quiet. They seemed to have amassed in an attempt to prove just how unafraid they really, most definitely were.
It was a storm of shouts and jeers and hocked loogies, as if spitting on the floor somehow made him look bad. One woman from behind, tall and slender by her vibration lines, launched an apple at the back of his head.
Dhane eased to the side, then snatched the tiny meteor a fraction of a second after it whizzed past his ear. He then proceeded to lift the bottom of his mask and take a bite.
It was a crisp green apple, equal parts sour and sweet. The crunch, with a bit of Modify Vibration, cut through the commotion, stunning some onlookers while stoking the fire in others. He then triggered Venom Bite, not entirely sure what it would do, if anything. The apple disintegrated as if kissed by Death himself.
"Thank you," he said, maintaining his royal posture that projected a complete lack of concern. It was a total lie. He hadn't been the focus of this much hate since his review of Cyberpunk 2077.
He needed to escape, to get away from everything, to step out into the void where no one could find him and he could be alone: no expectations, no fear, no pain. He needed distance.
They passed the small doorway Kuby had used that led up to the surface. Every muscle in Dhane's body wanted to just sprint for it, dive through the sea of bodies, roll the dice and pray for a little luck.
The thought lingered until it was too late.
Challenger Sarah turned down a hallway and the swarm of bodies followed like a school of toxic piranhas that had tasted blood in the water. Someone else threw a round vegetable of sorts and it splattered against a guard.
Dhane tried to breathe the anxiety away, tried to assemble his mental walls to block out all the requests to see his affinity, tried to be unaffected by such extreme negativity.
He mentally summoned his Cobalin sword ahead of him, then desummoned it before it could take shape. He did it over and over just to occupy his thoughts with something he could control beyond walking and breathing and listening to the creative strings of insults thrown his way.
People gasped.
He then noticed a slight friction in the air. . . . Smoke. Of course, it was one of his small changes. He was producing a pulsing, writhing ball of smoke, three feet ahead.
With a tinge more creativity and just a bit more focus, he managed to shift the sword down and around himself. The tendrils of smoke seemed to be alive with how they danced through the air and shot toward whatever new thing was being summoned or desummoned.
The whole thing gave off a nice illusion, an aura of power and mystery. The guards walked a step farther away, doing their best to keep people back, people that seemed a little less eager to poke the figurative bear.
Challenger Sarah stopped at a large wooden door that reached nearly the top of the hallway. It was a door for a giant or dragon or some other overly large creature he couldn't quite think of at the moment. It was a door important enough to warrant two dedicated guards and a team of Cobalins that were now working to release a heavy steel beam.
The other guards in the procession came to a practiced halt, all stamping in rhythm and turning to face the crowd on either side, shields out.
"King of Shadows!" a young woman with an afro called, waving her hand. "Do you have— Hey!" she yelled at a guard who shoved her back. "I'm Ceratree press, I have every right to be here. Move!"
A journalist? So they did have journalists! This snagged Dhane's attention and he turned to regard the young woman.
"Every right, you say?" Challenger Sarah asked, her standard glare affixed on her cold face.
Much to the journalist's credit, she held her ground. "Every right," she said. Spunky. "By law twenty-seven, I—"
"— get to ask one question. Yes, I do know the constitution. Fine. Ask your stupid question, then go twaddle somewhere else."
"Alright, very well, good, fine. Breathe. One-two-three, one-two-three." She took in a deep breath, tapped something on her phone, and said with a serious, down to business voice, "King of Shadow, how long . . . is your schlong?"
Dhane almost laughed. She was good. She knew how to break the ice with an interviewee before digging into whatever important question she had.
"Goddammit!" Challenger Sarah yelled and grabbed Dhane's arm.
"Wait-wait-wait-wait! I was joking, just joking. Come on. Lighten up a bit. I have a real question."
"You had your one."
"But! He didn't answer, did he? Subsection J states I can ask another question if he doesn't answer."
"You're a real piece of shit. Stop wasting our fucking time. Ask your damn question so we can get on with the event that everyone out there is waiting for."
"Thank you, oh Queen of Blood," she said and turned to Dhane."The Royals have listened to the people's demands that you fight today. But only today. What parting words do you have for the world?"
Only today? His whole facade was to build up enough excitement to keep him in the minds of the people should he lose or not escape. It was Plan Z, a tiny prayer of a way to postpone being discarded to the priests of Light.
"Assuming," Dhane said, doing his best to keep his voice steady, and putting on an air of confidence, "that I do not win?"
The journalist raised an eyebrow, then a tingling warmth slipped into his chest, doing its best to burrow into his soul and discover his hidden secrets.
Dhane projected Lion and Monkey and Snake and Ferret. He cycled through Light and Shadow, flashing pieces of all the divinities he knew.
The journalist jerked back, eyes wide, like she had reached her fingers into a cookie jar only to find it filled with spiders. "I . . . misspoke," she said, her voice carrying a sense of awe or terror. "You are the King of Shadows. . . . Why come now?"
"Oh my god!" Challenger Sarah yelled. "That's two quest—"
Dhane held his hand up to silence her and said with as much conviction he could muster, "The changed priests of Light are corrupt, seeking power and sacrificing souls to obtain it. They threaten the balance of the game. I've come to restore that balance."
Nailed it! If he wasn't the quivering soul beneath a mask of bone, but a casual eavesdropper, the words would have struck a chord: There can be no game without balance. It was a vital truth for all games, that which made them fun, that which pushed people to master skills, knowing that should they lose, it wasn't because of an unfair advantage, but lack of skill and knowledge.
Challenger Sarah wielded her all-too-common glare, directing it now at Dhane. In fact, everyone seemed to be gripping a sense of horror mixed with rage.
Did they not just hear what he had said? Were they not all gamers like him, lovers of story and worlds and competition and progression? They stared, openly hating, as if he had praised cheaters.
The journalist turned away without another word, shoulders pinched up against her neck.
A metal beam clanged against the stone, filling the world with thick, bright vibrations. A guard—his eyes hard, forehead scrunched in disgust—kicked a female Cobalin, her hair like Desley's, short and spiky.
"Worthless monster!" the guard yelled. "Pick it up!" And when the Cobalin didn't react fast enough, the guard kicked her again and again. She cowered against the wall, arms up to protect her small head.
"STOP!" Dhane yelled, the smoke from his desummoned mask blasting outward along with his amplified voice. Little -1s in white and red, squiggled their way out of the onlookers, their hands clasped over their ears.
Dhane marched up to the guard, ready to see what type a reaction Venom Bite would get when applied to a man's testicles. Maybe they'd disintegrate like the apple and hopefully cause a freakish amount of pain.
He stopped, frozen for a heartbeat, breath caught in his throat. Sight, actual sight, with all of its depth and color and form, would always project a more accurate reality than vibrations.
This little Cobalin with her green skin and black spiky hair, quivering against the wall . . . it was Desley, his first friend in this world, the one who had saved him from the Wilds and led him to Mahai and the Mother of Shadows.
"Strong Shadow. . .?" she asked, a cut on her cheek shimmering the bright silver-white color of her soul. "Shadow fight for us?"
Fight? Oh, shit brownies. He really wanted to! But how could someone like him win against all of . . . this? The strength of one man would never be enough. . ..
"Always," he managed to say, knowing that deep within, it was a lie. He'd leave all the Cobalins—all the Desleys and Kubys—here to suffer while he escaped. But he would return, he just needed more time, more strength. That made it okay, right?
"Knock?" he asked.
Desley shrugged and shook her head. She used to have a glow to her, a sort of happy excitement for life when her biggest problems were her dimwitted Knock. But now, she looked drained, hollow, a shell.
Challenger Sarah said something and all the guards stomped and turned. She looked at Desley, confusion twisting on her face, then said, not unkindly, "It's time."
And so it was. . .. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 22 | Dhane summoned his mask. Tendrils of smoke shifted into bone shards, covering his face once again. Perhaps the next mask would have an opening for his mouth, allowing him to use Modify Vibration on his voice without the risk of hearing loss.
More people would recognize him now, but how could he just stand there and let another Cobalin be abused? And to find out that it was Desley? He desperately wanted to hurt something, to filter his rage toward a target and give back a little of the pain a whole race was feeling.
Cobalins were not mobs, and yet the people here treated them as soulless things. Couldn't they see how the Cobalins talked to each other, how they expressed emotion, how they changed once forced into slavery? If he put a Raging Rabbit into a cage, it wouldn't give two fucks. How could people not understand this?
The doorway, as to be expected given its size, led into a massive room full of activity. There were pens, very much like the menagerie further underground, filled with mobs of all types.
People ran about, yelling orders, hauling blocks of something, locking and unlocking cages. Cobalins were mixed in with the lot, struggling to follow commands while holding their large stones.
A mage was inside a pen that held six Durum Boars. She was dressed in a nondescript robe, chanting and swinging a metal ball-like censer. It hung from a chain, spreading plumes of smoke that smelled terrible, as if burning feces mixed with rotten cabbage.
Someone else, at the other end of the pen, drew symbols in the air and pushed mana into them. An outline of a rectangle vibrated to life along the ceiling, and the stones tumbled down, forming a ramp covered in sand.
A wall of noise—cheers and clapping and laughing from thousands of people—descended from that ramp and rolled across the floor. The mage walked forward and the Durum Boars fought to escape her, running up and into the arena.
As soon as the last mob was gone, the ramp shifted upward—stone by stone in defiance of gravity—and locked back into its previous place. All the arena sounds were cut off abruptly, leaving only a mess of sand behind. Two Cobalins were already there, sweeping and shoveling it into buckets.
"This is no King of Monsters!" the Master of Arena said in his booming, deep voice. "Puny! I have killed hundreds bigger than you. What makes you special?"
"From you? A heart and, evidently, a brain."
Gorlan sneered and tore his two-handed battleaxe from his back. "I could end you! Slice your limbs off and watch you writhe on the floor!"
Dhane stepped forward, head held high, heart enjoying a thrilling rollercoaster ride with way too many damn loops in it. "And prove my point?"
Challenger Sarah quickly stepped between them. "You agreed to this, Gorlan. Are you going to break your word?"
The massive man huffed, nostrils flaring. "You need not remind me! Take him to the central pen. He goes up next." And with that, the Master of Arena turned away, then grabbed a Cobalin, and before she could even yelp in surprise, snapped her neck.
The monster of a man laughed and tossed the dead body and her stone at Dhane's feet. It started to change, her soul slipping from her flesh to be Returned.
Dhane ground his teeth. Even Octoralis wanted to descend on the juggernaut and tear his life essence away. Obviously, that was what the Master of Arena wanted: to provoke Dhane, to get him to prove himself a lesser man.
But Dhane was a lesser man. Honor? Pride? He didn't care about his word or reputation. The only thing that held him back from attacking the oversized half-wit was how doing so would rob him of the opportunity to escape.
When Dhane didn't react, Gorlan glowered. That, in and of itself, was enough of a victory. Maybe, one of these days, Gorlan would find a sharp stick—or ten—up his ass for all the misery he had caused.
Challenger Sarah let out a slow breath. There was something beneath the surface that put her on edge, something she was fighting against. Though just as those emotions flittered across her face, they were gone, and she was back to business.
The central pen was a perfect circle of metal bars. Two mages stood at the ready, glancing everywhere but at Dhane, Challenger Sarah, and the small army of guards that surrounded them.
The first mage—a man with a puffy Santa Claus beard to match his girth—had a phone out, apparently waiting for a signal. And when that signal came, the man drew invisible symbols in the air and both the mages pushed mana into them.
A curving line formed along the ceiling into a perfect circle, humming softly with magic. The entire circle of stone vibrated and turned as one solid piece. It lowered at a slow, dramatic pace, turning as it did. Particles of dust and sand, leaked like water, dribbling over the sides.
The sounds of the arena were a frenzied noise, much louder than before, louder for the main event, the sole thing everyone was there to watch, to condemn him for the simple fact of existing.
Once the platform reached the floor, the leading mage opened the pen's metal door. The hinges squeaked. It was the smallest of sounds, but so different, so close. Something about it sliced down his back like a thousand needles.
His legs didn't want to do that very thing they were born to do: to walk, to step out onto this platform and be lifted up to the masses. He did his best to get his breathing under control. He was hot and cold, and sweat prickled across his forehead.
Challenger Sarah took his arm. "I don't know what you have against the Reditai, but you are wrong. It makes me question everything you've said about balance and your people. You're nothing more than a . . . monster." She said the word, laced with a bit of shock, as if she had looked for a different word altogether, but then found it to be a slice of truth, her truth. "A monster trying to worm its stupid way into our world and seed chaos."
Dhane didn't have the voice to respond. It was stuck somewhere in his chest. Even if he managed to say something, what was there to say? What words would change her opinion of him and the state of this fragile world?
Challenger Sarah shoved him forward and he stumbled, most unkinglike, onto the platform. It was the first time his web of illusions had faltered, and this tiny flaw, a misstep onto the hot sands of the platform, seemed to hurt her.
He lashed out with his mind and sought her affinity, her soul, her thoughts. A brilliant white icon of a bat illuminated, but not just that, there was also a sense of uncertainty there, buried beneath countless unanswered questions and frustrations.
Challenger Sarah took a step back, brows pressed together. Then she sent her own request. It was hungry, scared, and cold, like frigid fingers sliding across his skin.
He answered her in truth because, for reasons beyond any form of logic or strategy, he wanted her to know, as if knowing would set a tiny part of her soul at peace. He projected his dual affinity, following the Mother of Shadows and the Sisters of Death.
And then she was gone, lost beneath a platform of stone and sand as it rose back up into the arena. He stood there at the center, a brush of warmth slithered across the sand, the sky a void of nearly imperceptible vibrations, and thousands upon thousands of people doing their unrivaled best to burn his very life essence away by staring.
The arena erupted with boos and hollers and hoots and jeers. It was a thundering, constant sound that reverberated throughout, brightening all the vibration lines across sand and stone.
There were a dozen robed mages on platforms set within the inner arena wall. They each projected something above them, making the air ripple in flat, rectangular shapes.
Dhane lowered his mask just enough to see and found himself looking back from massive screens, his eyes . . . green, a sort of aquamarine, far from the dark brown they had always been. His pupils were not quite round anymore, like the black dots had ruptured and started elongating to vertical slits.
It was amazing the detail, the resolution of these massive magical TVs. They caught every strand of color in his eyes, the nearly imperceptible shimmer of pearlescent skin, all despite the shadow of his hood.
He looked more astonished than a black-hearted monster, and so he glared at a sparkling ball of light, that which seemed to act like a camera. This incited more of the roaring clamor.
Dhane slid his mask back into place.
There were no other guards or challengers out on the arena floor, no one to stop him from running. But the crowd was full of adventurers. If he ran up one of the ten-foot walls, they'd no doubt attack. He'd have to make his move when everyone least expected it so they didn't have time to summon weapons or spells.
But where was Penny? She had to be here. In what reality would she just cut him from her life without so much as a smoke signal? She'd be in the stands somewhere, waiting and watching to confirm the truth.
There were just so many people, so much noise, it drilled in from every direction. He needed to focus. Let all the sounds and vibrations drift away and direct his attention to a single point of interest.
The world changed. It was as if he slipped under the surface of a lake, all the sounds still there, though distant, quiet, distorted, all except for a single spot: Two guys were talking, placing bets.
Dhane shifted his focus along the row. Vibration lines defined faces and bodies and clothes and armor. Their voices were distinct and unfamiliar. He kept scanning, moving quicker in a sense of desperation.
There were thousands of strangers here to see him, to bet on him, to laugh at him. Some boasted, some were afraid, some sat silently, anxiously. There were even dozens of Cobalins, carrying trays of food, following hawkers that yelled out, "Popcorn, get your popcorn! Got drinks and hot dogs, and peanuts. You name it, we've got it!"
"Whatevs, girl." Aaliyah! She was sitting with the other amazons, followers of the hawk. "You keep bringing up Devron. He's a jerk, alright? If you're so hot for him, you go give him your deets."
"I'm just saying that—"
"I know! Goddammit, I know. But I don't care that he was right. Dhane was my party leader and a good guy. If it weren't for training, I wouldn't even be here. I don't wanna see him get butchered, you hear?"
Dhane pushed on. The seconds were ticking by to the point when some challenger would make his or her grand appearance. He scanned row after row, section after section, slowly turning as he did.
Aditi sat near the front wall, next to what had to be her guild of PKers. She rolled her eyes, looking skyward, fists balled.
"Did you see him?" one guy said to another. "He's like a GQ model."
"Damn straight."
"Aditi, you got to see him in the buff?"
"Shut up!" she said.
The two guys laughed, then one said to the other, in a loud whisper, "She totally botched the job because of her womanly feelings. Probably hasn't seen a penis before."
Aditi whipped around and punched the guy in the mouth, knocking him out of his seat and onto the arena stairs. "I did the needful and it didn't work! It had, like, nothing to do with anything else, yeah? Bring it up again. Do it! Say something stupid so I can punch you again!"
Dhane smiled. Good for her. But she wasn't Penny. Where was she? He scanned the rest of the section and moved to the next.
"No . . . that's where you're wrong," Nick said, talking to Candy. She was wrapped around his arm, wearing a set of what could only be described as normal clothes: a skirt with a nice, frilly shirt.
"I don't hate the guy," he continued. "Whether he's Dhane or the King of Shadows, the guy saved my business."
"And stole from you, and turned me down...."
"Oh sugar, this is more about you, isn't it?"
"Is not! That armor isn't his, you told me so."
"Alright, alright, I was a little annoyed at first, but you've got to think what he's been through. Everyone has been out to get him. He's probably been locked in a cage for the last few days."
"Because he's of Shadow," Candy said with derision.
"Pfft! Like that matters. He's human, he was a customer, he can write reviews. I'd do business with the Cobalin if they could actually talk with real words."
In all of the chaos, Dhane had completely forgotten about Nick. He owed him a review and the armor back, but dammit, there was just no way to worry about such things right now.
The crowd started to settle. He scanned the next section, pausing on the familiar face of a guard: Don, sitting next to his friend.
"It's not my fault!" Don said.
"You were supposed to keep an eye on him, remember? I said, 'Keep an eye on him.' "
"We wouldn't be here if you didn't make a big deal of my terrible memory."
"So you are agreeing with me. You forgot what I said. I'm the one who got us hotdogs, the least you could have done was watch Tom. One job, Don, you had one job."
A gong resonated throughout the arena and everyone stopped talking. The shimmering ball of light—the camera—wasn't next to Dhane anymore.
He lowered his mask just a hair, enough to see all the screens filled with Veritus Scyla, standing tall, proud, with her silver eyes and white hair. She had a new necklace with a large, bright blue sapphire, lying on pale skin.
There were others behind her, sitting in fancy chairs, wearing rich clothing, all young and beautiful; servants fed them fruit, served drinks; guards stood at attention in gold and white armor.
Veritus Scyla spoke in a calm voice that projected clearly across the arena. "Citizens of Ceratree City, the Royals have agreed to your requests that before the Veritai rid the world of the evil King of Shadows, as he so claims to be, he should fight in our arena."
The people cheered and Veritus Scyla raised her palm, then waited with uncanny patience for perfect silence. "Before such an event, I wish to update you on our progress, progress that has only been possible from all of your generous contributions.
"The Army of Light has purged another nest of Cobalins, assembling their horde deep within a cave to the east. Now with their cemetery of Shadow destroyed, they've taken their rightful place as our slaves, and have freed us to pursue greater threats.
"Furthermore, recent enchantment research—done by the Veritai—has yielded a new product, one which we feel many of you will find most useful."
She turned and motioned for two Cobalins to approach. They were both males, shirtless with tattered shorts, each wearing a thick, white collar with silver symbols.
They stumbled forward, slow and uncertain despite having no chains or large stones to weigh them down. One was shaking so much the other took his shoulders and whispered something in his ear.
Veritus Scyla's thin lips pressed together in a sort of sadistic smile. She pointed at a small spear, leaning against a stone column. "Take the spear," she said, and when neither of the Cobalins moved, her smile deepened.
The Cobalins jerked and grabbed their heads, whimpering. After only a few seconds, the braver of the two Cobalins snatched the spear. His face was covered in sweat, chest rising and falling, brows pressed together in a murderous gaze aimed at the priest.
"Now," she said, "I want you to kill your friend."
"What! I no kill for you!" the Cobalin said, his words coming out as Tatti! Aia nu kack tu adda! Then the other Cobalin cried out, fingers digging into his hair. Little -1s and -2s started to slip from his head.
"Do itsss, Dogo," the Cobalin managed to say, tears streaming down his face, eyes bulging from their sockets as if ready to explode. "Please...."
Dogo, the Cobalin with the spear, frantically looked between his friend and the priest, then stabbed the spear's end into his friend three times, screaming all the while.
As soon as the Cobalin collapsed to the ground and started turning silvery-white, Dogo spun toward Veritus Scyla. He jumped forward, then jerked, as if he had slammed into a wall, dropping the spear and screaming while holding his head.
Damage numbers shifted out from him in a red mist, a crimson smoke, lifting skyward as it drained his life force. Then, like his friend moments before, he collapsed.
Bastards. . . . Dhane clenched his jaw. Why were they showing him this? His challenge was to free the Cobalins, but . . . the Royals and the Veritai didn't appear at all concerned about losing them.
Did they never intend to uphold their end of the bargain? Or were they just that confident he would lose? To them, he was the King of Shadows, a thousand-year-old warrior. . . . What did they know that he didn't?
It doesn't matter.
There was no making deals with the enemy. There was no honor or trust, especially not from him. He'd escape. He'd run far, far away and one day, when he—not them—had the upper hand, he'd fight.
"These collars," Veritus Scyla said, turning back to address her captive audience, "will allow anyone to own and control a lesser slave of Shadow. You can use them in your businesses or as fodder in your adventures. Once they have been . . . trained, they'll be available for sale.
"Of course," she said, as if remembering something, "supply will be limited. First offers go to those who have donated the most to our righteous cause. There will be priests of Light at every exit should you wish to contribute.
"Now, to the event you've all been waiting for. I hand the podium over to the Celestial Royal."
Veritus Scyla stepped aside and in her place, a young man, probably no older than twenty, stood and looked out over the arena. There was an aura about him: extreme confidence, intelligence, and the experience of living multiple lives, or so it seemed.
The arena hushed.
All the massive screens focused on this young man, draped in black and blue metallic fabrics that shimmered. He had piercing blue eyes and long, dangling sapphire earrings. His hair, thick and white, extended down to his chin, almost like an anime character brought to life with how it clumped together and fell into its perfect place.
"King of Shadows," he said, not loudly, not with any effort, almost a whisper. The words merely slid out from him and glided through everyone, casting a spell of sorts, making people lean forward, not wanting to miss a single syllable.
A surge of molten energy expanded into Dhane's chest and he took a step back. It swirled with focused intent, peeling into his soul to know him, to know his secrets, to know his affinity.
Dhane didn't project a reply. There was nothing to project that wasn't already known. It was as if his mere thoughts were available to this godlike entity, peering down at his bare form where nothing could be hidden.
Finally, the Celestial Royal said, "You deem us imbecilic. Your bravado, your falsehoods, are nothing but child's play. I see through it all and know your intent."
He raised his arms slowly, eyes shut. The air condensed, becoming heavy as if it were about to rain, then the ground rumbled. People chattered in confusion, looking in all directions.
The outer stone walls, above the last row of seats, all the way around the arena, darkened and cracked. The stone stepped out into the shapes of eight warriors, twenty feet tall, chiseled in perfect detail.
People shoved away from the giant statues and the large chunks of wall that collapsed, shattering into hundreds of chipped stones to roll down the stairs.
"Spiderling," the Celestial Royal said, his tone holding an edge of contempt, "I won't let you escape. You agreed to this fight, and what better opponent than a king against a king?"
Oh, shit brownies. . .. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 23 | Not only were there eight giant statues of stone marching their way down to the sunbaked, arena floor, but also dozens of guards in fancy gold and white armor, taking up positions along the arena's outer walls, weapons drawn.
There's no escaping. . . . He had to fight. But against a king, a god of a man that could command such massive statues? Impossible.
We can escape, Daddy! Octoralis projected.
How! Every path had guards, and even without the guards, the thousands of people here wouldn't just watch him climb to freedom, they'd attack. He stood among an army of rabid dogs in every direction.
The Celestial Royal stepped over the edge of his raised platform. He plummeted to the sands, his metallic fabrics flowing above him, revealing a set of perfectly white armor, armor that no doubt had health, unlike Dhane's.
Everything was moving too fast, like he stood on the palm of fate, fingers closing, moments away from crushing him.
Shit, shit, shit! He had to think. There had to be a way out of this, right? Some genius strategy, some ploy. He'd even handily accept a bit of deus ex machina—Mother of Shadows? Sisters of Death? Anyone?
The first of the giant stone statues jumped from the arena stands. It crashed down against the sand, leaving a dent. A . . . dent.
He could go down! All there was between him and freedom was a thick slab of stone. And, well, probably the Master of Arena and Challenger Sarah . . . and all of her guards, not to mention thick, steal bolted doors. Fuck!
Daddy! Octoralis projected. Language.
Other stone statues crashed down into the arena. The ground shook and people cheered a wall of noise. The Celestial Royal walked at a casual pace, drawing out the performance for utmost appeal.
Dhane was going to die. . ..
There wasn't anything he could do to stop it. He rolled his dice, he played the game, and now he'd lose. If only he had more time to play, more time to gain strength. It was just so utterly unfair.
He let out a breath, feeling the last strands of hope slip from him. If he couldn't survive . . . if he couldn't live in this exciting, fantastical heaven . . . if this was the last mark he'd make on the world. . ..
He had a responsibility, a job, a weight of hundreds of little green friends who were all fighting for their own survival. If he couldn't survive . . . maybe, just maybe, he could help them.
It was in that tiny moment—a moment between the thudding footfalls of giant stone statues, sprinting with chiseled swords out, angled down toward the evil King of Shadows—a spark of an idea took hold.
Octoralis! He mentally shouted her name, calling her to materialize into the physical world, then jumped just as a blade of tan stone crashed through where he was standing, spraying sand and scraping the stone beneath.
Dhane landed on the giant's forearm and focused on a single summoning spell. 30 mana drained from his 110, morphing into a warmth that shot down his arm and streamed out into reality: eight legs and a body disguised to look like sand. With only a mental flick of a notion, it seemed to understand and skittered away.
Octoralis, from rivulets of entwining smoke, materialized behind another statue. She sprang forward, catching the statue and tearing it down.
The thousands of witnesses, gazing upon the battle of kings, collectively gasped. There was no hiding the truth anymore. The King of Shadows was real and who knew what that meant for them.
A third warrior of stone rammed into the statue Dhane was on. He jumped and flipped with casual ease, landing on the back of the assaulting statue, riding it to the ground just as four other massive stone entities moved in from all sides, weapons swinging.
Dhane triggered Exploding Spider and his sandy little friend, standing way off in the middle of nowhere, blew apart.
Magical waves of force rippled through the air and a pillar of sand shot upward. For a fraction of a second, there existed, out from the giant colliding bodies of stone, a flicker of a shadow.
It wasn't something Dhane could see, not with his bone mask equipped, though he felt it, and that was all it took for Shadow Shift to lock on. After a single second, standing vulnerable to stone weapons, whistling through the air, everything changed.
The world dissolved to an emptiness, filled with only the rushing of smoke, hot and acrid. Then in a burst, he appeared forty feet away from the giant statues, just in time to see them crash into each other, cracking and crumbling into a heap of once again, lifeless stone.
The audience cheered. . .? Some seemed confused, as if not knowing what to do, but the arena was about competition and entertainment, and they were most certainly entertained.
One stone statue remained. It cut through the air, snapping Octoralis's hind leg in half, and slicing a long gap across her side. -114 in bold red, bled out into the air, carried along by a psychic scream of pain, leaving her with 66/180 health.
No! Dhane started toward her, summoning his Cobalin sword.
Stop, Daddy! Octoralis projected. She knew what he had to do. Of course she did. She knew his thoughts, knew that this was death, no matter what. But they could do something.
Veritus Scyla had given them the answer in her ego-filled speech. The cemeteries could be destroyed. Without a cemetery of Shadow, there would be nothing to keep the Cobalins here. Death would be their release, but then . . . he'd be trapped. . ..
Dhane might have the slimmest of chances of succeeding, though there was nothing else. No escaping, no winning an impossible fight, no surviving . . . but they could save the Cobalins. And maybe that was everything he was meant to do all along, brought to this world as a sacrifice, a pawn, fighting for the greater good.
Dhane deposited his bone mask. The people wanted to hate an evil king of monsters, however, he was just a human like them. He'd let them see his face, his dual affinities and dual divinities. There was no point in hiding it anymore, not if today was to be his last. Perhaps this would change their opinion about the Cobalins, to know that they weren't just neutral monsters, but people.
Octoralis's side glowed with the silvery-white of her soul. She hobbled away from the statue, leading it from Dhane. He could feel her pain, searing at the back of his mind. But along with that pain was a surge of encouragement, to go, go, go!
Dhane turned and sprinted. There had to be a door or gate back down beneath the Hall of Guilds. No one would expect him to escape there, to seek the below labyrinth and become trapped.
A wave of distorted vibrations launched across the sands from behind. He rolled to the side and a blue, curved sliver of light shot past him a hundred feet to the arena's wall, slicing a thick line through the stone.
The Celestial Royal stood at the edge of his collapsed statues. He had a sword out and it flowed like water in a thin blade resembling a katana. With a flick of his wrist, the blade swished in an arc, and another sliver of light flashed across the sands.
Dhane rolled again, but the ground squished from underfoot and he slid, crashing to a pool of water that raised up, out from the sand. The edge of the blue light, sliced across his leg, igniting a fiery explosion of pain.
He screamed, gripping the cut, mentally counting to three before the torturous pain would subside. His health . . . 18/85? The damn Royal could poke Dhane and he'd probably die.
Shit!
The Celestial Royal flicked his blade over and over, sending an array of bright blue lines to shimmer through the air at different angles. He was a tempest, each attack pulling a current of wind.
Dhane rolled twice, water splashing into his armor. He summoned 1x Scrap Leather from his inventory. It formed immediately, and he threw it, then triggered Shadow Shift at the resulting blur of a shadow. The world changed to a void of rushing smoke, then he stood, fifteen feet from the wet sands that were covered in deep grooves.
"Fight!" the Celestial Royal commanded. The screens displayed the young man, his brows pulled together, sword pointing out toward Dhane. "Are you a coward, King of Shadows? Where, in all of the heavens, are you trying to go? I am right here."
Dhane heaved a breath—his Stamina was down to 72/135, health ticking up to 20/85. He summoned an Exploding Spider, then sent it sprinting across the sand.
The Celestial Royal smiled and shook his head slowly. All it took was a simple flick of his sword and the spider was gone, a burst of pearlescent mana left to fizzle in the air.
Then, from behind the Royal, Octoralis sprang forth and wrapped her legs around him, projecting I give spider hugs! Her attack, combined with backstab, dealt 180 damage, all in white.
Damn. . . . Just how much health did his armor have?
A blue line sliced through Octoralis, carving her in half. A fiery pain burned deep within Dhane, filled with sadness and encouragement, the echo of her last words almost too soft to make out: Goodbye, Daddy. Her form broke apart into wisps of smoke, and then nothing.
She was gone. . ..
The audience cheered, sending spells to burst in the air, standing, hollering. It all washed over him in a wave of silence, his chest heavy, empty. Whether or not his plan worked, he would never see her again.
She died so they could succeed in this crazy plan. She died to give him a chance. He wouldn't waste it!
There had to be a door, a way out of the arena proper without using a gate. And . . . there! One simple door, forever far across the arena from him.
He sprinted for it, running faster than he had ever run in his entire life, propelled by the passive bonuses of his two classes. It was a single goal, a lifeline, a beginning to a strategy that would make his life here in this world mean something.
There were no slicing blue lines chasing after him, no vibrations warning of an imminent attack. It wasn't until halfway to the door, that the ground started to rumble again. More statues? No . . . the door crumbled. Not just the door, every door, every gate, every exit.
Dhane stopped. People were chanting, "Coward, coward, coward!" Did they not know that death here would be the end for him? There was no coming back, no Return. And yet they treated it like everything else in this world, a world without consequences.
A sparkling ball of light, a camera, hovered just out of reach, displaying him frantically searching for another way.
Then he found it: the only solution to this maddeningly chaotic puzzle of mounting impossibilities. The solution, stared back at him, wide-eyed, understanding percolating, fear and uncertainty written across her face.
The solution was Aditi, sitting at the front row just thirty feet away, at the top of a ten-foot wall.
He gave it no other thought. She was the answer, and she knew it. He charged, only jumping to the side to dodge another slice of blue energy.
Gravity shifted and he dashed up the wall. People ran, screaming about not wanting to lose their souls. Some adventurers stayed, drawing forth weapons that glowed in all the different colors of elements and magical effects.
"Do it," Dhane said to Aditi. "You know I'm not the evil one here, you saw evil when the priests of Light killed me."
"But, like, it didn't work last time."
"I didn't want it to. I denied the construct divinity."
She wrinkled her forehead, as if she had never experienced death by a PK member, or never had someone request to die and then choose not to.
A flabby young man jumped from his seat. He had pale skin and light brown hair. He fumbled with his phone, trying to withdraw a weapon. "What are doing!" he yelled at Aditi, who had summoned her needle-like dagger.
Dhane grabbed the guy, then twisted in response to a faint, telltale vibration, gliding through the air toward his back. A blue line of death, sliced into the young man. His face was a mask of shock before his body fell over the wall.
Aditi plunged her dagger into Dhane's chest. The symbols glowed with her pearlescent mana. The blade itself became transparent, and a warm, swirling sensation filled his body, asking the only question Dhane cared to answer, a question of whether or not he accepted the temporary divinity for immediate Return.
He accepted it, demanded it, and then death took him. The world turned cold. All the colors slipped away, replaced with gray. From his very soul, a skull formed in smoke and screamed as it shot skyward. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Chapter 24 | Dhane jolted awake and sucked in air, his heart racing, sweat covering his entire body. The transition from life to death to life again was so abrupt, he felt nauseous, weak, and in good need of a long, hot bath.
The room spun, full of familiar murals, painted across ceiling and walls: armies of men fighting the armies of monsters. It worked. He was in the cemetery of Light, just outside the Hall of Guilds, alone, as if everyone was stuck in the above arena, their doorways crushed.
But he had to go. Chunks of stone wouldn't slow all the kingdom's challengers and guards much. In fact, it might not slow them down at all, not with all the different classes and skills everyone had.
Dhane rolled off a slab of stone, commanding sluggish legs to move, and instead slid down to the floor.
Loud and fast footsteps echoed just outside the room, a sound that mixed with a series of tiny ringing bells. There were shouts, then someone barreled through the doorway, breathing hard.
Dammit! Of course, they were already here. He pressed his back against the stone slab, hidden, if only for the moment. With a mental thought, tendrils of smoke formed into his Cobalin sword.
He reached out for Octoralis, though she was gone . . . a hole in his soul, slowly—to the point of nearly imperceivable progress—piecing herself back together, an emptiness that promised he was on his own.
"Dhane? Hells, man, are you there?"
Devron? The betrayer, the man that sold a friend to the Veritai. . . . Did he not get enough gold the first time? Or . . . it was fame. He wanted to be the one who caught the King of Shadows.
Devron stepped into view and Dhane threw his Cobalin sword with all the force he could muster, which happened to not be that much, not with his noodle-like arms, muscles half asleep. The small blade flew far from its mark and clattered against the floor.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Devron whispered loudly.
Dhane focused on his Exploding Spider skill. The mana swirled within him and inched down his arm, slow as gooped up sludge.
"Stop, man. I'm here to help!" Devron had his arms up, wearing . . . huh? A concoction of tan and purple linens twisted around his form in an utterly quirky outfit, all with a dozen tiny bells hanging at the ends of pointed fabrics.
A . . . jester?
Devron quickly grabbed the Cobalin sword, bells ringing with each movement. He pressed the handle into Dhane's hand, then summoned a phone. "We don't have much time."
"What are you doing?"
"Obviously, getting you out of here."
"You betrayed me!" Dhane said, almost in a growl. The feeling in his legs was returning. He needed to escape down into the labyrinth, a maze of tunnels he just so happened to have memorized on his last trip from the menagerie.
"I didn't! Or at least it wasn't intentional. What was I supposed to do? Huh? They cornered me, asked questions, and . . . well, I didn't know! They determined you were of Shadow and forced me to go along with it lest they take Aaliyah, too. You think that's what I wanted?"
Dhane didn't say anything, didn't know what to say.
"Hells, man, I've been working to break you out this entire time. I've got sleep bombs and a jester's license. Here, put this on," he said. White and pink clothing materialized in the air. "You're my assistant, alright? Oh, and I have a mask, too."
"Stop, Dev."
"I can get you outta here, I know it!"
"I don't want out!" And that was the truth of it. Now that he had made up his mind to save the Cobalins, to reject that, to instead save himself while they suffered under the command of their masters? It was too much. He could do something, could ease some of that suffering.
Devron stared with an expression of shock and confusion, then said, "But I have too...."
Someone else ran into the room and Devron reached back behind himself, grabbing power from his invisible bag: White waves of energy clashed within a forming sphere.
"Ma-Ma-Master?"
"Tom?" Dhane asked. It was beginning to become a damn reunion in here. Who was next, Reditus Leon . . . Penny? No. . . . He couldn't think about her, not now, not with what he had planned to do.
"No-no time! The . . . others are coming!"
Shit! Dhane pushed himself to his feet, still feeling a lingering weakness, like his body was heavier than it should be. Instant respawn was no joke.
Devron looked between Tom and Dhane, then shoved the jester's costume and mask into Dhane's arms. "Take it anyway. Ain't got a clue what you're doing, though it might help. And, Dhane . . ." he said and stared at the ground for a moment, then looked back with determination, "I'm sorry that—" Shouts and the pounding of dozens of armored feet, cut him off.
Tom paled, face spotted with sweat. He summoned a giant shield that reached from his head to the stone floor. Then, breathing to the point of hyperventilating, he left.
Dhane deposited the jester's costume and sword to his inventory, then paid for his third translation ball. It materialized in a puff of smoke, glowing at the tips of his fingers. "I'm destroying the cemetery of Shadow."
"Hells, man...."
"Dev, if you want to help me, help the Cobalin. Without a cemetery of Shadow, they can escape."
"But—"
"I-I-I am a wa-wa-wall!" Tom's voice echoed, appreciably loud and commanding, despite the stutter. "You shall not pa-pa-pass!"
Dhane handed Devron the translation ball, then took his arm and gave him a single nod, hoping that it communicated everything Dhane wanted to say: Thank you, and Don't beat yourself up, and I'm so damn glad you're not my enemy, and . . . Goodbye.
He sprinted out of the room, out into the great Hall of Guilds, an army on one side and no one on the other, the side that led into the labyrinth.
Tom slammed his shield down and white cracks shot through the floor, forming a line from wall to wall, then a transparent, glasslike barrier rose up.
The leading guard—not one of the standard guards, but a Royal guard with gold and white armor—jumped forward and pierced the wall with a fancy sword. It slid right through the barrier, shattering it to fractured pieces of light, then punctured out from Tom's back, glistening with the silvery-white of his soul.
"There he is!" a large man called, pointing at Dhane. A good twenty guards charged, some shifting to flashes of light that shot forward, quickly closing the distance.
Dhane turned and descended the stairs to the labyrinth, diving down into the darkness of dim light crystals. He triggered Web Wall, giving it 30 mana to materialize thousands of spiderwebs, thick and thin. They filled the narrowing hallway at the bottom, a good four feet thick.
The first of the Royal guards tried to ram her way through the wall that, by any reasonable calculation, would have cleared the mess of webbings. Instead, she slammed against a wall as solid as stone, crashing to her back, dazed.
The other guards started cutting, slicing chunks of the wall away with every passing second. It wouldn't hold for long. Dammit! He sprinted, passing forked turns and small rooms, following his mental map.
The guards wouldn't be far behind. He needed something else, just a distraction to give him enough time at the cemetery to destroy it, which . . . well, he didn't even know what was required for that: magic, a ritual, or could he simply break the stone slabs?
If there was ever a time for the Mother of Shadows to provide an itty-bitty bit of assistance, now was that time! Did he have to pray? Or maybe the only way to talk to a divinity was to travel to their realm. With that thought, the knowledge at the back of his mind confirmed it: The divinities could only observe the physical world unless Gameus summoned them.
Dhane passed a well-lit tunnel, one with light crystals that weren't on the precipice of failure, the stone floor smooth and well-traveled. A heaviness pulled in that direction, a sense of gloom, of despair.
What the hell were they doing down here? Actually, why was there a labyrinth beneath the arena at all? The place reeked of damp mildew, the tunnel walls were once carved and decorated, but now they were cracked and ruined.
It didn't matter. What mattered was this tunnel looked liked an ideal direction to travel, even if it wasn't where he wanted to go. And if the guards thought that. . ..
Dhane triggered Web Wall again, feeding it 30 mana and filling a portion of the well-lit tunnel in webs.
The guards were seconds away, racing to catch up while others—by the vibrations of their armor, ghostlike through all the stone—split off down forks, forming their own sort of web to fish him out.
Dhane sprinted toward the next fork. He turned the corner just as the stone walls glowed with a vibrant light, then immediately darkened: Flash Step.
"He went through here!" a man called, followed by the sound of a blade slicing through impossibly dense spiderwebs. Others showed up, grunting with the effort to clear the way.
Dhane didn't wait. He shot down tunnel after tunnel, carrying an ember of hope that this might not need to be his end. He could have his cake and eat it: destroy the cemetery, then hide within the labyrinth until he could escape under the disguise of a jester.
Thank you, Devron! There was so much he still wanted to do, so much to live for, so much to explore. It was these thoughts as he sprinted into the cemetery of Shadow, these happy, exciting thoughts that nearly distracted him from the tiny scraping vibration of a page being turned.
Dhane whipped around, and there, sitting back with his legs propped up on another chair, was Challenger Terry.
He arched an eyebrow, then slowly shifted a bookmark into his book titled Please, Please Me.
Fuck! Of course, the cemetery of Shadow had a guard, though why on earth did it have to be Challenger Terry?
"You're not supposed—"
Dhane summoned Exploding Spider, draining 30 of his already diminished mana from casting Web Wall twice. He barely had 38/110 left, only because of mana regen.
An ugly spider in black and red, shot out of his palm, leaving behind a nearly overwhelming desire to smash the thing, or flee, or burn the damn labyrinth down, should stone burn so easily. It landed on the man's face and Dhane stifled a scream of horror.
Challenger Terry jerked back, tumbling out of his chair, swatting at the spider. But it was quick and small. It following Dhane's intent and crawled across the man's neck, down into his armor, and toward his back before exploding in a ripple of blue energy.
A -83 backstab damage in white, slipped up and over an enraged man, blond hair a mess, teeth locked together like a dog, growling and ready to pounce.
Dhane couldn't do anything without mana, and to use all of it here and now in a desperate effort to take on a high ranked challenger, would only hit him with the Mana Drunk debuff before he died.
And so he did the one thing he was getting so damn good at doing, he ran. He sprinted down tunnel after tunnel until he burst into the vast darkness of an empty menagerie, its door still lying on its side, bent and splintered.
Challenger Terry wasn't far behind. "You want to attack me! ME!" His voice echoed in the tunnel. "I fight challengers, not monsters pretending to be human!"
Every two or three seconds, Dhane gained a point of mana, and every second he ran, he lost stamina. It was a race between two shifting stats.
He ran across the massive room, silent with its complete lack of monsters in pens. Near the middle, there was a cage, Tom's cage, a cage made of thick steel bars, built to hold a shadowling, and a cage he just so happened to still have the keys for.
Footsteps slapped the cold, dark stone, only seconds away.
Dhane bolted toward the door, grabbed it, and slammed it shut while materializing his set of keys.
The lock clicked and Challenge Terry halted just outside, nostrils flaring, eyes angled in the darkness, appearing more as vibration lines than anything.
"You're wrong," Dhane said, more to delay the man than anything.
Challenger Terry drew his sword, the edges radiating a molten red. He slashed it across the steel bars, and a loud clanging vibrated throughout the cage, leaving behind a line of red, the metal hot, as if it had just been pulled from the furnace.
"Wrong?" the man yelled. "Wrong wrong wrong? You can do better than that, you damn monster." He slashed again, cutting deeper into the metal.
"Why are you so against those of Shadow?"
"You're the enemy." Slash. "You're evil." Slash. "Your kind destroy villages, burn farms, and torture the innocent." Slash.
"I've not seen anything like that. The Cobalins don't—"
"Cobalins! Fucking fodder. They'll try to carve you up if you let them. Evil little pricks, but weak. I'm talking about the Scelkris, the Veetamors, the Delorkins."
There were others of Shadow? Probably more people simply misunderstood, locked in an eternal battle. And if Veritus Scyla was telling the truth, it was a battle they were slowly losing.
"And you. . . ." Challenger Terry said. "You're some kind of witchdoctor's puppet, claiming to be king. You can fool everyone else, but you're as weak as the Cobalins, trapped in your little cage."
He slashed with his sword again, and three short bars broke off. They clattered against the stone floor and rolled, their ends glowing red, casting a haunting light across Challenger Terry's scowl.
Dhane's mana ticked upward, now 98/110. He summoned an Exploding Spider, letting it crawl its way down the inside of his pant leg, entirely out of sight.
He swallowed hard, jaw clenched, eyes locked onto Challenger Terry, not wanting to give the slightest of indications that he was up to something devious and dishonorable, biding his time for his trap to be ready.
"If anyone's a puppet," Dhane said, summoning another spider and working to keep his voice level as it tickled its way down his leg. "It's you, sir. You dance at the end of your strings for the priests."
"I follow with pride!"
"Open your damn eyes! Do you really not see what they are doing? Can't see how corrupt they are?"
"Corrupt?" he shouted so loud that it echoed back twice, perhaps loud enough for the roaming Royal guards to hear. . ..
"They are killing people, Terry. Not for them to Return, but for—"
"Enough! I will not listen to your lies."
"You're a fool."
The word seemed to have physically punched the Challenger in the gut, throwing all the respect this man didn't deserve out the window. There was no reasoning with someone so brainwashed.
"You. . . ." Challenger Terry said in a low growl, stepping forward.
Closer . . . just a bit closer. . ..
"I'm going to kill you slowly. And when you Return, I'm going to do it again and again until the priests take pity on your soul, if you have one. And, shadowling," he said in a whisper, taking another step forward, "I don't think that will ever happen."
Now! Dhane triggered Exploding Spider and the two spiders he had summoned, the spiders that were now on Challenger Terry's back, exploded. Blue ripples of power blasted out from behind him, dealing a combined 166 backstab damage . . . all in white.
What the hell was needed to hurt these people!
Challenger Terry lurched forward by the force of the explosion and slammed into the bars.
Dhane summoned 1x Lightning Rope, then wrapped it tightly around the man's wrist and a solid steel bar before triggering Shadow Shift. The world changed and smoke whipped through him, then he was forty or so feet away, out of his cage and closer to the doorway.
Challenger Terry yelled, then worked to pull his sword free. The rope zapped his wrist and sent crackling energy through the steel bars, jumping and arching as it did.
Dhane charged back toward the cemetery of Shadow, listening to a molten edged blade cut into steel bars, over and over, chiming in rhythm with enraged shouts.
Someone was going to hear that, and even if they didn't, the challenger would be free in a minute or two, and he still had armor. There was just no chance fighting a challenger without any decent gear or Octoralis.
Dhane sprinted down the tunnels and barged back into the cemetery of Shadow. It was empty except for six well maintained light crystals, casting an even glow across four stone slabs.
He barely had 33/110 mana left. It ticked upward with the passing seconds, each mana point a warning that his time was slipping away. He summoned his Cobalin sword and drove the tip of the blade down onto a slab of stone.
And . . . of course, that did nothing other than fill his hand with a numbing vibration. He didn't have a magical weapon like everyone else, no red glowing edges that could cut steel bars, but there had to be some other way.
An exploding spider might damage a slab, though he only had enough mana for one, and there were four slabs! Maybe there were magical symbols carved into the stones? Or some sort of power crystal?
He quickly checked the slabs and found that each had a tiny symbol carved into its base. When he touched one, knowledge awoke from the back of his mind.
These symbols directed the intent of some other form of magic. If he destroyed the symbols, the cemetery would still work, but people may form anywhere, potentially in a wall.
He pushed a single point of his pearlescent mana into the symbol. A thin stream of glowing blue vapor shifted out and toward an individual stone block that made up a part of the wall.
The block held no other adornment or carvings or anything that marked its importance, though he could feel the workings of magic beyond. It was almost like a vibration, but not physical. It was a vibration within a different layer of reality.
Dhane hurried to the wall, sliding fingers over the cold, coarse stone. It had no give and felt identical to any of the other stones, all connected with lines of grout.
He dug the tip of his Cobalin sword into the grout, breaking the softer material, letting it crumble and fall to the floor. Each hit sent vibrations into the stone, carving little vibration lines that formed into a hollow space maybe a foot deep.
Footsteps echoed down the tunnel.
Shit brownies! All he needed was a minute or two, but Challenger Terry would be there before then. Dhane triggered Web Wall, paying the 30 mana, which drained his total to 12/110. Thousands of silvery lines flowed into the tunnel's entrance.
He went back to work, frantically digging his blade into the grout lines, chiseling chunks of it free, and working his way around the block. It was taking too damn long!
Challenger Terry crashed into the wall of spiderwebs and grunted. He was seething. His blade glowed in the dim tunnel and sliced through webs like a hot spoon through ice cream. . ..
Oi. . . . It was Dhane's last moments of life and now he had ice cream on the mind. Why the hell was ice cream such a curse for him? Maybe it was all a sign that death here would land him in some other heaven. . .?
But none of it mattered if he couldn't destroy the cemetery. He couldn't die in peace or move on to another plane of existence knowing he accomplished nothing here, just suffered along with all the others and perhaps made it worse for them, gave them hope only to then snatch it away at the last moment.
Challenger Terry carved his blade through the webs one last time, dealing enough damage to dispel the wall in its entirety. Silvery lines dissolved to a pearlescent glow and fizzled away.
It was then that Dhane had an idea. He stopped digging around the stone and burrowed down one side, knowing full well that he couldn't hope to remove the entire stone. With one last strike, the blade broke through, opening a tiny gap that radiated with swirling, violet lights.
Challenger Terry grabbed Dhane and threw him across the room.
He hit the opposite wall, a dense pain shifting through his back and head. The room spun and doubled. He was on the ground, fist clenched around the hilt of his Cobalin sword.
Out of instinct alone, he shoved off the ground with the agility of an arachnomancer assassin and rolled just as two blurry, red-edged swords descended where he was.
Dhane stood and his vision cleared in time to see Challenger Terry advance with a series of well-practiced attacks, each pushing Dhane back toward the adjacent wall.
He dodged and dodged, and when he found no room to dodge again, he raised his sword to block, only for red-edged steel to slice through his blade, tip gouging a thick line across his chest.
Pain. Deep, swelling, burning pain erupted through him. Half his health dropped as a -43 in red text slid upward. The Cobalin sword turned into hundreds of rainbow-colored, transparent blocks that then burst apart.
"You can't even block a simple attack," Challenger Terry said, shaking his head. He sheathed his sword and grabbed Dhane's armor, then slammed him back against the wall. "I did promise I'd kill you slowly so you can feel every bit of pain you deserve."
Dhane's mana ticked up to 30/110. He couldn't breathe, couldn't focus, and just when the pain would stop, Challenger Terry slammed Dhane against the wall again.
He desperately used every point of mana to summon Exploding Spider. A deep heat burned through his chest and down his arm, leaving a tingling cold behind. The spider formed, blurry and tiny, down on the floor.
Mana Drunk hit immediately. Gravity shifted, pulling him back and to the side. The room elongated. Challenger Terry's eyes, carrying a spark of excitement, grew bigger as his nose shrunk. His mouth took up his entire bottom half of his head.
"Oh . . . not feeling well?" Challenger Terry asked, faking a voice of concern. He then punched Dhane right under the chin, snapping his head back against the wall.
He fell forward with a grunt, bells ringing, feeling a sense of urgency, a need to be somewhere, to do something. Did he give the spider his intent—did it know what to do—or was it just sitting there on the floor. . .?
He crawled up the slanted floor toward a spot of importance, but why it was important eluded him. His thoughts were everywhere and nowhere, a fevered dream, a void, a pressing alarm of imminent death.
Something moved him right where he needed to be. It was Challenger Terry, holding Dhane up against the wall again, the man's giant mouth of white teeth, spread in a magnificent smile.
Such an expression should only elicit a sense of hatred, of rage, though, in this very moment, only a calming peace flowed within, a feeling of accomplishment.
Dhane smiled.
"Ah, you like this, do you?" Challenger Terry asked. He took Dhane's chin and pinched impossibly hard. Little -1s slipped out of his mouth. His jaw seemed to bend under the force, his teeth grinding.
Dhane, sensing a piece of himself, of his soul, in the opposite wall, triggered Exploding Spider. A small explosion set off a chain of reactions. The powerful magics that formed the cemetery of Shadow, all released, escaping toward the only direction it could go, toward the block of stone with most of its grout removed.
That stone exploded across the room like a cannonball, propelled by blue and violet swirls of glowing power. It crashed into Challenger Terry's back, forcing him to let Dhane crumble to the floor.
A -270 in white shifted up and over the Challenger, but then a -106 in red also escaped him, chasing after the other number as they both danced toward the dim ceiling, light crystals drained of their mana, flickering.
Terry arched forward, both hands holding the wall as if it were about to collapse. He breathed rapidly through clenched teeth, a wounded beast, stuck in a cycle of rage.
After three seconds, the man spun and attacked with a growl. He landed on Dhane's chest, knees like daggers pressing against his ribs, hands wrapped around his neck. "I HATE YOU!" Challenger Terry screamed, squeezing, cutting off Dhane's airflow, face tingling from blood loss.
All Dhane could think of as his health slipped below 10/85 and his armor shattered and flaked away like his Cobalin sword had, was how he succeeded. Against all the odds, all the impossibilities. Against a king, his Royal guards, and a challenger . . . he won.
Now for that ice cream. . ..
Now for death and potentially a new start somewhere else. Maybe he didn't have to be public enemy number one. Maybe he could just be a normal person in a world of wonder, surrounded by friends.
That'll be nice. . ..
7/85 . . . 6/85 . . . 5/85. . ..
Something scuffed the stone down a dark hallway. No doubt, the Royal guards had found their way here by now, just in time to see him turn into a screaming soul of smoke.
Challenger Terry looked up. His eyebrows ascended his forehead and his mouth dropped opened. He released his grip, and Dhane coughed, sucking in air.
Maybe it was the lingering effect of Mana Drunk, or perhaps he had already died, and this was just some glitch in heaven, but there in the hallway was a slender, naked woman with unbelievably massive breasts.
She spoke in a high pitched, grating voice, "Helloooo, strong adventurer." There were tiny, almost imperceivable purple, flickering sparks around her form as she moved, hips swaying.
Then, out of nowhere, flying with all the courage of a berserker charging into battle, was Knock . . . little green Knock. He landed on Challenger Terry's back, ramming a new Cobalin sword down with all of his weight.
The attack hit for 26 damage, and the Challenger stiffened, eyes round in shock. His silvery-white soul leaked out of his back, and a moment later, he was gone.
Knock, eyes pinched shut, his blade's tip now balanced against the floor, screamed out, "Did, I, kill it?"
Dhane grabbed the Cobalin and laughed, truly laughed, a laugh full of relief and joy and peace. He pulled Knock into a hug. "You killed it, great Shadow."
"I? I great Shadow?"
Dhane released the little man and asked, "How are you here?"
"I come. Save my woman!"
"Desley? She's with you?"
Knock shook his head. "I looked but big man in ugly clothing say you here, say all Cobalins should help, all Cobalins should fight."
Someone was running in the tunnel that led toward the Hall of Guilds. The footsteps vibrated in rhythm with tiny bells and screeching shouts, yelling, "Go left," then from someone else, "No no, he wrong! Go right!" followed by, "Yes, right, that's what I meant!" and, "I no believe you, dummy."
Devron appeared, sprinting and gasping for breath, four Cobalins clinging to his back "The . . . guards," he said between breaths. "I hit 'em with my . . . sleep bombs, though it only worked on . . . a few of them."
Kuby hopped off. "Hope bringer!"
"Kuby?" Dhane said. "But why are you all down here? There's no way out."
"That be wrong," Knock said. "Mahai . . . poor Mahai, he leave powerful items in case of attack."
"What happened to Mahai?"
Knock pinched his eyebrows together and shrugged. "He gone, taken. I no know where." He summoned an original Gameboy, then pressed buttons before revealing the green, pixelated screen. There were two items in his inventory.
Targeted Waypoint // Epic // Single Use
A stone created with a specific location. Upon use, the stone will expand into a small waypoint platform and offer instant transportation to the assigned coordinates. May only be used once.
Village Seed // Legendary // Single Use
The village seed may be used to claim unclaimed territory for the purpose of building a village. The seed provides all necessary village systems and buildings to get started, including a cemetery, matching the affinity of its user. May only be used once.
They had a way out. . . . They could live, start again in some new place far away from everything here. But what of Penny, what of Desley and Tom and Leon and the hundreds of Cobalins still enslaved?
Shouts echoed down the tunnel. The Royal guards, in their clanging armor, were charging toward the destroyed cemetery of Shadow. There was no time. . ..
Dhane held his hand out. "Give me the items," he said.
Knock didn't even hesitate. He summoned the items and Dhane took them, then activated the Targeted Waypoint. The stone dropped and splashed into the floor like a drop of water into a pool. The ground rippled and symbols sliced into the stone, forming around a circle just big enough for three regular-sized people.
"I no go," Knock said. "I find woman! She here, I find her."
"Nah, man," Devron said, "I'll find her."
"No one is staying," Dhane said. The Royal guards turned the last dark bend, outlined in vibrations. "We will come back. We will save all of them." His words, said with stern confidence, seemed to slice away all the fear and uncertainty that lined Knock's face.
"They're just ahead!" a woman called, her voice accented by the ting of her drawn sword. She flashed stepped, appearing in the room, her blade swishing through the air.
Dhane triggered the waypoint stone and everything changed. |
Wrong Divinity - Oh Shit! I Fucking Hate Spiders! | Dustin Tigner | [
"LitRPG",
"fantasy"
] | [
"Arachnomancer"
] | Epilogue | There was a pleasant tingle of warmth, rushing through every fiber of Dhane's being. Golden light imbued itself into each of their souls, swirling from head to toe.
Then they arrived.
The sudden shift from underground darkness to the outside world beneath a bright sun, forced everyone to cover their eyes. Sensations trickled in, starting with the touch of a pleasant breeze, carrying the scents of blossoms and water and mint.
Lime green grass covered the ground and stretched out toward hundreds of white trees with bright blue leaves. And in the other direction, dozens upon dozens of small lakes ran into each other with little waterfalls, glistening under a teal blue sky with puffy white clouds.
It was a slice of paradise, warm and welcoming, promising an exciting new place to live and explore. Mahai chose this as a place for his Cobalins to live happily above ground.
Kuby, still wearing a broken chain around his ankle, fell forward and brushed his fingers through the grass. Knock looked like he'd cry, perhaps feeling guilty for being here without Desley. The other three Cobalins cheered and ran around, rolling and tumbling and laughing.
Devron took Dhane's arm and smiled. "You saved them, man. I always hated that they were slaves, but . . . I didn't know. They're like humans, aren't they? Almost like kids."
Dhane nodded. Kids. That was a great way to describe them. A race of kids, wanting to play under the sun, to go swimming, to sit around campfires, to sing and dance.
But these Cobalins were just a sliver of the ones they had left behind. That thought swirled down into his chest with hints of rage and sadness and defeat. Could they really call this a win?
Except . . . maybe. . ..
Dhane summoned his phone with the map app already launching. They were in the next zone, close to the edge, 88.4 miles from Ceratree City. With a mental flick, the screen shifted to display cemeteries.
Almost all of Ceratree was empty of cemeteries. In fact, the only ones that existed outside of the city were at the far western and eastern edges of the zone.
If a cemetery were to be placed here, it would be the closest one to the city. And they just so happened to have a Village Seed. . ..
This was Mahai's intent all along. He must have been tracking the progress the priests of Light were making, for why else would he choose this place of all the places in the vast world of Olindale?
Dhane withdrew the Village Seed. It materialized from wisps of smoke, an octahedron topaz, nearly as large as a softball. He pushed most of his mana into it, accepting the solemn responsibility that he now was the leader, and the town would be settled using his affinities.
The topaz grew warm and bright, shimmering in a yellow-gold. Everyone stopped and watched. This was the creation of their next home, the last gift left by Mahai, their protector.
It pulled toward the sky and Dhane let go, allowing it to drift upward. The seed pulsed with a golden power that seeped out and spun around with it, creating spiraling waves that coursed out and across the land.
The wind picked up and trees rustled. Then a bright beam of gold shot down from the topaz and into the ground.
In that fleeting moment, there was a divine question, emanating from his very soul, a request to know the name of this here new village. And Dhane replied with the only name that made any sense, "Dedu Tedu . . . Novus," Latin for new.
All the shimmering gold dispersed to pearlescent mana and faded, then a chime resonated in Dhane's head. He checked his notifications and found one from the System.
─ (2:48 p.m.) System alert to channel All. A new village has been settled in Terralacoos. Its precise location is currently withheld. The village's primary waypoint has been hidden for 30 days.
─ Name: Dedu Tedu Novus
─ Affinity: Light and Shadow
─ Leader: Dhane
The ground shook and cobblestones rose up to form a road and large waypoint platform. Wood and stone and glass materialized from shimmers of gold, then combined to make a large, three-story inn and shed.
Across the new road, hedges and flowers grew out from a central fountain of stone, appearing out of nothing. A swirling trail of ground, sunk and filled in with gravel, then water rushed through the conduit, spilling over the sides.
Little bridges pieced themselves together with wood just as a path of cobblestones formed, leading to alcoves where large slabs of stone shifted into reality.
Pop! . . . Pop! Pop-pop-pop-pop! Puffy white animals appeared, looking like sheep, but each with a single, twisting horn of a different color. Sumilians. . . . They immediately started grazing with no apparent concern for predators.
Confetti popped in the air and drifted downward, transforming into butterflies of every color and pattern, some flying in groups, others exploring all the new flowers that grew in the last few seconds, filling their little valley with color.
Dhane turned, taking in the view. They had a place to sleep and eat, tools, and a cemetery, everything they needed to start their own little town.
"Holy hell, man," Devron said.
The Cobalins, all except for Knock, ran through the inn's front door, excitedly yelling and giggling about choosing rooms. One wanted a lake view, another wanted to live in a closet.
Then a chime resonated within Dhane, and another, and another. New notifications were popping up every other second, and with them, large beams of red light shot toward the sky from different directions, impossible to get a sense of how close they were.
─ (2:52 p.m.) System alert to channel All. Riverport has declared war on Dedu Tedu Novus. Local waypoints have been locked until conflict resolution.
─ Recorded Reason: A town of Shadow cannot be allowed! Join Riverport in removing this scourge from our lands.
─ (2:52 p.m.) System alert to channel All. Glimmerpond has declared war on Dedu Tedu Novus. Local waypoints have been locked until conflict resolution.
─ Recorded Reason: We stand against the spread of evil.
─ (2:52 p.m.) System alert to channel All. Vehelum has declared war on Dedu Tedu Novus. Local waypoints have been locked until conflict resolution.
─ Recorded Reason: Ha! War sounds like fun!
─ (2:53 p.m.) System alert to channel All. Ceratree City has declared war on Dedu Tedu Novus. Local waypoints have been locked until conflict resolution.
─ Recorded Reason: The Reditai will not let this corruption of Light stand. All cities, work with our army to rid Olindale of the enemy that threatens all of us. Please reopen your waypoints to Ceratree City for trade and cooperation, and we will do the same for you. For the Light!
"Oh no!" Knock said, eyes wide. "It's happening again!"
Two more notifications came in from Golden Valley and Silva Garden, stating identical reasons In accordance with the pact, we have declared war.
"What do you mean?" Dhane asked.
"They come for us. The evil adventurers, they come! We can't stay, can we? We must hide, dig hole. How we live, great Shadow?"
Devron looked like he would say something, though another large beam of red, one that was much closer than the others, shot skyward.
─ (2:54 p.m.) System alert to channel All. Seezy has declared war on Dedu Tedu Novus. Local waypoints have been locked until conflict resolution.
─ Recorded Reason: None
Dhane took in a deep breath, pinched his eyes shut, mind racing through all the possible solutions to this evolving puzzle. Challenge after challenge after challenge.
Would life always be so impossibly unfair?
Yes. That was the answer, a resounding yes. Only the strong survived. And so there was little choice, they would have to be strong, stronger than any enemy could imagine.
He exhaled and glared at that last beam of red light until it shattered into millions of flickering shards and dissolved like all the others. They would fight and they would win for he had a plan, a plan to not only survive, but to thrive.
And it started right now.
As if by sheer willpower alone . . . the world froze. The butterflies hovered, motionless wings shimmering their creative patterns in pinks and blues. Even Devron stood with eyes half shut, mid-blink. And Knock . . . down on all fours while Gameus, god of the realm, used the Cobalin as a chair.
"You will fail," the god said, tapping a long fingernail on the top of his cane.
"How—"
"How do I know? I am a god. But I cannot see the future, if that's what you're after. Anyone who can count their fingers and toes could tell you that you're in an impossible situation. Do you really think so little of everyone else in this heaven?"
"I haven't had the liberty to think anything."
Pip, the little red imp, stood off to the side next to a frozen sumilian. "Can I . . . oh, please, let me touchy your horny. I likes it. So pointy and hardy."
"Pip!" Gameus yelled.
"Yesss Master?"
"You don't need another sumilian! Get over here." Gameus turned back to Dhane. "You have been most entertaining to watch. But you are like a candle with a short wick."
Pip laughed.
"That was not a euphemism! By all the heavens, do I need to dip you into a pit of lava again?"
"Nooo Master!"
"Then be a good imp." He sighed. "Where was I. . .?"
"Um, candle, sir?" Dhane offered, his mind full of images of him being lowered into a pit of lava should he do anything to annoy the god.
"Yes! A candle with a short wick has little room to burn. The flame is but a dim flicker, everything, including the softest of breaths, its enemy. You—Dhane of shadows, newborn soul, ignorant and dumb—are that flame, so precariously close to being extinguished.
"And that's quite unfortunate. You've thrown a boring world of order into chaos, a chaos that will soon be solved by your capture."
"You want to help me?" Dhane asked.
"Help? Such a move would violate the rules, and I will not pay such a price for mere entertainment. But Pip—"
"Yesss Master?"
"Don't interrupt me!" He seethed for a moment, took in a breath, and said, "Pip is a soul of this heaven, he," Gameus said, eyeing the imp before continuing, slowly, "could share his knowledge of letters?"
"My alphabet?" Pip asked and Gameus shrugged, suddenly taking interest in a frozen butterfly, bringing it back to life so it could land on his finger. "Yesss! Yesss! I loves me my alphabet."
Pip summoned a TI-84 graphing calculator, then pressed buttons until an outline of a book appeared before him. He grabbed it and it materialized, thin and baby blue with Care Bears on the cover, The Care Bears' Book of ABCs.
"Not that one!" Gameus yelled, and the butterfly turned to ash. "I swear I shouldn't have taken so much of your intelligence. The book on symbols, if I have to spell it out for you!"
"Oh oh oh! Yesss," Pip said, depositing the book and withdrawing an old, leather-bound notebook instead. "Here you go-y. These are my notesies on magic."
Dhane accepted the notebook and flipped through the pages. The notes were impeccable, written in a fancy cursive around drawings of symbols and how those symbols broke down into simpler ideas.
If Gameus was risking some form of heaven punishment to bring him this book, it had to contain a solution, some way for him and the Cobalins to win, or at the very least, to survive.
Pip stared at the book as if seeing it for the first time in years. His slim figure seemed to sag, little wings twitching. The contents of the book and this imp were so entirely unlike each other. What happened to him?
Dhane knelt so he and the imp were closer to eye level. "I'll just borrow it, okay? And I won't let anything happen to it."
The little imp nodded, then spotted a sumilian and brightened before running toward it. "Can I haves this one! It has pretty purple horny!"
Gameus sighed, then swirled his finger in the air and the sumilian lifted off the ground, shrinking as if becoming a lootable item. It bleated—a tiny, panicked tune—and Pip tapped it, collecting it to his calculator.
Dhane deposited the book to his inventory and turned to Gameus. "But what about the balance? The priests of light are killing souls, and you do nothing."
"The balance? What fun is there in a game where one side cannot win, at least temporarily? The balance is a cycle, my boy. And you are wrong about souls. Souls cannot die, but they can be contained, forced to sleep."
Gameus waved Pip over. "Now, resume that overconfident, dramatic glare you had before my arrival. No one can know we were here, understand?"
Before Dhane could reply, Gameus and Pip were gone. The world unfroze, bringing back the warm breeze, bleating sumilians, and frolicking butterflies.
Devron let out a breath and shook his head. "Hells, man, this ain't lookin' good for us." He turned to Dhane then arched an eyebrow. "Wait. . . . What do you know that we don't?"
"We live?" Knock asked, brows pulled together in confusion as to why he was down on all fours.
Dhane shrugged. Secrets. . . . What was up with all of these god figures asking him—of all people!—to keep secrets? And so he summoned the leather-bound notebook, letting it materialize from wisps of smoke in his hands, this book that just might give them an edge in the battles to come.
He smiled at his two friends and asked. . ..
"Want to learn some magic?" |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 1 | 1801.—I have just returned from a visit to my landlord—the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful country! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of society. A perfect misanthropist's heaven: and Mr. Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair to divide the desolation between us. A capital fellow! He little imagined how my heart warmed towards him when I beheld his black eyes withdraw so suspiciously under their brows, as I rode up, and when his fingers sheltered themselves, with a jealous resolution, still further in his waistcoat, as I announced my name.
"Mr. Heathcliff?" I said.
A nod was the answer.
"Mr. Lockwood, your new tenant, sir. I do myself the honour of calling as soon as possible after my arrival, to express the hope that I have not inconvenienced you by my perseverance in soliciting the occupation of Thrushcross Grange: I heard yesterday you had had some thoughts—"
"Thrushcross Grange is my own, sir," he interrupted, wincing. "I should not allow any one to inconvenience me, if I could hinder it—walk in!"
The "walk in" was uttered with closed teeth, and expressed the sentiment, "Go to the Deuce:" even the gate over which he leant manifested no sympathising movement to the words; and I think that circumstance determined me to accept the invitation: I felt interested in a man who seemed more exaggeratedly reserved than myself.
When he saw my horse's breast fairly pushing the barrier, he did put out his hand to unchain it, and then sullenly preceded me up the causeway, calling, as we entered the court,—"Joseph, take Mr. Lockwood's horse; and bring up some wine."
"Here we have the whole establishment of domestics, I suppose," was the reflection suggested by this compound order. "No wonder the grass grows up between the flags, and cattle are the only hedge–cutters."
Joseph was an elderly, nay, an old man: very old, perhaps, though hale and sinewy. "The Lord help us!" he soliloquised in an undertone of peevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, meantime, in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no reference to my unexpected advent.
Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff's dwelling. "Wuthering" being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed: one may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun. Happily, the architect had foresight to build it strong: the narrow windows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large jutting stones.
Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of grotesque carving lavished over the front, and especially about the principal door; above which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and shameless little boys, I detected the date '1500,' and the name "Hareton Earnshaw." I would have made a few comments, and requested a short history of the place from the surly owner; but his attitude at the door appeared to demand my speedy entrance, or complete departure, and I had no desire to aggravate his impatience previous to inspecting the penetralium.
One stop brought us into the family sitting–room, without any introductory lobby or passage: they call it here "the house" pre–eminently. It includes kitchen and parlour, generally; but I believe at Wuthering Heights the kitchen is forced to retreat altogether into another quarter: at least I distinguished a chatter of tongues, and a clatter of culinary utensils, deep within; and I observed no signs of roasting, boiling, or baking, about the huge fireplace; nor any glitter of copper saucepans and tin cullenders on the walls. One end, indeed, reflected splendidly both light and heat from ranks of immense pewter dishes, interspersed with silver jugs and tankards, towering row after row, on a vast oak dresser, to the very roof. The latter had never been under–drawn: its entire anatomy lay bare to an inquiring eye, except where a frame of wood laden with oatcakes and clusters of legs of beef, mutton, and ham, concealed it. Above the chimney were sundry villainous old guns, and a couple of horse–pistols: and, by way of ornament, three gaudily–painted canisters disposed along its ledge. The floor was of smooth, white stone; the chairs, high–backed, primitive structures, painted green: one or two heavy black ones lurking in the shade. In an arch under the dresser reposed a huge, liver–coloured bitch pointer, surrounded by a swarm of squealing puppies; and other dogs haunted other recesses.
The apartment and furniture would have been nothing extraordinary as belonging to a homely, northern farmer, with a stubborn countenance, and stalwart limbs set out to advantage in knee–breeches and gaiters. Such an individual seated in his arm–chair, his mug of ale frothing on the round table before him, is to be seen in any circuit of five or six miles among these hills, if you go at the right time after dinner. But Mr. Heathcliff forms a singular contrast to his abode and style of living. He is a dark–skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire: rather slovenly, perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence, because he has an erect and handsome figure; and rather morose. Possibly, some people might suspect him of a degree of under–bred pride; I have a sympathetic chord within that tells me it is nothing of the sort: I know, by instinct, his reserve springs from an aversion to showy displays of feeling—to manifestations of mutual kindliness. He'll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to be loved or hated again. No, I'm running on too fast: I bestow my own attributes over–liberally on him. Mr. Heathcliff may have entirely dissimilar reasons for keeping his hand out of the way when he meets a would–be acquaintance, to those which actuate me. Let me hope my constitution is almost peculiar: my dear mother used to say I should never have a comfortable home; and only last summer I proved myself perfectly unworthy of one.
While enjoying a month of fine weather at the sea–coast, I was thrown into the company of a most fascinating creature: a real goddess in my eyes, as long as she took no notice of me. I "never told my love" vocally; still, if looks have language, the merest idiot might have guessed I was over head and ears: she understood me at last, and looked a return—the sweetest of all imaginable looks. And what did I do? I confess it with shame—shrunk icily into myself, like a snail; at every glance retired colder and farther; till finally the poor innocent was led to doubt her own senses, and, overwhelmed with confusion at her supposed mistake, persuaded her mamma to decamp. By this curious turn of disposition I have gained the reputation of deliberate heartlessness; how undeserved, I alone can appreciate.
I took a seat at the end of the hearthstone opposite that towards which my landlord advanced, and filled up an interval of silence by attempting to caress the canine mother, who had left her nursery, and was sneaking wolfishly to the back of my legs, her lip curled up, and her white teeth watering for a snatch. My caress provoked a long, guttural gnarl.
"You'd better let the dog alone," growled Mr. Heathcliff in unison, checking fiercer demonstrations with a punch of his foot. "She's not accustomed to be spoiled—not kept for a pet." Then, striding to a side door, he shouted again, "Joseph!"
Joseph mumbled indistinctly in the depths of the cellar, but gave no intimation of ascending; so his master dived down to him, leaving me vis–a–vis the ruffianly bitch and a pair of grim shaggy sheep–dogs, who shared with her a jealous guardianship over all my movements. Not anxious to come in contact with their fangs, I sat still; but, imagining they would scarcely understand tacit insults, I unfortunately indulged in winking and making faces at the trio, and some turn of my physiognomy so irritated madam, that she suddenly broke into a fury and leapt on my knees. I flung her back, and hastened to interpose the table between us. This proceeding aroused the whole hive: half–a–dozen four–footed fiends, of various sizes and ages, issued from hidden dens to the common centre. I felt my heels and coat–laps peculiar subjects of assault; and parrying off the larger combatants as effectually as I could with the poker, I was constrained to demand, aloud, assistance from some of the household in re–establishing peace.
Mr. Heathcliff and his man climbed the cellar steps with vexatious phlegm: I don't think they moved one second faster than usual, though the hearth was an absolute tempest of worrying and yelping. Happily, an inhabitant of the kitchen made more despatch: a lusty dame, with tucked–up gown, bare arms, and fire–flushed cheeks, rushed into the midst of us flourishing a frying–pan: and used that weapon, and her tongue, to such purpose, that the storm subsided magically, and she only remained, heaving like a sea after a high wind, when her master entered on the scene.
"What the devil is the matter?" he asked, eyeing me in a manner that I could ill endure, after this inhospitable treatment.
"What the devil, indeed!" I muttered. "The herd of possessed swine could have had no worse spirits in them than those animals of yours, sir. You might as well leave a stranger with a brood of tigers!"
"They won't meddle with persons who touch nothing," he remarked, putting the bottle before me, and restoring the displaced table. "The dogs do right to be vigilant. Take a glass of wine?"
"No, thank you."
"Not bitten, are you?"
"If I had been, I would have set my signet on the biter." Heathcliff's countenance relaxed into a grin.
"Come, come," he said, "you are flurried, Mr. Lockwood. Here, take a little wine. Guests are so exceedingly rare in this house that I and my dogs, I am willing to own, hardly know how to receive them. Your health, sir?"
I bowed and returned the pledge; beginning to perceive that it would be foolish to sit sulking for the misbehaviour of a pack of curs; besides, I felt loth to yield the fellow further amusement at my expense; since his humour took that turn. He—probably swayed by prudential consideration of the folly of offending a good tenant—relaxed a little in the laconic style of chipping off his pronouns and auxiliary verbs, and introduced what he supposed would be a subject of interest to me,—a discourse on the advantages and disadvantages of my present place of retirement. I found him very intelligent on the topics we touched; and before I went home, I was encouraged so far as to volunteer another visit to–morrow. He evidently wished no repetition of my intrusion. I shall go, notwithstanding. It is astonishing how sociable I feel myself compared with him. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 2 | Yesterday afternoon set in misty and cold. I had half a mind to spend it by my study fire, instead of wading through heath and mud to Wuthering Heights. On coming up from dinner, however, (N.B.—I dine between twelve and one o'clock; the housekeeper, a matronly lady, taken as a fixture along with the house, could not, or would not, comprehend my request that I might be served at five)—on mounting the stairs with this lazy intention, and stepping into the room, I saw a servant–girl on her knees surrounded by brushes and coal–scuttles, and raising an infernal dust as she extinguished the flames with heaps of cinders. This spectacle drove me back immediately; I took my hat, and, after a four–miles' walk, arrived at Heathcliff's garden–gate just in time to escape the first feathery flakes of a snow–shower.
On that bleak hill–top the earth was hard with a black frost, and the air made me shiver through every limb. Being unable to remove the chain, I jumped over, and, running up the flagged causeway bordered with straggling gooseberry–bushes, knocked vainly for admittance, till my knuckles tingled and the dogs howled.
"Wretched inmates!" I ejaculated, mentally, "you deserve perpetual isolation from your species for your churlish inhospitality. At least, I would not keep my doors barred in the day–time. I don't care—I will get in!" So resolved, I grasped the latch and shook it vehemently. Vinegar–faced Joseph projected his head from a round window of the barn.
"What are ye for?" he shouted. "T" maister's down i' t' fowld. Go round by th' end o' t' laith, if ye went to spake to him.'
"Is there nobody inside to open the door?" I hallooed, responsively.
"There's nobbut t" missis; and shoo'll not oppen "t an ye mak" yer flaysome dins till neeght.'
"Why? Cannot you tell her whom I am, eh, Joseph?"
"Nor–ne me! I'll hae no hend wi't," muttered the head, vanishing.
The snow began to drive thickly. I seized the handle to essay another trial; when a young man without coat, and shouldering a pitchfork, appeared in the yard behind. He hailed me to follow him, and, after marching through a wash–house, and a paved area containing a coal–shed, pump, and pigeon–cot, we at length arrived in the huge, warm, cheerful apartment where I was formerly received. It glowed delightfully in the radiance of an immense fire, compounded of coal, peat, and wood; and near the table, laid for a plentiful evening meal, I was pleased to observe the "missis," an individual whose existence I had never previously suspected. I bowed and waited, thinking she would bid me take a seat. She looked at me, leaning back in her chair, and remained motionless and mute.
"Rough weather!" I remarked. "I'm afraid, Mrs. Heathcliff, the door must bear the consequence of your servants" leisure attendance: I had hard work to make them hear me.'
She never opened her mouth. I stared—she stared also: at any rate, she kept her eyes on me in a cool, regardless manner, exceedingly embarrassing and disagreeable.
"Sit down," said the young man, gruffly. "He'll be in soon."
I obeyed; and hemmed, and called the villain Juno, who deigned, at this second interview, to move the extreme tip of her tail, in token of owning my acquaintance.
"A beautiful animal!" I commenced again. "Do you intend parting with the little ones, madam?"
"They are not mine," said the amiable hostess, more repellingly than Heathcliff himself could have replied.
"Ah, your favourites are among these?" I continued, turning to an obscure cushion full of something like cats.
"A strange choice of favourites!" she observed scornfully.
Unluckily, it was a heap of dead rabbits. I hemmed once more, and drew closer to the hearth, repeating my comment on the wildness of the evening.
"You should not have come out," she said, rising and reaching from the chimney–piece two of the painted canisters.
Her position before was sheltered from the light; now, I had a distinct view of her whole figure and countenance. She was slender, and apparently scarcely past girlhood: an admirable form, and the most exquisite little face that I have ever had the pleasure of beholding; small features, very fair; flaxen ringlets, or rather golden, hanging loose on her delicate neck; and eyes, had they been agreeable in expression, that would have been irresistible: fortunately for my susceptible heart, the only sentiment they evinced hovered between scorn and a kind of desperation, singularly unnatural to be detected there. The canisters were almost out of her reach; I made a motion to aid her; she turned upon me as a miser might turn if any one attempted to assist him in counting his gold.
"I don't want your help," she snapped; "I can get them for myself."
"I beg your pardon!" I hastened to reply.
"Were you asked to tea?" she demanded, tying an apron over her neat black frock, and standing with a spoonful of the leaf poised over the pot.
"I shall be glad to have a cup," I answered.
"Were you asked?" she repeated.
"No," I said, half smiling. "You are the proper person to ask me."
She flung the tea back, spoon and all, and resumed her chair in a pet; her forehead corrugated, and her red under–lip pushed out, like a child's ready to cry.
Meanwhile, the young man had slung on to his person a decidedly shabby upper garment, and, erecting himself before the blaze, looked down on me from the corner of his eyes, for all the world as if there were some mortal feud unavenged between us. I began to doubt whether he were a servant or not: his dress and speech were both rude, entirely devoid of the superiority observable in Mr. and Mrs. Heathcliff; his thick brown curls were rough and uncultivated, his whiskers encroached bearishly over his cheeks, and his hands were embrowned like those of a common labourer: still his bearing was free, almost haughty, and he showed none of a domestic's assiduity in attending on the lady of the house. In the absence of clear proofs of his condition, I deemed it best to abstain from noticing his curious conduct; and, five minutes afterwards, the entrance of Heathcliff relieved me, in some measure, from my uncomfortable state.
"You see, sir, I am come, according to promise!" I exclaimed, assuming the cheerful; "and I fear I shall be weather–bound for half an hour, if you can afford me shelter during that space."
"Half an hour?" he said, shaking the white flakes from his clothes; "I wonder you should select the thick of a snow–storm to ramble about in. Do you know that you run a risk of being lost in the marshes? People familiar with these moors often miss their road on such evenings; and I can tell you there is no chance of a change at present."
"Perhaps I can get a guide among your lads, and he might stay at the Grange till morning—could you spare me one?"
"No, I could not."
"Oh, indeed! Well, then, I must trust to my own sagacity."
"Umph!"
"Are you going to mak" the tea?' demanded he of the shabby coat, shifting his ferocious gaze from me to the young lady.
"Is he to have any?" she asked, appealing to Heathcliff.
"Get it ready, will you?" was the answer, uttered so savagely that I started. The tone in which the words were said revealed a genuine bad nature. I no longer felt inclined to call Heathcliff a capital fellow. When the preparations were finished, he invited me with—"Now, sir, bring forward your chair." And we all, including the rustic youth, drew round the table: an austere silence prevailing while we discussed our meal.
I thought, if I had caused the cloud, it was my duty to make an effort to dispel it. They could not every day sit so grim and taciturn; and it was impossible, however ill–tempered they might be, that the universal scowl they wore was their every–day countenance.
"It is strange," I began, in the interval of swallowing one cup of tea and receiving another—"it is strange how custom can mould our tastes and ideas: many could not imagine the existence of happiness in a life of such complete exile from the world as you spend, Mr. Heathcliff; yet, I'll venture to say, that, surrounded by your family, and with your amiable lady as the presiding genius over your home and heart—"
"My amiable lady!" he interrupted, with an almost diabolical sneer on his face. "Where is she—my amiable lady?"
"Mrs. Heathcliff, your wife, I mean."
"Well, yes—oh, you would intimate that her spirit has taken the post of ministering angel, and guards the fortunes of Wuthering Heights, even when her body is gone. Is that it?"
Perceiving myself in a blunder, I attempted to correct it. I might have seen there was too great a disparity between the ages of the parties to make it likely that they were man and wife. One was about forty: a period of mental vigour at which men seldom cherish the delusion of being married for love by girls: that dream is reserved for the solace of our declining years. The other did not look seventeen.
Then it flashed on me—"The clown at my elbow, who is drinking his tea out of a basin and eating his broad with unwashed hands, may be her husband: Heathcliff junior, of course. Here is the consequence of being buried alive: she has thrown herself away upon that boor from sheer ignorance that better individuals existed! A sad pity—I must beware how I cause her to regret her choice." The last reflection may seem conceited; it was not. My neighbour struck me as bordering on repulsive; I knew, through experience, that I was tolerably attractive.
"Mrs. Heathcliff is my daughter–in–law," said Heathcliff, corroborating my surmise. He turned, as he spoke, a peculiar look in her direction: a look of hatred; unless he has a most perverse set of facial muscles that will not, like those of other people, interpret the language of his soul.
"Ah, certainly—I see now: you are the favoured possessor of the beneficent fairy," I remarked, turning to my neighbour.
This was worse than before: the youth grew crimson, and clenched his fist, with every appearance of a meditated assault. But he seemed to recollect himself presently, and smothered the storm in a brutal curse, muttered on my behalf: which, however, I took care not to notice.
"Unhappy in your conjectures, sir," observed my host; "we neither of us have the privilege of owning your good fairy; her mate is dead. I said she was my daughter–in–law: therefore, she must have married my son."
"And this young man is—"
"Not my son, assuredly."
Heathcliff smiled again, as if it were rather too bold a jest to attribute the paternity of that bear to him.
"My name is Hareton Earnshaw," growled the other; "and I'd counsel you to respect it!"
"I've shown no disrespect," was my reply, laughing internally at the dignity with which he announced himself.
He fixed his eye on me longer than I cared to return the stare, for fear I might be tempted either to box his ears or render my hilarity audible. I began to feel unmistakably out of place in that pleasant family circle. The dismal spiritual atmosphere overcame, and more than neutralised, the glowing physical comforts round me; and I resolved to be cautious how I ventured under those rafters a third time.
The business of eating being concluded, and no one uttering a word of sociable conversation, I approached a window to examine the weather. A sorrowful sight I saw: dark night coming down prematurely, and sky and hills mingled in one bitter whirl of wind and suffocating snow.
"I don't think it possible for me to get home now without a guide," I could not help exclaiming. "The roads will be buried already; and, if they were bare, I could scarcely distinguish a foot in advance."
"Hareton, drive those dozen sheep into the barn porch. They'll be covered if left in the fold all night: and put a plank before them," said Heathcliff.
"How must I do?" I continued, with rising irritation.
There was no reply to my question; and on looking round I saw only Joseph bringing in a pail of porridge for the dogs, and Mrs. Heathcliff leaning over the fire, diverting herself with burning a bundle of matches which had fallen from the chimney–piece as she restored the tea–canister to its place. The former, when he had deposited his burden, took a critical survey of the room, and in cracked tones grated out—"Aw wonder how yah can faishion to stand thear i" idleness un war, when all on "ems goan out! Bud yah're a nowt, and it's no use talking—yah'll niver mend o'yer ill ways, but goa raight to t" divil, like yer mother afore ye!'
I imagined, for a moment, that this piece of eloquence was addressed to me; and, sufficiently enraged, stepped towards the aged rascal with an intention of kicking him out of the door. Mrs. Heathcliff, however, checked me by her answer.
"You scandalous old hypocrite!" she replied. "Are you not afraid of being carried away bodily, whenever you mention the devil's name? I warn you to refrain from provoking me, or I'll ask your abduction as a special favour! Stop! look here, Joseph," she continued, taking a long, dark book from a shelf; "I'll show you how far I've progressed in the Black Art: I shall soon be competent to make a clear house of it. The red cow didn't die by chance; and your rheumatism can hardly be reckoned among providential visitations!"
"Oh, wicked, wicked!" gasped the elder; "may the Lord deliver us from evil!"
"No, reprobate! you are a castaway—be off, or I'll hurt you seriously! I'll have you all modelled in wax and clay! and the first who passes the limits I fix shall—I'll not say what he shall be done to—but, you'll see! Go, I'm looking at you!"
The little witch put a mock malignity into her beautiful eyes, and Joseph, trembling with sincere horror, hurried out, praying, and ejaculating "wicked" as he went. I thought her conduct must be prompted by a species of dreary fun; and, now that we were alone, I endeavoured to interest her in my distress.
"Mrs. Heathcliff," I said earnestly, "you must excuse me for troubling you. I presume, because, with that face, I'm sure you cannot help being good–hearted. Do point out some landmarks by which I may know my way home: I have no more idea how to get there than you would have how to get to London!"
"Take the road you came," she answered, ensconcing herself in a chair, with a candle, and the long book open before her. "It is brief advice, but as sound as I can give."
"Then, if you hear of me being discovered dead in a bog or a pit full of snow, your conscience won't whisper that it is partly your fault?"
"How so? I cannot escort you. They wouldn't let me go to the end of the garden wall."
"You! I should be sorry to ask you to cross the threshold, for my convenience, on such a night," I cried. "I want you to tell me my way, not to show it: or else to persuade Mr. Heathcliff to give me a guide."
"Who? There is himself, Earnshaw, Zillah, Joseph and I. Which would you have?"
"Are there no boys at the farm?"
"No; those are all."
"Then, it follows that I am compelled to stay."
"That you may settle with your host. I have nothing to do with it."
"I hope it will be a lesson to you to make no more rash journeys on these hills," cried Heathcliff's stern voice from the kitchen entrance. "As to staying here, I don't keep accommodations for visitors: you must share a bed with Hareton or Joseph, if you do."
"I can sleep on a chair in this room," I replied.
"No, no! A stranger is a stranger, be he rich or poor: it will not suit me to permit any one the range of the place while I am off guard!" said the unmannerly wretch.
With this insult my patience was at an end. I uttered an expression of disgust, and pushed past him into the yard, running against Earnshaw in my haste. It was so dark that I could not see the means of exit; and, as I wandered round, I heard another specimen of their civil behaviour amongst each other. At first the young man appeared about to befriend me.
"I'll go with him as far as the park," he said.
"You'll go with him to hell!" exclaimed his master, or whatever relation he bore. "And who is to look after the horses, eh?"
"A man's life is of more consequence than one evening's neglect of the horses: somebody must go," murmured Mrs. Heathcliff, more kindly than I expected.
"Not at your command!" retorted Hareton. "If you set store on him, you'd better be quiet."
"Then I hope his ghost will haunt you; and I hope Mr. Heathcliff will never get another tenant till the Grange is a ruin," she answered, sharply.
"Hearken, hearken, shoo's cursing on "em!" muttered Joseph, towards whom I had been steering."
He sat within earshot, milking the cows by the light of a lantern, which I seized unceremoniously, and, calling out that I would send it back on the morrow, rushed to the nearest postern.
"Maister, maister, he's staling t" lanthern!' shouted the ancient, pursuing my retreat. "Hey, Gnasher! Hey, dog! Hey Wolf, holld him, holld him!"
On opening the little door, two hairy monsters flew at my throat, bearing me down, and extinguishing the light; while a mingled guffaw from Heathcliff and Hareton put the copestone on my rage and humiliation. Fortunately, the beasts seemed more bent on stretching their paws, and yawning, and flourishing their tails, than devouring me alive; but they would suffer no resurrection, and I was forced to lie till their malignant masters pleased to deliver me: then, hatless and trembling with wrath, I ordered the miscreants to let me out—on their peril to keep me one minute longer—with several incoherent threats of retaliation that, in their indefinite depth of virulency, smacked of King Lear.
The vehemence of my agitation brought on a copious bleeding at the nose, and still Heathcliff laughed, and still I scolded. I don't know what would have concluded the scene, had there not been one person at hand rather more rational than myself, and more benevolent than my entertainer. This was Zillah, the stout housewife; who at length issued forth to inquire into the nature of the uproar. She thought that some of them had been laying violent hands on me; and, not daring to attack her master, she turned her vocal artillery against the younger scoundrel.
"Well, Mr. Earnshaw," she cried, "I wonder what you'll have agait next? Are we going to murder folk on our very door–stones? I see this house will never do for me—look at t" poor lad, he's fair choking! Wisht, wisht; you mun'n't go on so. Come in, and I'll cure that: there now, hold ye still.'
With these words she suddenly splashed a pint of icy water down my neck, and pulled me into the kitchen. Mr. Heathcliff followed, his accidental merriment expiring quickly in his habitual moroseness.
I was sick exceedingly, and dizzy, and faint; and thus compelled perforce to accept lodgings under his roof. He told Zillah to give me a glass of brandy, and then passed on to the inner room; while she condoled with me on my sorry predicament, and having obeyed his orders, whereby I was somewhat revived, ushered me to bed. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 3 | While leading the way upstairs, she recommended that I should hide the candle, and not make a noise; for her master had an odd notion about the chamber she would put me in, and never let anybody lodge there willingly. I asked the reason. She did not know, she answered: she had only lived there a year or two; and they had so many queer goings on, she could not begin to be curious.
Too stupefied to be curious myself, I fastened my door and glanced round for the bed. The whole furniture consisted of a chair, a clothes–press, and a large oak case, with squares cut out near the top resembling coach windows. Having approached this structure, I looked inside, and perceived it to be a singular sort of old–fashioned couch, very conveniently designed to obviate the necessity for every member of the family having a room to himself. In fact, it formed a little closet, and the ledge of a window, which it enclosed, served as a table. I slid back the panelled sides, got in with my light, pulled them together again, and felt secure against the vigilance of Heathcliff, and every one else.
The ledge, where I placed my candle, had a few mildewed books piled up in one corner; and it was covered with writing scratched on the paint. This writing, however, was nothing but a name repeated in all kinds of characters, large and small—Catherine Earnshaw, here and there varied to Catherine Heathcliff, and then again to Catherine Linton.
In vapid listlessness I leant my head against the window, and continued spelling over Catherine Earnshaw—Heathcliff—Linton, till my eyes closed; but they had not rested five minutes when a glare of white letters started from the dark, as vivid as spectres—the air swarmed with Catherines; and rousing myself to dispel the obtrusive name, I discovered my candle–wick reclining on one of the antique volumes, and perfuming the place with an odour of roasted calf–skin. I snuffed it off, and, very ill at ease under the influence of cold and lingering nausea, sat up and spread open the injured tome on my knee. It was a Testament, in lean type, and smelling dreadfully musty: a fly–leaf bore the inscription—"Catherine Earnshaw, her book," and a date some quarter of a century back. I shut it, and took up another and another, till I had examined all. Catherine's library was select, and its state of dilapidation proved it to have been well used, though not altogether for a legitimate purpose: scarcely one chapter had escaped, a pen–and–ink commentary—at least the appearance of one—covering every morsel of blank that the printer had left. Some were detached sentences; other parts took the form of a regular diary, scrawled in an unformed, childish hand. At the top of an extra page (quite a treasure, probably, when first lighted on) I was greatly amused to behold an excellent caricature of my friend Joseph,—rudely, yet powerfully sketched. An immediate interest kindled within me for the unknown Catherine, and I began forthwith to decipher her faded hieroglyphics.
"An awful Sunday," commenced the paragraph beneath. "I wish my father were back again. Hindley is a detestable substitute—his conduct to Heathcliff is atrocious—H. and I are going to rebel—we took our initiatory step this evening."
"All day had been flooding with rain; we could not go to church, so Joseph must needs get up a congregation in the garret; and, while Hindley and his wife basked downstairs before a comfortable fire—doing anything but reading their Bibles, I'll answer for it—Heathcliff, myself, and the unhappy ploughboy were commanded to take our prayer–books, and mount: we were ranged in a row, on a sack of corn, groaning and shivering, and hoping that Joseph would shiver too, so that he might give us a short homily for his own sake. A vain idea! The service lasted precisely three hours; and yet my brother had the face to exclaim, when he saw us descending, "What, done already?" On Sunday evenings we used to be permitted to play, if we did not make much noise; now a mere titter is sufficient to send us into corners."
"You forget you have a master here," says the tyrant. "I'll demolish the first who puts me out of temper! I insist on perfect sobriety and silence. Oh, boy! was that you? Frances darling, pull his hair as you go by: I heard him snap his fingers." Frances pulled his hair heartily, and then went and seated herself on her husband's knee, and there they were, like two babies, kissing and talking nonsense by the hour—foolish palaver that we should be ashamed of. We made ourselves as snug as our means allowed in the arch of the dresser. I had just fastened our pinafores together, and hung them up for a curtain, when in comes Joseph, on an errand from the stables. He tears down my handiwork, boxes my ears, and croaks:"
"'T" maister nobbut just buried, and Sabbath not o'ered, und t' sound o' t' gospel still i' yer lugs, and ye darr be laiking! Shame on ye! sit ye down, ill childer! there's good books eneugh if ye'll read 'em: sit ye down, and think o' yer sowls!"
"Saying this, he compelled us so to square our positions that we might receive from the far–off fire a dull ray to show us the text of the lumber he thrust upon us. I could not bear the employment. I took my dingy volume by the scroop, and hurled it into the dog–kennel, vowing I hated a good book. Heathcliff kicked his to the same place. Then there was a hubbub!"
"Maister Hindley!" shouted our chaplain. "Maister, coom hither! Miss Cathy's riven th' back off 'Th' Helmet o' Salvation,' un' Heathcliff's pawsed his fit into t' first part o' 'T' Brooad Way to Destruction!' It's fair flaysome that ye let 'em go on this gait. Ech! th' owd man wad ha' laced 'em properly—but he's goan!"
"Hindley hurried up from his paradise on the hearth, and seizing one of us by the collar, and the other by the arm, hurled both into the back–kitchen; where, Joseph asseverated, 'owd Nick would fetch us as sure as we were living: and, so comforted, we each sought a separate nook to await his advent. I reached this book, and a pot of ink from a shelf, and pushed the house–door ajar to give me light, and I have got the time on with writing for twenty minutes; but my companion is impatient, and proposes that we should appropriate the dairywoman's cloak, and have a scamper on the moors, under its shelter. A pleasant suggestion—and then, if the surly old man come in, he may believe his prophecy verified—we cannot be damper, or colder, in the rain than we are here." |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 4 | I suppose Catherine fulfilled her project, for the next sentence took up another subject: she waxed lachrymose.
"How little did I dream that Hindley would ever make me cry so!" she wrote. "My head aches, till I cannot keep it on the pillow; and still I can't give over. Poor Heathcliff! Hindley calls him a vagabond, and won't let him sit with us, nor eat with us any more; and, he says, he and I must not play together, and threatens to turn him out of the house if we break his orders. He has been blaming our father (how dared he?) for treating H. too liberally; and swears he will reduce him to his right place—" |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 5 | I began to nod drowsily over the dim page: my eye wandered from manuscript to print. I saw a red ornamented title—"Seventy Times Seven, and the First of the Seventy–First." A Pious Discourse delivered by the Reverend Jabez Branderham, in the Chapel of Gimmerden Sough.' And while I was, half–consciously, worrying my brain to guess what Jabez Branderham would make of his subject, I sank back in bed, and fell asleep. Alas, for the effects of bad tea and bad temper! What else could it be that made me pass such a terrible night? I don't remember another that I can at all compare with it since I was capable of suffering.
I began to dream, almost before I ceased to be sensible of my locality. I thought it was morning; and I had set out on my way home, with Joseph for a guide. The snow lay yards deep in our road; and, as we floundered on, my companion wearied me with constant reproaches that I had not brought a pilgrim's staff: telling me that I could never get into the house without one, and boastfully flourishing a heavy–headed cudgel, which I understood to be so denominated. For a moment I considered it absurd that I should need such a weapon to gain admittance into my own residence. Then a new idea flashed across me. I was not going there: we were journeying to hear the famous Jabez Branderham preach, from the text—"Seventy Times Seven;" and either Joseph, the preacher, or I had committed the "First of the Seventy–First," and were to be publicly exposed and excommunicated.
We came to the chapel. I have passed it really in my walks, twice or thrice; it lies in a hollow, between two hills: an elevated hollow, near a swamp, whose peaty moisture is said to answer all the purposes of embalming on the few corpses deposited there. The roof has been kept whole hitherto; but as the clergyman's stipend is only twenty pounds per annum, and a house with two rooms, threatening speedily to determine into one, no clergyman will undertake the duties of pastor: especially as it is currently reported that his flock would rather let him starve than increase the living by one penny from their own pockets. However, in my dream, Jabez had a full and attentive congregation; and he preached—good God! what a sermon; divided into four hundred and ninety parts, each fully equal to an ordinary address from the pulpit, and each discussing a separate sin! Where he searched for them, I cannot tell. He had his private manner of interpreting the phrase, and it seemed necessary the brother should sin different sins on every occasion. They were of the most curious character: odd transgressions that I never imagined previously.
Oh, how weary I grow. How I writhed, and yawned, and nodded, and revived! How I pinched and pricked myself, and rubbed my eyes, and stood up, and sat down again, and nudged Joseph to inform me if he would ever have done. I was condemned to hear all out: finally, he reached the "First of the Seventy–First." At that crisis, a sudden inspiration descended on me; I was moved to rise and denounce Jabez Branderham as the sinner of the sin that no Christian need pardon.
"Sir," I exclaimed, "sitting here within these four walls, at one stretch, I have endured and forgiven the four hundred and ninety heads of your discourse. Seventy times seven times have I plucked up my hat and been about to depart—Seventy times seven times have you preposterously forced me to resume my seat. The four hundred and ninety–first is too much. Fellow–martyrs, have at him! Drag him down, and crush him to atoms, that the place which knows him may know him no more!"
"Thou art the Man!" cried Jabez, after a solemn pause, leaning over his cushion. "Seventy times seven times didst thou gapingly contort thy visage—seventy times seven did I take counsel with my soul—Lo, this is human weakness: this also may be absolved! The First of the Seventy–First is come. Brethren, execute upon him the judgment written. Such honour have all His saints!"
With that concluding word, the whole assembly, exalting their pilgrim's staves, rushed round me in a body; and I, having no weapon to raise in self–defence, commenced grappling with Joseph, my nearest and most ferocious assailant, for his. In the confluence of the multitude, several clubs crossed; blows, aimed at me, fell on other sconces. Presently the whole chapel resounded with rappings and counter rappings: every man's hand was against his neighbour; and Branderham, unwilling to remain idle, poured forth his zeal in a shower of loud taps on the boards of the pulpit, which responded so smartly that, at last, to my unspeakable relief, they woke me. And what was it that had suggested the tremendous tumult? What had played Jabez's part in the row? Merely the branch of a fir–tree that touched my lattice as the blast wailed by, and rattled its dry cones against the panes! I listened doubtingly an instant; detected the disturber, then turned and dozed, and dreamt again: if possible, still more disagreeably than before.
This time, I remembered I was lying in the oak closet, and I heard distinctly the gusty wind, and the driving of the snow; I heard, also, the fir bough repeat its teasing sound, and ascribed it to the right cause: but it annoyed me so much, that I resolved to silence it, if possible; and, I thought, I rose and endeavoured to unhasp the casement. The hook was soldered into the staple: a circumstance observed by me when awake, but forgotten. "I must stop it, nevertheless!" I muttered, knocking my knuckles through the glass, and stretching an arm out to seize the importunate branch; instead of which, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice–cold hand! The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed, "Let me in—let me in!"
"Who are you?" I asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself. "Catherine Linton," it replied, shiveringly (why did I think of Linton? I had read Earnshaw twenty times for Linton)—"I'm come home: I'd lost my way on the moor!" As it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a child's face looking through the window. Terror made me cruel; and, finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes: still it wailed, "Let me in!" and maintained its tenacious gripe, almost maddening me with fear. "How can I!" I said at length. "Let me go, if you want me to let you in!" The fingers relaxed, I snatched mine through the hole, hurriedly piled the books up in a pyramid against it, and stopped my ears to exclude the lamentable prayer. I seemed to keep them closed above a quarter of an hour; yet, the instant I listened again, there was the doleful cry moaning on! "Begone!" I shouted. "I'll never let you in, not if you beg for twenty years."
"It is twenty years," mourned the voice: "twenty years. I've been a waif for twenty years!" Thereat began a feeble scratching outside, and the pile of books moved as if thrust forward. I tried to jump up; but could not stir a limb; and so yelled aloud, in a frenzy of fright. To my confusion, I discovered the yell was not ideal: hasty footsteps approached my chamber door; somebody pushed it open, with a vigorous hand, and a light glimmered through the squares at the top of the bed. I sat shuddering yet, and wiping the perspiration from my forehead: the intruder appeared to hesitate, and muttered to himself. At last, he said, in a half–whisper, plainly not expecting an answer, "Is any one here?" I considered it best to confess my presence; for I knew Heathcliff's accents, and feared he might search further, if I kept quiet. With this intention, I turned and opened the panels. I shall not soon forget the effect my action produced.
Heathcliff stood near the entrance, in his shirt and trousers; with a candle dripping over his fingers, and his face as white as the wall behind him. The first creak of the oak startled him like an electric shock: the light leaped from his hold to a distance of some feet, and his agitation was so extreme, that he could hardly pick it up.
"It is only your guest, sir," I called out, desirous to spare him the humiliation of exposing his cowardice further. "I had the misfortune to scream in my sleep, owing to a frightful nightmare. I'm sorry I disturbed you."
"Oh, God confound you, Mr. Lockwood! I wish you were at the—" commenced my host, setting the candle on a chair, because he found it impossible to hold it steady. "And who showed you up into this room?" he continued, crushing his nails into his palms, and grinding his teeth to subdue the maxillary convulsions. "Who was it? I've a good mind to turn them out of the house this moment?"
"It was your servant Zillah," I replied, flinging myself on to the floor, and rapidly resuming my garments. "I should not care if you did, Mr. Heathcliff; she richly deserves it. I suppose that she wanted to get another proof that the place was haunted, at my expense. Well, it is—swarming with ghosts and goblins! You have reason in shutting it up, I assure you. No one will thank you for a doze in such a den!"
"What do you mean?" asked Heathcliff, "and what are you doing? Lie down and finish out the night, since you are here; but, for heaven's sake! don't repeat that horrid noise: nothing could excuse it, unless you were having your throat cut!"
"If the little fiend had got in at the window, she probably would have strangled me!" I returned. "I'm not going to endure the persecutions of your hospitable ancestors again. Was not the Reverend Jabez Branderham akin to you on the mother's side? And that minx, Catherine Linton, or Earnshaw, or however she was called—she must have been a changeling—wicked little soul! She told me she had been walking the earth these twenty years: a just punishment for her mortal transgressions, I've no doubt!"
Scarcely were these words uttered when I recollected the association of Heathcliff's with Catherine's name in the book, which had completely slipped from my memory, till thus awakened. I blushed at my inconsideration: but, without showing further consciousness of the offence, I hastened to add—"The truth is, sir, I passed the first part of the night in—" Here I stopped afresh—I was about to say "perusing those old volumes," then it would have revealed my knowledge of their written, as well as their printed, contents; so, correcting myself, I went on—"in spelling over the name scratched on that window–ledge. A monotonous occupation, calculated to set me asleep, like counting, or—"
"What can you mean by talking in this way to me!" thundered Heathcliff with savage vehemence. "How—how dare you, under my roof?—God! he's mad to speak so!" And he struck his forehead with rage.
I did not know whether to resent this language or pursue my explanation; but he seemed so powerfully affected that I took pity and proceeded with my dreams; affirming I had never heard the appellation of "Catherine Linton" before, but reading it often over produced an impression which personified itself when I had no longer my imagination under control. Heathcliff gradually fell back into the shelter of the bed, as I spoke; finally sitting down almost concealed behind it. I guessed, however, by his irregular and intercepted breathing, that he struggled to vanquish an excess of violent emotion. Not liking to show him that I had heard the conflict, I continued my toilette rather noisily, looked at my watch, and soliloquised on the length of the night: "Not three o'clock yet! I could have taken oath it had been six. Time stagnates here: we must surely have retired to rest at eight!"
"Always at nine in winter, and rise at four," said my host, suppressing a groan: and, as I fancied, by the motion of his arm's shadow, dashing a tear from his eyes. "Mr. Lockwood," he added, "you may go into my room: you'll only be in the way, coming down–stairs so early: and your childish outcry has sent sleep to the devil for me."
"And for me, too," I replied. "I'll walk in the yard till daylight, and then I'll be off; and you need not dread a repetition of my intrusion. I'm now quite cured of seeking pleasure in society, be it country or town. A sensible man ought to find sufficient company in himself."
"Delightful company!" muttered Heathcliff. "Take the candle, and go where you please. I shall join you directly. Keep out of the yard, though, the dogs are unchained; and the house—Juno mounts sentinel there, and—nay, you can only ramble about the steps and passages. But, away with you! I'll come in two minutes!"
I obeyed, so far as to quit the chamber; when, ignorant where the narrow lobbies led, I stood still, and was witness, involuntarily, to a piece of superstition on the part of my landlord which belied, oddly, his apparent sense. He got on to the bed, and wrenched open the lattice, bursting, as he pulled at it, into an uncontrollable passion of tears. "Come in! come in!" he sobbed. "Cathy, do come. Oh, do—once more! Oh! my heart's darling! hear me this time, Catherine, at last!" The spectre showed a spectre's ordinary caprice: it gave no sign of being; but the snow and wind whirled wildly through, even reaching my station, and blowing out the light.
There was such anguish in the gush of grief that accompanied this raving, that my compassion made me overlook its folly, and I drew off, half angry to have listened at all, and vexed at having related my ridiculous nightmare, since it produced that agony; though why was beyond my comprehension. I descended cautiously to the lower regions, and landed in the back–kitchen, where a gleam of fire, raked compactly together, enabled me to rekindle my candle. Nothing was stirring except a brindled, grey cat, which crept from the ashes, and saluted me with a querulous mew.
Two benches, shaped in sections of a circle, nearly enclosed the hearth; on one of these I stretched myself, and Grimalkin mounted the other. We were both of us nodding ere any one invaded our retreat, and then it was Joseph, shuffling down a wooden ladder that vanished in the roof, through a trap: the ascent to his garret, I suppose. He cast a sinister look at the little flame which I had enticed to play between the ribs, swept the cat from its elevation, and bestowing himself in the vacancy, commenced the operation of stuffing a three–inch pipe with tobacco. My presence in his sanctum was evidently esteemed a piece of impudence too shameful for remark: he silently applied the tube to his lips, folded his arms, and puffed away. I let him enjoy the luxury unannoyed; and after sucking out his last wreath, and heaving a profound sigh, he got up, and departed as solemnly as he came.
A more elastic footstep entered next; and now I opened my mouth for a "good–morning," but closed it again, the salutation unachieved; for Hareton Earnshaw was performing his orison sotto voce, in a series of curses directed against every object he touched, while he rummaged a corner for a spade or shovel to dig through the drifts. He glanced over the back of the bench, dilating his nostrils, and thought as little of exchanging civilities with me as with my companion the cat. I guessed, by his preparations, that egress was allowed, and, leaving my hard couch, made a movement to follow him. He noticed this, and thrust at an inner door with the end of his spade, intimating by an inarticulate sound that there was the place where I must go, if I changed my locality.
It opened into the house, where the females were already astir; Zillah urging flakes of flame up the chimney with a colossal bellows; and Mrs. Heathcliff, kneeling on the hearth, reading a book by the aid of the blaze. She held her hand interposed between the furnace–heat and her eyes, and seemed absorbed in her occupation; desisting from it only to chide the servant for covering her with sparks, or to push away a dog, now and then, that snoozled its nose overforwardly into her face. I was surprised to see Heathcliff there also. He stood by the fire, his back towards me, just finishing a stormy scene with poor Zillah; who ever and anon interrupted her labour to pluck up the corner of her apron, and heave an indignant groan.
"And you, you worthless—" he broke out as I entered, turning to his daughter–in–law, and employing an epithet as harmless as duck, or sheep, but generally represented by a dash—. "There you are, at your idle tricks again! The rest of them do earn their bread—you live on my charity! Put your trash away, and find something to do. You shall pay me for the plague of having you eternally in my sight—do you hear, damnable jade?"
"I'll put my trash away, because you can make me if I refuse," answered the young lady, closing her book, and throwing it on a chair. "But I'll not do anything, though you should swear your tongue out, except what I please!"
Heathcliff lifted his hand, and the speaker sprang to a safer distance, obviously acquainted with its weight. Having no desire to be entertained by a cat–and–dog combat, I stepped forward briskly, as if eager to partake the warmth of the hearth, and innocent of any knowledge of the interrupted dispute. Each had enough decorum to suspend further hostilities: Heathcliff placed his fists, out of temptation, in his pockets; Mrs. Heathcliff curled her lip, and walked to a seat far off, where she kept her word by playing the part of a statue during the remainder of my stay. That was not long. I declined joining their breakfast, and, at the first gleam of dawn, took an opportunity of escaping into the free air, now clear, and still, and cold as impalpable ice.
My landlord halloed for me to stop ere I reached the bottom of the garden, and offered to accompany me across the moor. It was well he did, for the whole hill–back was one billowy, white ocean; the swells and falls not indicating corresponding rises and depressions in the ground: many pits, at least, were filled to a level; and entire ranges of mounds, the refuse of the quarries, blotted from the chart which my yesterday's walk left pictured in my mind. I had remarked on one side of the road, at intervals of six or seven yards, a line of upright stones, continued through the whole length of the barren: these were erected and daubed with lime on purpose to serve as guides in the dark, and also when a fall, like the present, confounded the deep swamps on either hand with the firmer path: but, excepting a dirty dot pointing up here and there, all traces of their existence had vanished: and my companion found it necessary to warn me frequently to steer to the right or left, when I imagined I was following, correctly, the windings of the road.
We exchanged little conversation, and he halted at the entrance of Thrushcross Park, saying, I could make no error there. Our adieux were limited to a hasty bow, and then I pushed forward, trusting to my own resources; for the porter's lodge is untenanted as yet. The distance from the gate to the grange is two miles; I believe I managed to make it four, what with losing myself among the trees, and sinking up to the neck in snow: a predicament which only those who have experienced it can appreciate. At any rate, whatever were my wanderings, the clock chimed twelve as I entered the house; and that gave exactly an hour for every mile of the usual way from Wuthering Heights.
My human fixture and her satellites rushed to welcome me; exclaiming, tumultuously, they had completely given me up: everybody conjectured that I perished last night; and they were wondering how they must set about the search for my remains. I bid them be quiet, now that they saw me returned, and, benumbed to my very heart, I dragged up–stairs; whence, after putting on dry clothes, and pacing to and fro thirty or forty minutes, to restore the animal heat, I adjourned to my study, feeble as a kitten: almost too much so to enjoy the cheerful fire and smoking coffee which the servant had prepared for my refreshment. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 6 | What vain weathercocks we are! I, who had determined to hold myself independent of all social intercourse, and thanked my stars that, at length, I had lighted on a spot where it was next to impracticable—I, weak wretch, after maintaining till dusk a struggle with low spirits and solitude, was finally compelled to strike my colours; and under pretence of gaining information concerning the necessities of my establishment, I desired Mrs. Dean, when she brought in supper, to sit down while I ate it; hoping sincerely she would prove a regular gossip, and either rouse me to animation or lull me to sleep by her talk.
"You have lived here a considerable time," I commenced; "did you not say sixteen years?"
"Eighteen, sir: I came when the mistress was married, to wait on her; after she died, the master retained me for his housekeeper."
"Indeed."
There ensued a pause. She was not a gossip, I feared; unless about her own affairs, and those could hardly interest me. However, having studied for an interval, with a fist on either knee, and a cloud of meditation over her ruddy countenance, she ejaculated—"Ah, times are greatly changed since then!"
"Yes," I remarked, "you've seen a good many alterations, I suppose?"
"I have: and troubles too," she said.
"Oh, I'll turn the talk on my landlord's family!" I thought to myself. "A good subject to start! And that pretty girl–widow, I should like to know her history: whether she be a native of the country, or, as is more probable, an exotic that the surly indigenae will not recognise for kin." With this intention I asked Mrs. Dean why Heathcliff let Thrushcross Grange, and preferred living in a situation and residence so much inferior. "Is he not rich enough to keep the estate in good order?" I inquired.
"Rich, sir!" she returned. "He has nobody knows what money, and every year it increases. Yes, yes, he's rich enough to live in a finer house than this: but he's very near—close–handed; and, if he had meant to flit to Thrushcross Grange, as soon as he heard of a good tenant he could not have borne to miss the chance of getting a few hundreds more. It is strange people should be so greedy, when they are alone in the world!"
"He had a son, it seems?"
"Yes, he had one—he is dead."
"And that young lady, Mrs. Heathcliff, is his widow?"
"Yes."
"Where did she come from originally?"
"Why, sir, she is my late master's daughter: Catherine Linton was her maiden name. I nursed her, poor thing! I did wish Mr. Heathcliff would remove here, and then we might have been together again."
"What! Catherine Linton?" I exclaimed, astonished. But a minute's reflection convinced me it was not my ghostly Catherine. Then,' I continued, "my predecessor's name was Linton?"
"It was."
"And who is that Earnshaw: Hareton Earnshaw, who lives with Mr. Heathcliff? Are they relations?"
"No; he is the late Mrs. Linton's nephew."
"The young lady's cousin, then?"
"Yes; and her husband was her cousin also: one on the mother's, the other on the father's side: Heathcliff married Mr. Linton's sister."
"I see the house at Wuthering Heights has "Earnshaw" carved over the front door. Are they an old family?"
"Very old, sir; and Hareton is the last of them, as our Miss Cathy is of us—I mean, of the Lintons. Have you been to Wuthering Heights? I beg pardon for asking; but I should like to hear how she is!"
"Mrs. Heathcliff? she looked very well, and very handsome; yet, I think, not very happy."
"Oh dear, I don't wonder! And how did you like the master?"
"A rough fellow, rather, Mrs. Dean. Is not that his character?"
"Rough as a saw–edge, and hard as whinstone! The less you meddle with him the better."
"He must have had some ups and downs in life to make him such a churl. Do you know anything of his history?"
"It's a cuckoo's, sir—I know all about it: except where he was born, and who were his parents, and how he got his money at first. And Hareton has been cast out like an unfledged dunnock! The unfortunate lad is the only one in all this parish that does not guess how he has been cheated."
"Well, Mrs. Dean, it will be a charitable deed to tell me something of my neighbours: I feel I shall not rest if I go to bed; so be good enough to sit and chat an hour."
"Oh, certainly, sir! I'll just fetch a little sewing, and then I'll sit as long as you please. But you've caught cold: I saw you shivering, and you must have some gruel to drive it out."
The worthy woman bustled off, and I crouched nearer the fire; my head felt hot, and the rest of me chill: moreover, I was excited, almost to a pitch of foolishness, through my nerves and brain. This caused me to feel, not uncomfortable, but rather fearful (as I am still) of serious effects from the incidents of to–day and yesterday. She returned presently, bringing a smoking basin and a basket of work; and, having placed the former on the hob, drew in her seat, evidently pleased to find me so companionable.
Before I came to live here, she commenced—waiting no farther invitation to her story—I was almost always at Wuthering Heights; because my mother had nursed Mr. Hindley Earnshaw, that was Hareton's father, and I got used to playing with the children: I ran errands too, and helped to make hay, and hung about the farm ready for anything that anybody would set me to. One fine summer morning—it was the beginning of harvest, I remember—Mr. Earnshaw, the old master, came down–stairs, dressed for a journey; and, after he had told Joseph what was to be done during the day, he turned to Hindley, and Cathy, and me—for I sat eating my porridge with them—and he said, speaking to his son, "Now, my bonny man, I'm going to Liverpool to–day, what shall I bring you? You may choose what you like: only let it be little, for I shall walk there and back: sixty miles each way, that is a long spell!" Hindley named a fiddle, and then he asked Miss Cathy; she was hardly six years old, but she could ride any horse in the stable, and she chose a whip. He did not forget me; for he had a kind heart, though he was rather severe sometimes. He promised to bring me a pocketful of apples and pears, and then he kissed his children, said good–bye, and set off.
It seemed a long while to us all—the three days of his absence—and often did little Cathy ask when he would be home. Mrs. Earnshaw expected him by supper–time on the third evening, and she put the meal off hour after hour; there were no signs of his coming, however, and at last the children got tired of running down to the gate to look. Then it grew dark; she would have had them to bed, but they begged sadly to be allowed to stay up; and, just about eleven o'clock, the door–latch was raised quietly, and in stepped the master. He threw himself into a chair, laughing and groaning, and bid them all stand off, for he was nearly killed—he would not have such another walk for the three kingdoms.
"And at the end of it to be flighted to death!" he said, opening his great–coat, which he held bundled up in his arms. "See here, wife! I was never so beaten with anything in my life: but you must e'en take it as a gift of God; though it's as dark almost as if it came from the devil."
We crowded round, and over Miss Cathy's head I had a peep at a dirty, ragged, black–haired child; big enough both to walk and talk: indeed, its face looked older than Catherine's; yet when it was set on its feet, it only stared round, and repeated over and over again some gibberish that nobody could understand. I was frightened, and Mrs. Earnshaw was ready to fling it out of doors: she did fly up, asking how he could fashion to bring that gipsy brat into the house, when they had their own bairns to feed and fend for? What he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad? The master tried to explain the matter; but he was really half dead with fatigue, and all that I could make out, amongst her scolding, was a tale of his seeing it starving, and houseless, and as good as dumb, in the streets of Liverpool, where he picked it up and inquired for its owner. Not a soul knew to whom it belonged, he said; and his money and time being both limited, he thought it better to take it home with him at once, than run into vain expenses there: because he was determined he would not leave it as he found it. Well, the conclusion was, that my mistress grumbled herself calm; and Mr. Earnshaw told me to wash it, and give it clean things, and let it sleep with the children.
Hindley and Cathy contented themselves with looking and listening till peace was restored: then, both began searching their father's pockets for the presents he had promised them. The former was a boy of fourteen, but when he drew out what had been a fiddle, crushed to morsels in the great–coat, he blubbered aloud; and Cathy, when she learned the master had lost her whip in attending on the stranger, showed her humour by grinning and spitting at the stupid little thing; earning for her pains a sound blow from her father, to teach her cleaner manners. They entirely refused to have it in bed with them, or even in their room; and I had no more sense, so I put it on the landing of the stairs, hoping it might he gone on the morrow. By chance, or else attracted by hearing his voice, it crept to Mr. Earnshaw's door, and there he found it on quitting his chamber. Inquiries were made as to how it got there; I was obliged to confess, and in recompense for my cowardice and inhumanity was sent out of the house.
This was Heathcliff's first introduction to the family. On coming back a few days afterwards (for I did not consider my banishment perpetual), I found they had christened him "Heathcliff": it was the name of a son who died in childhood, and it has served him ever since, both for Christian and surname. Miss Cathy and he were now very thick; but Hindley hated him: and to say the truth I did the same; and we plagued and went on with him shamefully: for I wasn't reasonable enough to feel my injustice, and the mistress never put in a word on his behalf when she saw him wronged.
He seemed a sullen, patient child; hardened, perhaps, to ill–treatment: he would stand Hindley's blows without winking or shedding a tear, and my pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes, as if he had hurt himself by accident, and nobody was to blame. This endurance made old Earnshaw furious, when he discovered his son persecuting the poor fatherless child, as he called him. He took to Heathcliff strangely, believing all he said (for that matter, he said precious little, and generally the truth), and petting him up far above Cathy, who was too mischievous and wayward for a favourite.
So, from the very beginning, he bred bad feeling in the house; and at Mrs. Earnshaw's death, which happened in less than two years after, the young master had learned to regard his father as an oppressor rather than a friend, and Heathcliff as a usurper of his parent's affections and his privileges; and he grew bitter with brooding over these injuries. I sympathised a while; but when the children fell ill of the measles, and I had to tend them, and take on me the cares of a woman at once, I changed my idea. Heathcliff was dangerously sick; and while he lay at the worst he would have me constantly by his pillow: I suppose he felt I did a good deal for him, and he hadn't wit to guess that I was compelled to do it. However, I will say this, he was the quietest child that ever nurse watched over. The difference between him and the others forced me to be less partial. Cathy and her brother harassed me terribly: he was as uncomplaining as a lamb; though hardness, not gentleness, made him give little trouble.
He got through, and the doctor affirmed it was in a great measure owing to me, and praised me for my care. I was vain of his commendations, and softened towards the being by whose means I earned them, and thus Hindley lost his last ally: still I couldn't dote on Heathcliff, and I wondered often what my master saw to admire so much in the sullen boy; who never, to my recollection, repaid his indulgence by any sign of gratitude. He was not insolent to his benefactor, he was simply insensible; though knowing perfectly the hold he had on his heart, and conscious he had only to speak and all the house would be obliged to bend to his wishes. As an instance, I remember Mr. Earnshaw once bought a couple of colts at the parish fair, and gave the lads each one. Heathcliff took the handsomest, but it soon fell lame, and when he discovered it, he said to Hindley—
"You must exchange horses with me: I don't like mine; and if you won't I shall tell your father of the three thrashings you've given me this week, and show him my arm, which is black to the shoulder." Hindley put out his tongue, and cuffed him over the ears. "You'd better do it at once," he persisted, escaping to the porch (they were in the stable): "you will have to: and if I speak of these blows, you'll get them again with interest."
"Off, dog!" cried Hindley, threatening him with an iron weight used for weighing potatoes and hay. "Throw it," he replied, standing still, "and then I'll tell how you boasted that you would turn me out of doors as soon as he died, and see whether he will not turn you out directly." Hindley threw it, hitting him on the breast, and down he fell, but staggered up immediately, breathless and white; and, had not I prevented it, he would have gone just so to the master, and got full revenge by letting his condition plead for him, intimating who had caused it. "Take my colt, Gipsy, then!" said young Earnshaw. "And I pray that he may break your neck: take him, and he damned, you beggarly interloper! and wheedle my father out of all he has: only afterwards show him what you are, imp of Satan.—And take that, I hope he'll kick out your brains!"
Heathcliff had gone to loose the beast, and shift it to his own stall; he was passing behind it, when Hindley finished his speech by knocking him under its feet, and without stopping to examine whether his hopes were fulfilled, ran away as fast as he could. I was surprised to witness how coolly the child gathered himself up, and went on with his intention; exchanging saddles and all, and then sitting down on a bundle of hay to overcome the qualm which the violent blow occasioned, before he entered the house. I persuaded him easily to let me lay the blame of his bruises on the horse: he minded little what tale was told since he had what he wanted. He complained so seldom, indeed, of such stirs as these, that I really thought him not vindictive: I was deceived completely, as you will hear. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 7 | In the course of time Mr. Earnshaw began to fail. He had been active and healthy, yet his strength left him suddenly; and when he was confined to the chimney–corner he grew grievously irritable. A nothing vexed him; and suspected slights of his authority nearly threw him into fits. This was especially to be remarked if any one attempted to impose upon, or domineer over, his favourite: he was painfully jealous lest a word should be spoken amiss to him; seeming to have got into his head the notion that, because he liked Heathcliff, all hated, and longed to do him an ill–turn. It was a disadvantage to the lad; for the kinder among us did not wish to fret the master, so we humoured his partiality; and that humouring was rich nourishment to the child's pride and black tempers. Still it became in a manner necessary; twice, or thrice, Hindley's manifestation of scorn, while his father was near, roused the old man to a fury: he seized his stick to strike him, and shook with rage that he could not do it.
At last, our curate (we had a curate then who made the living answer by teaching the little Lintons and Earnshaws, and farming his bit of land himself) advised that the young man should be sent to college; and Mr. Earnshaw agreed, though with a heavy spirit, for he said—"Hindley was nought, and would never thrive as where he wandered."
I hoped heartily we should have peace now. It hurt me to think the master should be made uncomfortable by his own good deed. I fancied the discontent of age and disease arose from his family disagreements; as he would have it that it did: really, you know, sir, it was in his sinking frame. We might have got on tolerably, notwithstanding, but for two people—Miss Cathy, and Joseph, the servant: you saw him, I daresay, up yonder. He was, and is yet most likely, the wearisomest self–righteous Pharisee that ever ransacked a Bible to rake the promises to himself and fling the curses to his neighbours. By his knack of sermonising and pious discoursing, he contrived to make a great impression on Mr. Earnshaw; and the more feeble the master became, the more influence he gained. He was relentless in worrying him about his soul's concerns, and about ruling his children rigidly. He encouraged him to regard Hindley as a reprobate; and, night after night, he regularly grumbled out a long string of tales against Heathcliff and Catherine: always minding to flatter Earnshaw's weakness by heaping the heaviest blame on the latter.
Certainly she had ways with her such as I never saw a child take up before; and she put all of us past our patience fifty times and oftener in a day: from the hour she came down–stairs till the hour she went to bed, we had not a minute's security that she wouldn't be in mischief. Her spirits were always at high–water mark, her tongue always going—singing, laughing, and plaguing everybody who would not do the same. A wild, wicked slip she was—but she had the bonniest eye, the sweetest smile, and lightest foot in the parish: and, after all, I believe she meant no harm; for when once she made you cry in good earnest, it seldom happened that she would not keep you company, and oblige you to be quiet that you might comfort her. She was much too fond of Heathcliff. The greatest punishment we could invent for her was to keep her separate from him: yet she got chided more than any of us on his account. In play, she liked exceedingly to act the little mistress; using her hands freely, and commanding her companions: she did so to me, but I would not bear slapping and ordering; and so I let her know.
Now, Mr. Earnshaw did not understand jokes from his children: he had always been strict and grave with them; and Catherine, on her part, had no idea why her father should be crosser and less patient in his ailing condition than he was in his prime. His peevish reproofs wakened in her a naughty delight to provoke him: she was never so happy as when we were all scolding her at once, and she defying us with her bold, saucy look, and her ready words; turning Joseph's religious curses into ridicule, baiting me, and doing just what her father hated most—showing how her pretended insolence, which he thought real, had more power over Heathcliff than his kindness: how the boy would do her bidding in anything, and his only when it suited his own inclination. After behaving as badly as possible all day, she sometimes came fondling to make it up at night. "Nay, Cathy," the old man would say, "I cannot love thee, thou'rt worse than thy brother. Go, say thy prayers, child, and ask God's pardon. I doubt thy mother and I must rue that we ever reared thee!" That made her cry, at first; and then being repulsed continually hardened her, and she laughed if I told her to say she was sorry for her faults, and beg to be forgiven.
But the hour came, at last, that ended Mr. Earnshaw's troubles on earth. He died quietly in his chair one October evening, seated by the fire–side. A high wind blustered round the house, and roared in the chimney: it sounded wild and stormy, yet it was not cold, and we were all together—I, a little removed from the hearth, busy at my knitting, and Joseph reading his Bible near the table (for the servants generally sat in the house then, after their work was done). Miss Cathy had been sick, and that made her still; she leant against her father's knee, and Heathcliff was lying on the floor with his head in her lap. I remember the master, before he fell into a doze, stroking her bonny hair—it pleased him rarely to see her gentle—and saying, "Why canst thou not always be a good lass, Cathy?" And she turned her face up to his, and laughed, and answered, "Why cannot you always be a good man, father?" But as soon as she saw him vexed again, she kissed his hand, and said she would sing him to sleep. She began singing very low, till his fingers dropped from hers, and his head sank on his breast. Then I told her to hush, and not stir, for fear she should wake him. We all kept as mute as mice a full half–hour, and should have done so longer, only Joseph, having finished his chapter, got up and said that he must rouse the master for prayers and bed. He stepped forward, and called him by name, and touched his shoulder; but he would not move: so he took the candle and looked at him. I thought there was something wrong as he set down the light; and seizing the children each by an arm, whispered them to "frame up–stairs, and make little din—they might pray alone that evening—he had summut to do."
"I shall bid father good–night first," said Catherine, putting her arms round his neck, before we could hinder her. The poor thing discovered her loss directly—she screamed out—"Oh, he's dead, Heathcliff! he's dead!" And they both set up a heart–breaking cry.
I joined my wail to theirs, loud and bitter; but Joseph asked what we could be thinking of to roar in that way over a saint in heaven. He told me to put on my cloak and run to Gimmerton for the doctor and the parson. I could not guess the use that either would be of, then. However, I went, through wind and rain, and brought one, the doctor, back with me; the other said he would come in the morning. Leaving Joseph to explain matters, I ran to the children's room: their door was ajar, I saw they had never lain down, though it was past midnight; but they were calmer, and did not need me to console them. The little souls were comforting each other with better thoughts than I could have hit on: no parson in the world ever pictured heaven so beautifully as they did, in their innocent talk; and, while I sobbed and listened, I could not help wishing we were all there safe together. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 8 | Mr. Hindley came home to the funeral; and—a thing that amazed us, and set the neighbours gossiping right and left—he brought a wife with him. What she was, and where she was born, he never informed us: probably, she had neither money nor name to recommend her, or he would scarcely have kept the union from his father.
She was not one that would have disturbed the house much on her own account. Every object she saw, the moment she crossed the threshold, appeared to delight her; and every circumstance that took place about her: except the preparing for the burial, and the presence of the mourners. I thought she was half silly, from her behaviour while that went on: she ran into her chamber, and made me come with her, though I should have been dressing the children: and there she sat shivering and clasping her hands, and asking repeatedly—"Are they gone yet?" Then she began describing with hysterical emotion the effect it produced on her to see black; and started, and trembled, and, at last, fell a–weeping—and when I asked what was the matter, answered, she didn't know; but she felt so afraid of dying! I imagined her as little likely to die as myself. She was rather thin, but young, and fresh–complexioned, and her eyes sparkled as bright as diamonds. I did remark, to be sure, that mounting the stairs made her breathe very quick; that the least sudden noise set her all in a quiver, and that she coughed troublesomely sometimes: but I knew nothing of what these symptoms portended, and had no impulse to sympathise with her. We don't in general take to foreigners here, Mr. Lockwood, unless they take to us first.
Young Earnshaw was altered considerably in the three years of his absence. He had grown sparer, and lost his colour, and spoke and dressed quite differently; and, on the very day of his return, he told Joseph and me we must thenceforth quarter ourselves in the back–kitchen, and leave the house for him. Indeed, he would have carpeted and papered a small spare room for a parlour; but his wife expressed such pleasure at the white floor and huge glowing fireplace, at the pewter dishes and delf–case, and dog–kennel, and the wide space there was to move about in where they usually sat, that he thought it unnecessary to her comfort, and so dropped the intention.
She expressed pleasure, too, at finding a sister among her new acquaintance; and she prattled to Catherine, and kissed her, and ran about with her, and gave her quantities of presents, at the beginning. Her affection tired very soon, however, and when she grew peevish, Hindley became tyrannical. A few words from her, evincing a dislike to Heathcliff, were enough to rouse in him all his old hatred of the boy. He drove him from their company to the servants, deprived him of the instructions of the curate, and insisted that he should labour out of doors instead; compelling him to do so as hard as any other lad on the farm.
Heathcliff bore his degradation pretty well at first, because Cathy taught him what she learnt, and worked or played with him in the fields. They both promised fair to grow up as rude as savages; the young master being entirely negligent how they behaved, and what they did, so they kept clear of him. He would not even have seen after their going to church on Sundays, only Joseph and the curate reprimanded his carelessness when they absented themselves; and that reminded him to order Heathcliff a flogging, and Catherine a fast from dinner or supper. But it was one of their chief amusements to run away to the moors in the morning and remain there all day, and the after punishment grew a mere thing to laugh at. The curate might set as many chapters as he pleased for Catherine to get by heart, and Joseph might thrash Heathcliff till his arm ached; they forgot everything the minute they were together again: at least the minute they had contrived some naughty plan of revenge; and many a time I've cried to myself to watch them growing more reckless daily, and I not daring to speak a syllable, for fear of losing the small power I still retained over the unfriended creatures. One Sunday evening, it chanced that they were banished from the sitting–room, for making a noise, or a light offence of the kind; and when I went to call them to supper, I could discover them nowhere. We searched the house, above and below, and the yard and stables; they were invisible: and, at last, Hindley in a passion told us to bolt the doors, and swore nobody should let them in that night. The household went to bed; and I, too, anxious to lie down, opened my lattice and put my head out to hearken, though it rained: determined to admit them in spite of the prohibition, should they return. In a while, I distinguished steps coming up the road, and the light of a lantern glimmered through the gate. I threw a shawl over my head and ran to prevent them from waking Mr. Earnshaw by knocking. There was Heathcliff, by himself: it gave me a start to see him alone.
"Where is Miss Catherine?" I cried hurriedly. "No accident, I hope?"
"At Thrushcross Grange," he answered; "and I would have been there too, but they had not the manners to ask me to stay."
"Well, you will catch it!" I said: "you'll never be content till you're sent about your business. What in the world led you wandering to Thrushcross Grange?"
"Let me get off my wet clothes, and I'll tell you all about it, Nelly," he replied. I bid him beware of rousing the master, and while he undressed and I waited to put out the candle, he continued—"Cathy and I escaped from the wash–house to have a ramble at liberty, and getting a glimpse of the Grange lights, we thought we would just go and see whether the Lintons passed their Sunday evenings standing shivering in corners, while their father and mother sat eating and drinking, and singing and laughing, and burning their eyes out before the fire. Do you think they do? Or reading sermons, and being catechised by their manservant, and set to learn a column of Scripture names, if they don't answer properly?"
"Probably not," I responded. "They are good children, no doubt, and don't deserve the treatment you receive, for your bad conduct."
"Don't cant, Nelly," he said: "nonsense! We ran from the top of the Heights to the park, without stopping—Catherine completely beaten in the race, because she was barefoot. You'll have to seek for her shoes in the bog to–morrow. We crept through a broken hedge, groped our way up the path, and planted ourselves on a flower–plot under the drawing–room window. The light came from thence; they had not put up the shutters, and the curtains were only half closed. Both of us were able to look in by standing on the basement, and clinging to the ledge, and we saw—ah! it was beautiful—a splendid place carpeted with crimson, and crimson–covered chairs and tables, and a pure white ceiling bordered by gold, a shower of glass–drops hanging in silver chains from the centre, and shimmering with little soft tapers. Old Mr. and Mrs. Linton were not there; Edgar and his sisters had it entirely to themselves. Shouldn't they have been happy? We should have thought ourselves in heaven! And now, guess what your good children were doing? Isabella—I believe she is eleven, a year younger than Cathy—lay screaming at the farther end of the room, shrieking as if witches were running red–hot needles into her. Edgar stood on the hearth weeping silently, and in the middle of the table sat a little dog, shaking its paw and yelping; which, from their mutual accusations, we understood they had nearly pulled in two between them. The idiots! That was their pleasure! to quarrel who should hold a heap of warm hair, and each begin to cry because both, after struggling to get it, refused to take it. We laughed outright at the petted things; we did despise them! When would you catch me wishing to have what Catherine wanted? or find us by ourselves, seeking entertainment in yelling, and sobbing, and rolling on the ground, divided by the whole room? I'd not exchange, for a thousand lives, my condition here, for Edgar Linton's at Thrushcross Grange—not if I might have the privilege of flinging Joseph off the highest gable, and painting the house–front with Hindley's blood!"
"Hush, hush!" I interrupted. "Still you have not told me, Heathcliff, how Catherine is left behind?"
"I told you we laughed," he answered. "The Lintons heard us, and with one accord they shot like arrows to the door; there was silence, and then a cry, "Oh, mamma, mamma! Oh, papa! Oh, mamma, come here. Oh, papa, oh!" They really did howl out something in that way. We made frightful noises to terrify them still more, and then we dropped off the ledge, because somebody was drawing the bars, and we felt we had better flee. I had Cathy by the hand, and was urging her on, when all at once she fell down. "Run, Heathcliff, run!" she whispered. "They have let the bull–dog loose, and he holds me!" The devil had seized her ankle, Nelly: I heard his abominable snorting. She did not yell out—no! she would have scorned to do it, if she had been spitted on the horns of a mad cow. I did, though: I vociferated curses enough to annihilate any fiend in Christendom; and I got a stone and thrust it between his jaws, and tried with all my might to cram it down his throat. A beast of a servant came up with a lantern, at last, shouting—"Keep fast, Skulker, keep fast!" He changed his note, however, when he saw Skulker's game. The dog was throttled off; his huge, purple tongue hanging half a foot out of his mouth, and his pendent lips streaming with bloody slaver. The man took Cathy up; she was sick: not from fear, I'm certain, but from pain. He carried her in; I followed, grumbling execrations and vengeance. "What prey, Robert?" hallooed Linton from the entrance. "Skulker has caught a little girl, sir," he replied; "and there's a lad here," he added, making a clutch at me, "who looks an out–and–outer! Very like the robbers were for putting them through the window to open the doors to the gang after all were asleep, that they might murder us at their ease. Hold your tongue, you foul–mouthed thief, you! you shall go to the gallows for this. Mr. Linton, sir, don't lay by your gun."
"No, no, Robert," said the old fool. "The rascals knew that yesterday was my rent–day: they thought to have me cleverly. Come in; I'll furnish them a reception. There, John, fasten the chain. Give Skulker some water, Jenny. To beard a magistrate in his stronghold, and on the Sabbath, too! Where will their insolence stop? Oh, my dear Mary, look here! Don't be afraid, it is but a boy—yet the villain scowls so plainly in his face; would it not be a kindness to the country to hang him at once, before he shows his nature in acts as well as features?" He pulled me under the chandelier, and Mrs. Linton placed her spectacles on her nose and raised her hands in horror. The cowardly children crept nearer also, Isabella lisping—"Frightful thing! Put him in the cellar, papa. He's exactly like the son of the fortune–teller that stole my tame pheasant. Isn't he, Edgar?"
"While they examined me, Cathy came round; she heard the last speech, and laughed. Edgar Linton, after an inquisitive stare, collected sufficient wit to recognise her. They see us at church, you know, though we seldom meet them elsewhere. "That's Miss Earnshaw?" he whispered to his mother, "and look how Skulker has bitten her—how her foot bleeds!"
"Miss Earnshaw? Nonsense!" cried the dame; "Miss Earnshaw scouring the country with a gipsy! And yet, my dear, the child is in mourning—surely it is—and she may be lamed for life!"
"What culpable carelessness in her brother!" exclaimed Mr. Linton, turning from me to Catherine. "I've understood from Shielders" (that was the curate, sir) "that he lets her grow up in absolute heathenism. But who is this? Where did she pick up this companion? Oho! I declare he is that strange acquisition my late neighbour made, in his journey to Liverpool—a little Lascar, or an American or Spanish castaway."
"A wicked boy, at all events," remarked the old lady, "and quite unfit for a decent house! Did you notice his language, Linton? I'm shocked that my children should have heard it."
"I recommenced cursing—don't be angry, Nelly—and so Robert was ordered to take me off. I refused to go without Cathy; he dragged me into the garden, pushed the lantern into my hand, assured me that Mr. Earnshaw should be informed of my behaviour, and, bidding me march directly, secured the door again. The curtains were still looped up at one corner, and I resumed my station as spy; because, if Catherine had wished to return, I intended shattering their great glass panes to a million of fragments, unless they let her out. She sat on the sofa quietly. Mrs. Linton took off the grey cloak of the dairy–maid which we had borrowed for our excursion, shaking her head and expostulating with her, I suppose: she was a young lady, and they made a distinction between her treatment and mine. Then the woman–servant brought a basin of warm water, and washed her feet; and Mr. Linton mixed a tumbler of negus, and Isabella emptied a plateful of cakes into her lap, and Edgar stood gaping at a distance. Afterwards, they dried and combed her beautiful hair, and gave her a pair of enormous slippers, and wheeled her to the fire; and I left her, as merry as she could be, dividing her food between the little dog and Skulker, whose nose she pinched as he ate; and kindling a spark of spirit in the vacant blue eyes of the Lintons—a dim reflection from her own enchanting face. I saw they were full of stupid admiration; she is so immeasurably superior to them—to everybody on earth, is she not, Nelly?"
"There will more come of this business than you reckon on," I answered, covering him up and extinguishing the light. "You are incurable, Heathcliff; and Mr. Hindley will have to proceed to extremities, see if he won't." My words came truer than I desired. The luckless adventure made Earnshaw furious. And then Mr. Linton, to mend matters, paid us a visit himself on the morrow, and read the young master such a lecture on the road he guided his family, that he was stirred to look about him, in earnest. Heathcliff received no flogging, but he was told that the first word he spoke to Miss Catherine should ensure a dismissal; and Mrs. Earnshaw undertook to keep her sister–in–law in due restraint when she returned home; employing art, not force: with force she would have found it impossible. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 9 | Cathy stayed at Thrushcross Grange five weeks: till Christmas. By that time her ankle was thoroughly cured, and her manners much improved. The mistress visited her often in the interval, and commenced her plan of reform by trying to raise her self–respect with fine clothes and flattery, which she took readily; so that, instead of a wild, hatless little savage jumping into the house, and rushing to squeeze us all breathless, there "lighted from a handsome black pony a very dignified person, with brown ringlets falling from the cover of a feathered beaver, and a long cloth habit, which she was obliged to hold up with both hands that she might sail in. Hindley lifted her from her horse, exclaiming delightedly, "Why, Cathy, you are quite a beauty! I should scarcely have known you: you look like a lady now. Isabella Linton is not to be compared with her, is she, Frances?"
"Isabella has not her natural advantages," replied his wife: "but she must mind and not grow wild again here. Ellen, help Miss Catherine off with her things—Stay, dear, you will disarrange your curls—let me untie your hat."
I removed the habit, and there shone forth beneath a grand plaid silk frock, white trousers, and burnished shoes; and, while her eyes sparkled joyfully when the dogs came bounding up to welcome her, she dared hardly touch them lest they should fawn upon her splendid garments. She kissed me gently: I was all flour making the Christmas cake, and it would not have done to give me a hug; and then she looked round for Heathcliff. Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw watched anxiously their meeting; thinking it would enable them to judge, in some measure, what grounds they had for hoping to succeed in separating the two friends.
Heathcliff was hard to discover, at first. If he were careless, and uncared for, before Catherine's absence, he had been ten times more so since. Nobody but I even did him the kindness to call him a dirty boy, and bid him wash himself, once a week; and children of his age seldom have a natural pleasure in soap and water. Therefore, not to mention his clothes, which had seen three months' service in mire and dust, and his thick uncombed hair, the surface of his face and hands was dismally beclouded. He might well skulk behind the settle, on beholding such a bright, graceful damsel enter the house, instead of a rough–headed counterpart of himself, as he expected. "Is Heathcliff not here?" she demanded, pulling off her gloves, and displaying fingers wonderfully whitened with doing nothing and staying indoors.
"Heathcliff, you may come forward," cried Mr. Hindley, enjoying his discomfiture, and gratified to see what a forbidding young blackguard he would be compelled to present himself. "You may come and wish Miss Catherine welcome, like the other servants."
Cathy, catching a glimpse of her friend in his concealment, flew to embrace him; she bestowed seven or eight kisses on his cheek within the second, and then stopped, and drawing back, burst into a laugh, exclaiming, "Why, how very black and cross you look! and how—how funny and grim! But that's because I'm used to Edgar and Isabella Linton. Well, Heathcliff, have you forgotten me?"
She had some reason to put the question, for shame and pride threw double gloom over his countenance, and kept him immovable.
"Shake hands, Heathcliff," said Mr. Earnshaw, condescendingly; "once in a way, that is permitted."
"I shall not," replied the boy, finding his tongue at last; "I shall not stand to be laughed at. I shall not bear it!" And he would have broken from the circle, but Miss Cathy seized him again.
"I did not mean to laugh at you," she said; "I could not hinder myself: Heathcliff, shake hands at least! What are you sulky for? It was only that you looked odd. If you wash your face and brush your hair, it will be all right: but you are so dirty!"
She gazed concernedly at the dusky fingers she held in her own, and also at her dress; which she feared had gained no embellishment from its contact with his.
"You needn't have touched me!" he answered, following her eye and snatching away his hand. "I shall be as dirty as I please: and I like to be dirty, and I will be dirty."
With that he dashed headforemost out of the room, amid the merriment of the master and mistress, and to the serious disturbance of Catherine; who could not comprehend how her remarks should have produced such an exhibition of bad temper.
After playing lady's–maid to the new–comer, and putting my cakes in the oven, and making the house and kitchen cheerful with great fires, befitting Christmas–eve, I prepared to sit down and amuse myself by singing carols, all alone; regardless of Joseph's affirmations that he considered the merry tunes I chose as next door to songs. He had retired to private prayer in his chamber, and Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw were engaging Missy's attention by sundry gay trifles bought for her to present to the little Lintons, as an acknowledgment of their kindness. They had invited them to spend the morrow at Wuthering Heights, and the invitation had been accepted, on one condition: Mrs. Linton begged that her darlings might be kept carefully apart from that "naughty swearing boy."
Under these circumstances I remained solitary. I smelt the rich scent of the heating spices; and admired the shining kitchen utensils, the polished clock, decked in holly, the silver mugs ranged on a tray ready to be filled with mulled ale for supper; and above all, the speckless purity of my particular care—the scoured and well–swept floor. I gave due inward applause to every object, and then I remembered how old Earnshaw used to come in when all was tidied, and call me a cant lass, and slip a shilling into my hand as a Christmas–box; and from that I went on to think of his fondness for Heathcliff, and his dread lest he should suffer neglect after death had removed him: and that naturally led me to consider the poor lad's situation now, and from singing I changed my mind to crying. It struck me soon, however, there would be more sense in endeavouring to repair some of his wrongs than shedding tears over them: I got up and walked into the court to seek him. He was not far; I found him smoothing the glossy coat of the new pony in the stable, and feeding the other beasts, according to custom.
"Make haste, Heathcliff!" I said, "the kitchen is so comfortable; and Joseph is up–stairs: make haste, and let me dress you smart before Miss Cathy comes out, and then you can sit together, with the whole hearth to yourselves, and have a long chatter till bedtime."
He proceeded with his task, and never turned his head towards me.
"Come—are you coming?" I continued. "There's a little cake for each of you, nearly enough; and you'll need half–an–hour's donning."
I waited five minutes, but getting no answer left him. Catherine supped with her brother and sister–in–law: Joseph and I joined at an unsociable meal, seasoned with reproofs on one side and sauciness on the other. His cake and cheese remained on the table all night for the fairies. He managed to continue work till nine o'clock, and then marched dumb and dour to his chamber. Cathy sat up late, having a world of things to order for the reception of her new friends: she came into the kitchen once to speak to her old one; but he was gone, and she only stayed to ask what was the matter with him, and then went back. In the morning he rose early; and, as it was a holiday, carried his ill–humour on to the moors; not re–appearing till the family were departed for church. Fasting and reflection seemed to have brought him to a better spirit. He hung about me for a while, and having screwed up his courage, exclaimed abruptly—"Nelly, make me decent, I'm going to be good."
"High time, Heathcliff," I said; "you have grieved Catherine: she's sorry she ever came home, I daresay! It looks as if you envied her, because she is more thought of than you."
The notion of envying Catherine was incomprehensible to him, but the notion of grieving her he understood clearly enough.
"Did she say she was grieved?" he inquired, looking very serious.
"She cried when I told her you were off again this morning."
"Well, I cried last night," he returned, "and I had more reason to cry than she."
"Yes: you had the reason of going to bed with a proud heart and an empty stomach," said I. "Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves. But, if you be ashamed of your touchiness, you must ask pardon, mind, when she comes in. You must go up and offer to kiss her, and say—you know best what to say; only do it heartily, and not as if you thought her converted into a stranger by her grand dress. And now, though I have dinner to get ready, I'll steal time to arrange you so that Edgar Linton shall look quite a doll beside you: and that he does. You are younger, and yet, I'll be bound, you are taller and twice as broad across the shoulders; you could knock him down in a twinkling; don't you feel that you could?"
Heathcliff's face brightened a moment; then it was overcast afresh, and he sighed.
"But, Nelly, if I knocked him down twenty times, that wouldn't make him less handsome or me more so. I wish I had light hair and a fair skin, and was dressed and behaved as well, and had a chance of being as rich as he will be!"
"And cried for mamma at every turn," I added, "and trembled if a country lad heaved his fist against you, and sat at home all day for a shower of rain. Oh, Heathcliff, you are showing a poor spirit! Come to the glass, and I'll let you see what you should wish. Do you mark those two lines between your eyes; and those thick brows, that, instead of rising arched, sink in the middle; and that couple of black fiends, so deeply buried, who never open their windows boldly, but lurk glinting under them, like devil's spies? Wish and learn to smooth away the surly wrinkles, to raise your lids frankly, and change the fiends to confident, innocent angels, suspecting and doubting nothing, and always seeing friends where they are not sure of foes. Don't get the expression of a vicious cur that appears to know the kicks it gets are its desert, and yet hates all the world, as well as the kicker, for what it suffers."
"In other words, I must wish for Edgar Linton's great blue eyes and even forehead," he replied. "I do—and that won't help me to them."
"A good heart will help you to a bonny face, my lad," I continued, "if you were a regular black; and a bad one will turn the bonniest into something worse than ugly. And now that we've done washing, and combing, and sulking—tell me whether you don't think yourself rather handsome? I'll tell you, I do. You're fit for a prince in disguise. Who knows but your father was Emperor of China, and your mother an Indian queen, each of them able to buy up, with one week's income, Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange together? And you were kidnapped by wicked sailors and brought to England. Were I in your place, I would frame high notions of my birth; and the thoughts of what I was should give me courage and dignity to support the oppressions of a little farmer!"
So I chattered on; and Heathcliff gradually lost his frown and began to look quite pleasant, when all at once our conversation was interrupted by a rumbling sound moving up the road and entering the court. He ran to the window and I to the door, just in time to behold the two Lintons descend from the family carriage, smothered in cloaks and furs, and the Earnshaws dismount from their horses: they often rode to church in winter. Catherine took a hand of each of the children, and brought them into the house and set them before the fire, which quickly put colour into their white faces.
I urged my companion to hasten now and show his amiable humour, and he willingly obeyed; but ill luck would have it that, as he opened the door leading from the kitchen on one side, Hindley opened it on the other. They met, and the master, irritated at seeing him clean and cheerful, or, perhaps, eager to keep his promise to Mrs. Linton, shoved him back with a sudden thrust, and angrily bade Joseph "keep the fellow out of the room—send him into the garret till dinner is over. He'll be cramming his fingers in the tarts and stealing the fruit, if left alone with them a minute."
"Nay, sir," I could not avoid answering, "he'll touch nothing, not he: and I suppose he must have his share of the dainties as well as we."
"He shall have his share of my hand, if I catch him downstairs till dark," cried Hindley. "Begone, you vagabond! What! you are attempting the coxcomb, are you? Wait till I get hold of those elegant locks—see if I won't pull them a bit longer!"
"They are long enough already," observed Master Linton, peeping from the doorway; "I wonder they don't make his head ache. It's like a colt's mane over his eyes!"
He ventured this remark without any intention to insult; but Heathcliff's violent nature was not prepared to endure the appearance of impertinence from one whom he seemed to hate, even then, as a rival. He seized a tureen of hot apple sauce (the first thing that came under his gripe) and dashed it full against the speaker's face and neck; who instantly commenced a lament that brought Isabella and Catherine hurrying to the place. Mr. Earnshaw snatched up the culprit directly and conveyed him to his chamber; where, doubtless, he administered a rough remedy to cool the fit of passion, for he appeared red and breathless. I got the dishcloth, and rather spitefully scrubbed Edgar's nose and mouth, affirming it served him right for meddling. His sister began weeping to go home, and Cathy stood by confounded, blushing for all.
"You should not have spoken to him!" she expostulated with Master Linton. "He was in a bad temper, and now you've spoilt your visit; and he'll be flogged: I hate him to be flogged! I can't eat my dinner. Why did you speak to him, Edgar?"
"I didn't," sobbed the youth, escaping from my hands, and finishing the remainder of the purification with his cambric pocket–handkerchief. "I promised mamma that I wouldn't say one word to him, and I didn't."
"Well, don't cry," replied Catherine, contemptuously; "you're not killed. Don't make more mischief; my brother is coming: be quiet! Hush, Isabella! Has anybody hurt you?"
"There, there, children—to your seats!" cried Hindley, bustling in. "That brute of a lad has warmed me nicely. Next time, Master Edgar, take the law into your own fists—it will give you an appetite!"
The little party recovered its equanimity at sight of the fragrant feast. They were hungry after their ride, and easily consoled, since no real harm had befallen them. Mr. Earnshaw carved bountiful platefuls, and the mistress made them merry with lively talk. I waited behind her chair, and was pained to behold Catherine, with dry eyes and an indifferent air, commence cutting up the wing of a goose before her. "An unfeeling child," I thought to myself; "how lightly she dismisses her old playmate's troubles. I could not have imagined her to be so selfish." She lifted a mouthful to her lips: then she set it down again: her cheeks flushed, and the tears gushed over them. She slipped her fork to the floor, and hastily dived under the cloth to conceal her emotion. I did not call her unfeeling long; for I perceived she was in purgatory throughout the day, and wearying to find an opportunity of getting by herself, or paying a visit to Heathcliff, who had been locked up by the master: as I discovered, on endeavouring to introduce to him a private mess of victuals.
In the evening we had a dance. Cathy begged that he might be liberated then, as Isabella Linton had no partner: her entreaties were vain, and I was appointed to supply the deficiency. We got rid of all gloom in the excitement of the exercise, and our pleasure was increased by the arrival of the Gimmerton band, mustering fifteen strong: a trumpet, a trombone, clarionets, bassoons, French horns, and a bass viol, besides singers. They go the rounds of all the respectable houses, and receive contributions every Christmas, and we esteemed it a first–rate treat to hear them. After the usual carols had been sung, we set them to songs and glees. Mrs. Earnshaw loved the music, and so they gave us plenty.
Catherine loved it too: but she said it sounded sweetest at the top of the steps, and she went up in the dark: I followed. They shut the house door below, never noting our absence, it was so full of people. She made no stay at the stairs'-head, but mounted farther, to the garret where Heathcliff was confined, and called him. He stubbornly declined answering for a while: she persevered, and finally persuaded him to hold communion with her through the boards. I let the poor things converse unmolested, till I supposed the songs were going to cease, and the singers to get some refreshment: then I clambered up the ladder to warn her. Instead of finding her outside, I heard her voice within. The little monkey had crept by the skylight of one garret, along the roof, into the skylight of the other, and it was with the utmost difficulty I could coax her out again. When she did come, Heathcliff came with her, and she insisted that I should take him into the kitchen, as my fellow–servant had gone to a neighbour's, to be removed from the sound of our "devil's psalmody," as it pleased him to call it. I told them I intended by no means to encourage their tricks: but as the prisoner had never broken his fast since yesterday's dinner, I would wink at his cheating Mr. Hindley that once. He went down: I set him a stool by the fire, and offered him a quantity of good things: but he was sick and could eat little, and my attempts to entertain him were thrown away. He leant his two elbows on his knees, and his chin on his hands and remained rapt in dumb meditation. On my inquiring the subject of his thoughts, he answered gravely—"I'm trying to settle how I shall pay Hindley back. I don't care how long I wait, if I can only do it at last. I hope he will not die before I do!"
"For shame, Heathcliff!" said I. "It is for God to punish wicked people; we should learn to forgive."
"No, God won't have the satisfaction that I shall," he returned. "I only wish I knew the best way! Let me alone, and I'll plan it out: while I'm thinking of that I don't feel pain."
"But, Mr. Lockwood, I forget these tales cannot divert you. I'm annoyed how I should dream of chattering on at such a rate; and your gruel cold, and you nodding for bed! I could have told Heathcliff's history, all that you need hear, in half a dozen words." |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 10 | Thus interrupting herself, the housekeeper rose, and proceeded to lay aside her sewing; but I felt incapable of moving from the hearth, and I was very far from nodding. "Sit still, Mrs. Dean," I cried; "do sit still another half–hour. You've done just right to tell the story leisurely. That is the method I like; and you must finish it in the same style. I am interested in every character you have mentioned, more or less."
"The clock is on the stroke of eleven, sir."
"No matter—I'm not accustomed to go to bed in the long hours. One or two is early enough for a person who lies till ten."
"You shouldn't lie till ten. There's the very prime of the morning gone long before that time. A person who has not done one–half his day's work by ten o'clock, runs a chance of leaving the other half undone."
"Nevertheless, Mrs. Dean, resume your chair; because to–morrow I intend lengthening the night till afternoon. I prognosticate for myself an obstinate cold, at least."
"I hope not, sir. Well, you must allow me to leap over some three years; during that space Mrs. Earnshaw—"
"No, no, I'll allow nothing of the sort! Are you acquainted with the mood of mind in which, if you were seated alone, and the cat licking its kitten on the rug before you, you would watch the operation so intently that puss's neglect of one ear would put you seriously out of temper?"
"A terribly lazy mood, I should say."
"On the contrary, a tiresomely active one. It is mine, at present; and, therefore, continue minutely. I perceive that people in these regions acquire over people in towns the value that a spider in a dungeon does over a spider in a cottage, to their various occupants; and yet the deepened attraction is not entirely owing to the situation of the looker–on. They do live more in earnest, more in themselves, and less in surface, change, and frivolous external things. I could fancy a love for life here almost possible; and I was a fixed unbeliever in any love of a year's standing. One state resembles setting a hungry man down to a single dish, on which he may concentrate his entire appetite and do it justice; the other, introducing him to a table laid out by French cooks: he can perhaps extract as much enjoyment from the whole; but each part is a mere atom in his regard and remembrance."
"Oh! here we are the same as anywhere else, when you get to know us," observed Mrs. Dean, somewhat puzzled at my speech.
"Excuse me," I responded; "you, my good friend, are a striking evidence against that assertion. Excepting a few provincialisms of slight consequence, you have no marks of the manners which I am habituated to consider as peculiar to your class. I am sure you have thought a great deal more than the generality of servants think. You have been compelled to cultivate your reflective faculties for want of occasions for frittering your life away in silly trifles."
Mrs. Dean laughed.
"I certainly esteem myself a steady, reasonable kind of body," she said; "not exactly from living among the hills and seeing one set of faces, and one series of actions, from year's end to year's end; but I have undergone sharp discipline, which has taught me wisdom; and then, I have read more than you would fancy, Mr. Lockwood. You could not open a book in this library that I have not looked into, and got something out of also: unless it be that range of Greek and Latin, and that of French; and those I know one from another: it is as much as you can expect of a poor man's daughter. However, if I am to follow my story in true gossip's fashion, I had better go on; and instead of leaping three years, I will be content to pass to the next summer—the summer of 1778, that is nearly twenty–three years ago." |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 11 | On the morning of a fine June day my first bonny little nursling, and the last of the ancient Earnshaw stock, was born. We were busy with the hay in a far–away field, when the girl that usually brought our breakfasts came running an hour too soon across the meadow and up the lane, calling me as she ran.
"Oh, such a grand bairn!" she panted out. "The finest lad that ever breathed! But the doctor says missis must go: he says she's been in a consumption these many months. I heard him tell Mr. Hindley: and now she has nothing to keep her, and she'll be dead before winter. You must come home directly. You're to nurse it, Nelly: to feed it with sugar and milk, and take care of it day and night. I wish I were you, because it will be all yours when there is no missis!"
"But is she very ill?" I asked, flinging down my rake and tying my bonnet.
"I guess she is; yet she looks bravely," replied the girl, "and she talks as if she thought of living to see it grow a man. She's out of her head for joy, it's such a beauty! If I were her I'm certain I should not die: I should get better at the bare sight of it, in spite of Kenneth. I was fairly mad at him. Dame Archer brought the cherub down to master, in the house, and his face just began to light up, when the old croaker steps forward, and says he—"Earnshaw, it's a blessing your wife has been spared to leave you this son. When she came, I felt convinced we shouldn't keep her long; and now, I must tell you, the winter will probably finish her. Don't take on, and fret about it too much: it can't be helped. And besides, you should have known better than to choose such a rush of a lass!"
"And what did the master answer?" I inquired.
"I think he swore: but I didn't mind him, I was straining to see the bairn," and she began again to describe it rapturously. I, as zealous as herself, hurried eagerly home to admire, on my part; though I was very sad for Hindley's sake. He had room in his heart only for two idols—his wife and himself: he doted on both, and adored one, and I couldn't conceive how he would bear the loss.
When we got to Wuthering Heights, there he stood at the front door; and, as I passed in, I asked, "how was the baby?"
"Nearly ready to run about, Nell!" he replied, putting on a cheerful smile.
"And the mistress?" I ventured to inquire; "the doctor says she's—"
"Damn the doctor!" he interrupted, reddening. "Frances is quite right: she'll be perfectly well by this time next week. Are you going up–stairs? will you tell her that I'll come, if she'll promise not to talk. I left her because she would not hold her tongue; and she must—tell her Mr. Kenneth says she must be quiet."
I delivered this message to Mrs. Earnshaw; she seemed in flighty spirits, and replied merrily, "I hardly spoke a word, Ellen, and there he has gone out twice, crying. Well, say I promise I won't speak: but that does not bind me not to laugh at him!"
Poor soul! Till within a week of her death that gay heart never failed her; and her husband persisted doggedly, nay, furiously, in affirming her health improved every day. When Kenneth warned him that his medicines were useless at that stage of the malady, and he needn't put him to further expense by attending her, he retorted, "I know you need not—she's well—she does not want any more attendance from you! She never was in a consumption. It was a fever; and it is gone: her pulse is as slow as mine now, and her cheek as cool."
He told his wife the same story, and she seemed to believe him; but one night, while leaning on his shoulder, in the act of saying she thought she should be able to get up to–morrow, a fit of coughing took her—a very slight one—he raised her in his arms; she put her two hands about his neck, her face changed, and she was dead.
As the girl had anticipated, the child Hareton fell wholly into my hands. Mr. Earnshaw, provided he saw him healthy and never heard him cry, was contented, as far as regarded him. For himself, he grew desperate: his sorrow was of that kind that will not lament. He neither wept nor prayed; he cursed and defied: execrated God and man, and gave himself up to reckless dissipation. The servants could not bear his tyrannical and evil conduct long: Joseph and I were the only two that would stay. I had not the heart to leave my charge; and besides, you know, I had been his foster–sister, and excused his behaviour more readily than a stranger would. Joseph remained to hector over tenants and labourers; and because it was his vocation to be where he had plenty of wickedness to reprove.
The master's bad ways and bad companions formed a pretty example for Catherine and Heathcliff. His treatment of the latter was enough to make a fiend of a saint. And, truly, it appeared as if the lad were possessed of something diabolical at that period. He delighted to witness Hindley degrading himself past redemption; and became daily more notable for savage sullenness and ferocity. I could not half tell what an infernal house we had. The curate dropped calling, and nobody decent came near us, at last; unless Edgar Linton's visits to Miss Cathy might be an exception. At fifteen she was the queen of the country–side; she had no peer; and she did turn out a haughty, headstrong creature! I own I did not like her, after infancy was past; and I vexed her frequently by trying to bring down her arrogance: she never took an aversion to me, though. She had a wondrous constancy to old attachments: even Heathcliff kept his hold on her affections unalterably; and young Linton, with all his superiority, found it difficult to make an equally deep impression. He was my late master: that is his portrait over the fireplace. It used to hang on one side, and his wife's on the other; but hers has been removed, or else you might see something of what she was. Can you make that out?
Mrs. Dean raised the candle, and I discerned a soft–featured face, exceedingly resembling the young lady at the Heights, but more pensive and amiable in expression. It formed a sweet picture. The long light hair curled slightly on the temples; the eyes were large and serious; the figure almost too graceful. I did not marvel how Catherine Earnshaw could forget her first friend for such an individual. I marvelled much how he, with a mind to correspond with his person, could fancy my idea of Catherine Earnshaw.
"A very agreeable portrait," I observed to the house–keeper. "Is it like?"
"Yes," she answered; "but he looked better when he was animated; that is his everyday countenance: he wanted spirit in general."
Catherine had kept up her acquaintance with the Lintons since her five–weeks' residence among them; and as she had no temptation to show her rough side in their company, and had the sense to be ashamed of being rude where she experienced such invariable courtesy, she imposed unwittingly on the old lady and gentleman by her ingenious cordiality; gained the admiration of Isabella, and the heart and soul of her brother: acquisitions that flattered her from the first—for she was full of ambition—and led her to adopt a double character without exactly intending to deceive any one. In the place where she heard Heathcliff termed a "vulgar young ruffian," and "worse than a brute," she took care not to act like him; but at home she had small inclination to practise politeness that would only be laughed at, and restrain an unruly nature when it would bring her neither credit nor praise.
Mr. Edgar seldom mustered courage to visit Wuthering Heights openly. He had a terror of Earnshaw's reputation, and shrunk from encountering him; and yet he was always received with our best attempts at civility: the master himself avoided offending him, knowing why he came; and if he could not be gracious, kept out of the way. I rather think his appearance there was distasteful to Catherine; she was not artful, never played the coquette, and had evidently an objection to her two friends meeting at all; for when Heathcliff expressed contempt of Linton in his presence, she could not half coincide, as she did in his absence; and when Linton evinced disgust and antipathy to Heathcliff, she dared not treat his sentiments with indifference, as if depreciation of her playmate were of scarcely any consequence to her. I've had many a laugh at her perplexities and untold troubles, which she vainly strove to hide from my mockery. That sounds ill–natured: but she was so proud it became really impossible to pity her distresses, till she should be chastened into more humility. She did bring herself, finally, to confess, and to confide in me: there was not a soul else that she might fashion into an adviser.
Mr. Hindley had gone from home one afternoon, and Heathcliff presumed to give himself a holiday on the strength of it. He had reached the age of sixteen then, I think, and without having bad features, or being deficient in intellect, he contrived to convey an impression of inward and outward repulsiveness that his present aspect retains no traces of. In the first place, he had by that time lost the benefit of his early education: continual hard work, begun soon and concluded late, had extinguished any curiosity he once possessed in pursuit of knowledge, and any love for books or learning. His childhood's sense of superiority, instilled into him by the favours of old Mr. Earnshaw, was faded away. He struggled long to keep up an equality with Catherine in her studies, and yielded with poignant though silent regret: but he yielded completely; and there was no prevailing on him to take a step in the way of moving upward, when he found he must, necessarily, sink beneath his former level. Then personal appearance sympathised with mental deterioration: he acquired a slouching gait and ignoble look; his naturally reserved disposition was exaggerated into an almost idiotic excess of unsociable moroseness; and he took a grim pleasure, apparently, in exciting the aversion rather than the esteem of his few acquaintance.
Catherine and he were constant companions still at his seasons of respite from labour; but he had ceased to express his fondness for her in words, and recoiled with angry suspicion from her girlish caresses, as if conscious there could be no gratification in lavishing such marks of affection on him. On the before–named occasion he came into the house to announce his intention of doing nothing, while I was assisting Miss Cathy to arrange her dress: she had not reckoned on his taking it into his head to be idle; and imagining she would have the whole place to herself, she managed, by some means, to inform Mr. Edgar of her brother's absence, and was then preparing to receive him.
"Cathy, are you busy this afternoon?" asked Heathcliff. "Are you going anywhere?"
"No, it is raining," she answered.
"Why have you that silk frock on, then?" he said. "Nobody coming here, I hope?"
"Not that I know of," stammered Miss: "but you should be in the field now, Heathcliff. It is an hour past dinnertime: I thought you were gone."
"Hindley does not often free us from his accursed presence," observed the boy. "I'll not work any more to–day: I'll stay with you."
"Oh, but Joseph will tell," she suggested; "you'd better go!"
"Joseph is loading lime on the further side of Penistone Crags; it will take him till dark, and he'll never know."
So, saying, he lounged to the fire, and sat down. Catherine reflected an instant, with knitted brows—she found it needful to smooth the way for an intrusion. "Isabella and Edgar Linton talked of calling this afternoon," she said, at the conclusion of a minute's silence. "As it rains, I hardly expect them; but they may come, and if they do, you run the risk of being scolded for no good."
"Order Ellen to say you are engaged, Cathy," he persisted; "don't turn me out for those pitiful, silly friends of yours! I'm on the point, sometimes, of complaining that they—but I'll not—"
"That they what?" cried Catherine, gazing at him with a troubled countenance. "Oh, Nelly!" she added petulantly, jerking her head away from my hands, "you've combed my hair quite out of curl! That's enough; let me alone. What are you on the point of complaining about, Heathcliff?"
"Nothing—only look at the almanack on that wall;" he pointed to a framed sheet hanging near the window, and continued, "The crosses are for the evenings you have spent with the Lintons, the dots for those spent with me. Do you see? I've marked every day."
"Yes—very foolish: as if I took notice!" replied Catherine, in a peevish tone. "And where is the sense of that?"
"To show that I do take notice," said Heathcliff.
"And should I always be sitting with you?" she demanded, growing more irritated. "What good do I get? What do you talk about? You might be dumb, or a baby, for anything you say to amuse me, or for anything you do, either!"
"You never told me before that I talked too little, or that you disliked my company, Cathy!" exclaimed Heathcliff, in much agitation.
"It's no company at all, when people know nothing and say nothing," she muttered.
Her companion rose up, but he hadn't time to express his feelings further, for a horse's feet were heard on the flags, and having knocked gently, young Linton entered, his face brilliant with delight at the unexpected summon she had received. Doubtless Catherine marked the difference between her friends, as one came in and the other went out. The contrast resembled what you see in exchanging a bleak, hilly, coal country for a beautiful fertile valley; and his voice and greeting were as opposite as his aspect. He had a sweet, low manner of speaking, and pronounced his words as you do: that's less gruff than we talk here, and softer.
"I'm not come too soon, am I?" he said, casting a look at me: I had begun to wipe the plate, and tidy some drawers at the far end in the dresser.
"No," answered Catherine. "What are you doing there, Nelly?"
"My work, Miss," I replied. (Mr. Hindley had given me directions to make a third party in any private visits Linton chose to pay.)
She stepped behind me and whispered crossly, "Take yourself and your dusters off; when company are in the house, servants don't commence scouring and cleaning in the room where they are!"
"It's a good opportunity, now that master is away," I answered aloud: "he hates me to be fidgeting over these things in his presence. I'm sure Mr. Edgar will excuse me."
"I hate you to be fidgeting in my presence," exclaimed the young lady imperiously, not allowing her guest time to speak: she had failed to recover her equanimity since the little dispute with Heathcliff.
"I'm sorry for it, Miss Catherine," was my response; and I proceeded assiduously with my occupation.
She, supposing Edgar could not see her, snatched the cloth from my hand, and pinched me, with a prolonged wrench, very spitefully on the arm. I've said I did not love her, and rather relished mortifying her vanity now and then: besides, she hurt me extremely; so I started up from my knees, and screamed out, "Oh, Miss, that's a nasty trick! You have no right to nip me, and I'm not going to bear it."
"I didn't touch you, you lying creature!" cried she, her fingers tingling to repeat the act, and her ears red with rage. She never had power to conceal her passion, it always set her whole complexion in a blaze.
"What's that, then?" I retorted, showing a decided purple witness to refute her.
She stamped her foot, wavered a moment, and then, irresistibly impelled by the naughty spirit within her, slapped me on the cheek: a stinging blow that filled both eyes with water.
"Catherine, love! Catherine!" interposed Linton, greatly shocked at the double fault of falsehood and violence which his idol had committed.
"Leave the room, Ellen!" she repeated, trembling all over.
Little Hareton, who followed me everywhere, and was sitting near me on the floor, at seeing my tears commenced crying himself, and sobbed out complaints against "wicked aunt Cathy," which drew her fury on to his unlucky head: she seized his shoulders, and shook him till the poor child waxed livid, and Edgar thoughtlessly laid hold of her hands to deliver him. In an instant one was wrung free, and the astonished young man felt it applied over his own ear in a way that could not be mistaken for jest. He drew back in consternation. I lifted Hareton in my arms, and walked off to the kitchen with him, leaving the door of communication open, for I was curious to watch how they would settle their disagreement. The insulted visitor moved to the spot where he had laid his hat, pale and with a quivering lip.
"That's right!" I said to myself. "Take warning and begone! It's a kindness to let you have a glimpse of her genuine disposition."
"Where are you going?" demanded Catherine, advancing to the door.
He swerved aside, and attempted to pass.
"You must not go!" she exclaimed, energetically.
"I must and shall!" he replied in a subdued voice.
"No," she persisted, grasping the handle; "not yet, Edgar Linton: sit down; you shall not leave me in that temper. I should be miserable all night, and I won't be miserable for you!"
"Can I stay after you have struck me?" asked Linton.
Catherine was mute.
"You've made me afraid and ashamed of you," he continued; "I'll not come here again!"
Her eyes began to glisten and her lids to twinkle.
"And you told a deliberate untruth!" he said.
"I didn't!" she cried, recovering her speech; "I did nothing deliberately. Well, go, if you please—get away! And now I'll cry—I'll cry myself sick!"
She dropped down on her knees by a chair, and set to weeping in serious earnest. Edgar persevered in his resolution as far as the court; there he lingered. I resolved to encourage him.
"Miss is dreadfully wayward, sir," I called out. "As bad as any marred child: you'd better be riding home, or else she will be sick, only to grieve us."
The soft thing looked askance through the window: he possessed the power to depart as much as a cat possesses the power to leave a mouse half killed, or a bird half eaten. Ah, I thought, there will be no saving him: he's doomed, and flies to his fate! And so it was: he turned abruptly, hastened into the house again, shut the door behind him; and when I went in a while after to inform them that Earnshaw had come home rabid drunk, ready to pull the whole place about our ears (his ordinary frame of mind in that condition), I saw the quarrel had merely effected a closer intimacy—had broken the outworks of youthful timidity, and enabled them to forsake the disguise of friendship, and confess themselves lovers.
Intelligence of Mr. Hindley's arrival drove Linton speedily to his horse, and Catherine to her chamber. I went to hide little Hareton, and to take the shot out of the master's fowling–piece, which he was fond of playing with in his insane excitement, to the hazard of the lives of any who provoked, or even attracted his notice too much; and I had hit upon the plan of removing it, that he might do less mischief if he did go the length of firing the gun. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 12 | He entered, vociferating oaths dreadful to hear; and caught me in the act of stowing his son sway in the kitchen cupboard. Hareton was impressed with a wholesome terror of encountering either his wild beast's fondness or his madman's rage; for in one he ran a chance of being squeezed and kissed to death, and in the other of being flung into the fire, or dashed against the wall; and the poor thing remained perfectly quiet wherever I chose to put him.
"There, I've found it out at last!" cried Hindley, pulling me back by the skin of my neck, like a dog. "By heaven and hell, you've sworn between you to murder that child! I know how it is, now, that he is always out of my way. But, with the help of Satan, I shall make you swallow the carving–knife, Nelly! You needn't laugh; for I've just crammed Kenneth, head–downmost, in the Black–horse marsh; and two is the same as one—and I want to kill some of you: I shall have no rest till I do!"
"But I don't like the carving–knife, Mr. Hindley," I answered; "it has been cutting red herrings. I'd rather be shot, if you please."
"You'd rather be damned!" he said; "and so you shall. No law in England can hinder a man from keeping his house decent, and mine's abominable! Open your mouth." He held the knife in his hand, and pushed its point between my teeth: but, for my part, I was never much afraid of his vagaries. I spat out, and affirmed it tasted detestably—I would not take it on any account.
"Oh!" said he, releasing me, "I see that hideous little villain is not Hareton: I beg your pardon, Nell. If it be, he deserves flaying alive for not running to welcome me, and for screaming as if I were a goblin. Unnatural cub, come hither! I'll teach thee to impose on a good–hearted, deluded father. Now, don't you think the lad would be handsomer cropped? It makes a dog fiercer, and I love something fierce—get me a scissors—something fierce and trim! Besides, it's infernal affectation—devilish conceit it is, to cherish our ears—we're asses enough without them. Hush, child, hush! Well then, it is my darling! wisht, dry thy eyes—there's a joy; kiss me. What! it won't? Kiss me, Hareton! Damn thee, kiss me! By God, as if I would rear such a monster! As sure as I'm living, I'll break the brat's neck."
Poor Hareton was squalling and kicking in his father's arms with all his might, and redoubled his yells when he carried him up–stairs and lifted him over the banister. I cried out that he would frighten the child into fits, and ran to rescue him. As I reached them, Hindley leant forward on the rails to listen to a noise below; almost forgetting what he had in his hands. "Who is that?" he asked, hearing some one approaching the stairs'-foot. I leant forward also, for the purpose of signing to Heathcliff, whose step I recognised, not to come further; and, at the instant when my eye quitted Hareton, he gave a sudden spring, delivered himself from the careless grasp that held him, and fell.
There was scarcely time to experience a thrill of horror before we saw that the little wretch was safe. Heathcliff arrived underneath just at the critical moment; by a natural impulse he arrested his descent, and setting him on his feet, looked up to discover the author of the accident. A miser who has parted with a lucky lottery ticket for five shillings, and finds next day he has lost in the bargain five thousand pounds, could not show a blanker countenance than he did on beholding the figure of Mr. Earnshaw above. It expressed, plainer than words could do, the intensest anguish at having made himself the instrument of thwarting his own revenge. Had it been dark, I daresay he would have tried to remedy the mistake by smashing Hareton's skull on the steps; but, we witnessed his salvation; and I was presently below with my precious charge pressed to my heart. Hindley descended more leisurely, sobered and abashed.
"It is your fault, Ellen," he said; "you should have kept him out of sight: you should have taken him from me! Is he injured anywhere?"
"Injured!" I cried angrily; "if he is not killed, he'll be an idiot! Oh! I wonder his mother does not rise from her grave to see how you use him. You're worse than a heathen—treating your own flesh and blood in that manner!" He attempted to touch the child, who, on finding himself with me, sobbed off his terror directly. At the first finger his father laid on him, however, he shrieked again louder than before, and struggled as if he would go into convulsions.
"You shall not meddle with him!" I continued. "He hates you—they all hate you—that's the truth! A happy family you have; and a pretty state you're come to!"
"I shall come to a prettier, yet, Nelly," laughed the misguided man, recovering his hardness. "At present, convey yourself and him away. And hark you, Heathcliff! clear you too quite from my reach and hearing. I wouldn't murder you to–night; unless, perhaps, I set the house on fire: but that's as my fancy goes."
While saying this he took a pint bottle of brandy from the dresser, and poured some into a tumbler.
"Nay, don't!" I entreated. "Mr. Hindley, do take warning. Have mercy on this unfortunate boy, if you care nothing for yourself!"
"Any one will do better for him than I shall," he answered.
"Have mercy on your own soul!" I said, endeavouring to snatch the glass from his hand.
"Not I! On the contrary, I shall have great pleasure in sending it to perdition to punish its Maker," exclaimed the blasphemer. "Here's to its hearty damnation!"
He drank the spirits and impatiently bade us go; terminating his command with a sequel of horrid imprecations too bad to repeat or remember.
"It's a pity he cannot kill himself with drink," observed Heathcliff, muttering an echo of curses back when the door was shut. "He's doing his very utmost; but his constitution defies him. Mr. Kenneth says he would wager his mare that he'll outlive any man on this side Gimmerton, and go to the grave a hoary sinner; unless some happy chance out of the common course befall him."
I went into the kitchen, and sat down to lull my little lamb to sleep. Heathcliff, as I thought, walked through to the barn. It turned out afterwards that he only got as far as the other side the settle, when he flung himself on a bench by the wall, removed from the fire and remained silent.
I was rocking Hareton on my knee, and humming a song that began,—
It was far in the night, and the bairnies grat,
The mither beneath the mools heard that, when Miss Cathy, who had listened to the hubbub from her room, put her head in, and whispered,—"Are you alone, Nelly?"
"Yes, Miss," I replied.
She entered and approached the hearth. I, supposing she was going to say something, looked up. The expression of her face seemed disturbed and anxious. Her lips were half asunder, as if she meant to speak, and she drew a breath; but it escaped in a sigh instead of a sentence. I resumed my song; not having forgotten her recent behaviour.
"Where's Heathcliff?" she said, interrupting me.
"About his work in the stable," was my answer.
He did not contradict me; perhaps he had fallen into a doze. There followed another long pause, during which I perceived a drop or two trickle from Catherine's cheek to the flags. Is she sorry for her shameful conduct?—I asked myself. That will be a novelty: but she may come to the point—as she will—I sha'n't help her! No, she felt small trouble regarding any subject, save her own concerns.
"Oh, dear!" she cried at last. "I'm very unhappy!"
"A pity," observed I. "You're hard to please; so many friends and so few cares, and can't make yourself content!"
"Nelly, will you keep a secret for me?" she pursued, kneeling down by me, and lifting her winsome eyes to my face with that sort of look which turns off bad temper, even when one has all the right in the world to indulge it.
"Is it worth keeping?" I inquired, less sulkily.
"Yes, and it worries me, and I must let it out! I want to know what I should do. To–day, Edgar Linton has asked me to marry him, and I've given him an answer. Now, before I tell you whether it was a consent or denial, you tell me which it ought to have been."
"Really, Miss Catherine, how can I know?" I replied. "To be sure, considering the exhibition you performed in his presence this afternoon, I might say it would be wise to refuse him: since he asked you after that, he must either be hopelessly stupid or a venturesome fool."
"If you talk so, I won't tell you any more," she returned, peevishly rising to her feet. "I accepted him, Nelly. Be quick, and say whether I was wrong!"
"You accepted him! Then what good is it discussing the matter? You have pledged your word, and cannot retract."
"But say whether I should have done so—do!" she exclaimed in an irritated tone; chafing her hands together, and frowning.
"There are many things to be considered before that question can be answered properly," I said, sententiously. "First and foremost, do you love Mr. Edgar?"
"Who can help it? Of course I do," she answered.
Then I put her through the following catechism: for a girl of twenty–two it was not injudicious.
"Why do you love him, Miss Cathy?"
"Nonsense, I do—that's sufficient."
"By no means; you must say why?"
"Well, because he is handsome, and pleasant to be with."
"Bad!" was my commentary.
"And because he is young and cheerful."
"Bad, still."
"And because he loves me."
"Indifferent, coming there."
"And he will be rich, and I shall like to be the greatest woman of the neighbourhood, and I shall be proud of having such a husband."
"Worst of all. And now, say how you love him?"
"As everybody loves—You're silly, Nelly."
"Not at all—Answer."
"I love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, and everything he touches, and every word he says. I love all his looks, and all his actions, and him entirely and altogether. There now!"
"And why?"
"Nay; you are making a jest of it: it is exceedingly ill–natured! It's no jest to me!" said the young lady, scowling, and turning her face to the fire.
"I'm very far from jesting, Miss Catherine," I replied. "You love Mr. Edgar because he is handsome, and young, and cheerful, and rich, and loves you. The last, however, goes for nothing: you would love him without that, probably; and with it you wouldn't, unless he possessed the four former attractions."
"No, to be sure not: I should only pity him—hate him, perhaps, if he were ugly, and a clown."
"But there are several other handsome, rich young men in the world: handsomer, possibly, and richer than he is. What should hinder you from loving them?"
"If there be any, they are out of my way: I've seen none like Edgar."
"You may see some; and he won't always be handsome, and young, and may not always be rich."
"He is now; and I have only to do with the present. I wish you would speak rationally."
"Well, that settles it: if you have only to do with the present, marry Mr. Linton."
"I don't want your permission for that—I shall marry him: and yet you have not told me whether I'm right."
"Perfectly right; if people be right to marry only for the present. And now, let us hear what you are unhappy about. Your brother will be pleased; the old lady and gentleman will not object, I think; you will escape from a disorderly, comfortless home into a wealthy, respectable one; and you love Edgar, and Edgar loves you. All seems smooth and easy: where is the obstacle?"
"Here! and here!" replied Catherine, striking one hand on her forehead, and the other on her breast: "in whichever place the soul lives. In my soul and in my heart, I'm convinced I'm wrong!"
"That's very strange! I cannot make it out."
"It's my secret. But if you will not mock at me, I'll explain it: I can't do it distinctly; but I'll give you a feeling of how I feel."
She seated herself by me again: her countenance grew sadder and graver, and her clasped hands trembled.
"Nelly, do you never dream queer dreams?" she said, suddenly, after some minutes' reflection.
"Yes, now and then," I answered.
"And so do I. I've dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they've gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind. And this is one: I'm going to tell it—but take care not to smile at any part of it."
"Oh! don't, Miss Catherine!" I cried. "We're dismal enough without conjuring up ghosts and visions to perplex us. Come, come, be merry and like yourself! Look at little Hareton! he's dreaming nothing dreary. How sweetly he smiles in his sleep!"
"Yes; and how sweetly his father curses in his solitude! You remember him, I daresay, when he was just such another as that chubby thing: nearly as young and innocent. However, Nelly, I shall oblige you to listen: it's not long; and I've no power to be merry to–night."
"I won't hear it, I won't hear it!" I repeated, hastily.
I was superstitious about dreams then, and am still; and Catherine had an unusual gloom in her aspect, that made me dread something from which I might shape a prophecy, and foresee a fearful catastrophe. She was vexed, but she did not proceed. Apparently taking up another subject, she recommenced in a short time.
"If I were in heaven, Nelly, I should be extremely miserable."
"Because you are not fit to go there," I answered. "All sinners would be miserable in heaven."
"But it is not for that. I dreamt once that I was there."
"I tell you I won't hearken to your dreams, Miss Catherine! I'll go to bed," I interrupted again.
She laughed, and held me down; for I made a motion to leave my chair.
"This is nothing," cried she: "I was only going to say that heaven did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth; and the angels were so angry that they flung me out into the middle of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights; where I woke sobbing for joy. That will do to explain my secret, as well as the other. I've no more business to marry Edgar Linton than I have to be in heaven; and if the wicked man in there had not brought Heathcliff so low, I shouldn't have thought of it. It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him: and that, not because he's handsome, Nelly, but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire."
Ere this speech ended I became sensible of Heathcliff's presence. Having noticed a slight movement, I turned my head, and saw him rise from the bench, and steal out noiselessly. He had listened till he heard Catherine say it would degrade her to marry him, and then he stayed to hear no further. My companion, sitting on the ground, was prevented by the back of the settle from remarking his presence or departure; but I started, and bade her hush!
"Why?" she asked, gazing nervously round.
"Joseph is here," I answered, catching opportunely the roll of his cartwheels up the road; "and Heathcliff will come in with him. I'm not sure whether he were not at the door this moment."
"Oh, he couldn't overhear me at the door!" said she. "Give me Hareton, while you get the supper, and when it is ready ask me to sup with you. I want to cheat my uncomfortable conscience, and be convinced that Heathcliff has no notion of these things. He has not, has he? He does not know what being in love is!"
"I see no reason that he should not know, as well as you," I returned; "and if you are his choice, he'll be the most unfortunate creature that ever was born! As soon as you become Mrs. Linton, he loses friend, and love, and all! Have you considered how you'll bear the separation, and how he'll bear to be quite deserted in the world? Because, Miss Catherine—"
"He quite deserted! we separated!" she exclaimed, with an accent of indignation. "Who is to separate us, pray? They'll meet the fate of Milo! Not as long as I live, Ellen: for no mortal creature. Every Linton on the face of the earth might melt into nothing before I could consent to forsake Heathcliff. Oh, that's not what I intend—that's not what I mean! I shouldn't be Mrs. Linton were such a price demanded! He'll be as much to me as he has been all his lifetime. Edgar must shake off his antipathy, and tolerate him, at least. He will, when he learns my true feelings towards him. Nelly, I see now you think me a selfish wretch; but did it never strike you that if Heathcliff and I married, we should be beggars? whereas, if I marry Linton I can aid Heathcliff to rise, and place him out of my brother's power."
"With your husband's money, Miss Catherine?" I asked. "You'll find him not so pliable as you calculate upon: and, though I'm hardly a judge, I think that's the worst motive you've given yet for being the wife of young Linton."
"It is not," retorted she; "it is the best! The others were the satisfaction of my whims: and for Edgar's sake, too, to satisfy him. This is for the sake of one who comprehends in his person my feelings to Edgar and myself. I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it.—My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don't talk of our separation again: it is impracticable; and—"
She paused, and hid her face in the folds of my gown; but I jerked it forcibly away. I was out of patience with her folly!
"If I can make any sense of your nonsense, Miss," I said, "it only goes to convince me that you are ignorant of the duties you undertake in marrying; or else that you are a wicked, unprincipled girl. But trouble me with no more secrets: I'll not promise to keep them."
"You'll keep that?" she asked, eagerly.
"No, I'll not promise," I repeated.
She was about to insist, when the entrance of Joseph finished our conversation; and Catherine removed her seat to a corner, and nursed Hareton, while I made the supper. After it was cooked, my fellow–servant and I began to quarrel who should carry some to Mr. Hindley; and we didn't settle it till all was nearly cold. Then we came to the agreement that we would let him ask, if he wanted any; for we feared particularly to go into his presence when he had been some time alone.
"And how isn't that nowt comed in fro" th' field, be this time? What is he about? girt idle seeght!' demanded the old man, looking round for Heathcliff.
"I'll call him," I replied. "He's in the barn, I've no doubt."
I went and called, but got no answer. On returning, I whispered to Catherine that he had heard a good part of what she said, I was sure; and told how I saw him quit the kitchen just as she complained of her brother's conduct regarding him. She jumped up in a fine fright, flung Hareton on to the settle, and ran to seek for her friend herself; not taking leisure to consider why she was so flurried, or how her talk would have affected him. She was absent such a while that Joseph proposed we should wait no longer. He cunningly conjectured they were staying away in order to avoid hearing his protracted blessing. They were "ill eneugh for ony fahl manners," he affirmed. And on their behalf he added that night a special prayer to the usual quarter–of–an–hour's supplication before meat, and would have tacked another to the end of the grace, had not his young mistress broken in upon him with a hurried command that he must run down the road, and, wherever Heathcliff had rambled, find and make him re–enter directly!
"I want to speak to him, and I must, before I go upstairs," she said. "And the gate is open: he is somewhere out of hearing; for he would not reply, though I shouted at the top of the fold as loud as I could."
Joseph objected at first; she was too much in earnest, however, to suffer contradiction; and at last he placed his hat on his head, and walked grumbling forth. Meantime, Catherine paced up and down the floor, exclaiming—"I wonder where he is—I wonder where he can be! What did I say, Nelly? I've forgotten. Was he vexed at my bad humour this afternoon? Dear! tell me what I've said to grieve him? I do wish he'd come. I do wish he would!"
"What a noise for nothing!" I cried, though rather uneasy myself. "What a trifle scares you! It's surely no great cause of alarm that Heathcliff should take a moonlight saunter on the moors, or even lie too sulky to speak to us in the hay–loft. I'll engage he's lurking there. See if I don't ferret him out!"
I departed to renew my search; its result was disappointment, and Joseph's quest ended in the same.
"Yon lad gets war und war!" observed he on re–entering. "He's left th" gate at t' full swing, and Miss's pony has trodden dahn two rigs o' corn, and plottered through, raight o'er into t' meadow! Hahsomdiver, t' maister "ull play t" devil to–morn, and he'll do weel. He's patience itsseln wi' sich careless, offald craters—patience itsseln he is! Bud he'll not be soa allus—yah's see, all on ye! Yah mun'n't drive him out of his heead for nowt!'
"Have you found Heathcliff, you ass?" interrupted Catherine. "Have you been looking for him, as I ordered?"
"I sud more likker look for th" horse,' he replied. "It "ud be to more sense. Bud I can look for norther horse nur man of a neeght loike this—as black as t" chimbley! und Heathcliff's noan t" chap to coom at my whistle—happen he'll be less hard o' hearing wi' ye!'
It was a very dark evening for summer: the clouds appeared inclined to thunder, and I said we had better all sit down; the approaching rain would be certain to bring him home without further trouble. However, Catherine would not be persuaded into tranquillity. She kept wandering to and fro, from the gate to the door, in a state of agitation which permitted no repose; and at length took up a permanent situation on one side of the wall, near the road: where, heedless of my expostulations and the growling thunder, and the great drops that began to plash around her, she remained, calling at intervals, and then listening, and then crying outright. She beat Hareton, or any child, at a good passionate fit of crying.
About midnight, while we still sat up, the storm came rattling over the Heights in full fury. There was a violent wind, as well as thunder, and either one or the other split a tree off at the corner of the building: a huge bough fell across the roof, and knocked down a portion of the east chimney–stack, sending a clatter of stones and soot into the kitchen–fire. We thought a bolt had fallen in the middle of us; and Joseph swung on to his knees, beseeching the Lord to remember the patriarchs Noah and Lot, and, as in former times, spare the righteous, though he smote the ungodly. I felt some sentiment that it must be a judgment on us also. The Jonah, in my mind, was Mr. Earnshaw; and I shook the handle of his den that I might ascertain if he were yet living. He replied audibly enough, in a fashion which made my companion vociferate, more clamorously than before, that a wide distinction might be drawn between saints like himself and sinners like his master. But the uproar passed away in twenty minutes, leaving us all unharmed; excepting Cathy, who got thoroughly drenched for her obstinacy in refusing to take shelter, and standing bonnetless and shawl–less to catch as much water as she could with her hair and clothes. She came in and lay down on the settle, all soaked as she was, turning her face to the back, and putting her hands before it.
"Well, Miss!" I exclaimed, touching her shoulder; "you are not bent on getting your death, are you? Do you know what o'clock it is? Half–past twelve. Come, come to bed! there's no use waiting any longer on that foolish boy: he'll be gone to Gimmerton, and he'll stay there now. He guesses we shouldn't wait for him till this late hour: at least, he guesses that only Mr. Hindley would be up; and he'd rather avoid having the door opened by the master."
"Nay, nay, he's noan at Gimmerton," said Joseph. "I's niver wonder but he's at t" bothom of a bog–hoile. This visitation worn't for nowt, and I wod hev' ye to look out, Miss—yah muh be t' next. Thank Hivin for all! All warks togither for gooid to them as is chozzen, and piked out fro' th' rubbidge! Yah knaw whet t' Scripture ses.' And he began quoting several texts, referring us to chapters and verses where we might find them.
I, having vainly begged the wilful girl to rise and remove her wet things, left him preaching and her shivering, and betook myself to bed with little Hareton, who slept as fast as if everyone had been sleeping round him. I heard Joseph read on a while afterwards; then I distinguished his slow step on the ladder, and then I dropped asleep.
Coming down somewhat later than usual, I saw, by the sunbeams piercing the chinks of the shutters, Miss Catherine still seated near the fireplace. The house–door was ajar, too; light entered from its unclosed windows; Hindley had come out, and stood on the kitchen hearth, haggard and drowsy.
"What ails you, Cathy?" he was saying when I entered: "you look as dismal as a drowned whelp. Why are you so damp and pale, child?"
"I've been wet," she answered reluctantly, "and I'm cold, that's all."
"Oh, she is naughty!" I cried, perceiving the master to be tolerably sober. "She got steeped in the shower of yesterday evening, and there she has sat the night through, and I couldn't prevail on her to stir."
Mr. Earnshaw stared at us in surprise. "The night through," he repeated. "What kept her up? not fear of the thunder, surely? That was over hours since."
Neither of us wished to mention Heathcliff's absence, as long as we could conceal it; so I replied, I didn't know how she took it into her head to sit up; and she said nothing. The morning was fresh and cool; I threw back the lattice, and presently the room filled with sweet scents from the garden; but Catherine called peevishly to me, "Ellen, shut the window. I'm starving!" And her teeth chattered as she shrank closer to the almost extinguished embers.
"She's ill," said Hindley, taking her wrist; "I suppose that's the reason she would not go to bed. Damn it! I don't want to be troubled with more sickness here. What took you into the rain?"
"Running after t" lads, as usuald!' croaked Joseph, catching an opportunity from our hesitation to thrust in his evil tongue. "If I war yah, maister, I'd just slam t" boards i' their faces all on "em, gentle and simple! Never a day ut yah're off, but yon cat o" Linton comes sneaking hither; and Miss Nelly, shoo's a fine lass! shoo sits watching for ye i' t' kitchen; and as yah're in at one door, he's out at t'other; and, then, wer grand lady goes a–courting of her side! It's bonny behaviour, lurking amang t' fields, after twelve o' t' night, wi' that fahl, flaysome divil of a gipsy, Heathcliff! They think I'm blind; but I'm noan: nowt ut t' soart!—I seed young Linton boath coming and going, and I seed yah' (directing his discourse to me), "yah gooid fur nowt, slattenly witch! nip up and bolt into th" house, t' minute yah heard t' maister's horse–fit clatter up t' road.'
"Silence, eavesdropper!" cried Catherine; "none of your insolence before me! Edgar Linton came yesterday by chance, Hindley; and it was I who told him to be off: because I knew you would not like to have met him as you were."
"You lie, Cathy, no doubt," answered her brother, "and you are a confounded simpleton! But never mind Linton at present: tell me, were you not with Heathcliff last night? Speak the truth, now. You need not he afraid of harming him: though I hate him as much as ever, he did me a good turn a short time since that will make my conscience tender of breaking his neck. To prevent it, I shall send him about his business this very morning; and after he's gone, I'd advise you all to look sharp: I shall only have the more humour for you."
"I never saw Heathcliff last night," answered Catherine, beginning to sob bitterly: "and if you do turn him out of doors, I'll go with him. But, perhaps, you'll never have an opportunity: perhaps, he's gone." Here she burst into uncontrollable grief, and the remainder of her words were inarticulate.
Hindley lavished on her a torrent of scornful abuse, and bade her get to her room immediately, or she shouldn't cry for nothing! I obliged her to obey; and I shall never forget what a scene she acted when we reached her chamber: it terrified me. I thought she was going mad, and I begged Joseph to run for the doctor. It proved the commencement of delirium: Mr. Kenneth, as soon as he saw her, pronounced her dangerously ill; she had a fever. He bled her, and he told me to let her live on whey and water–gruel, and take care she did not throw herself downstairs or out of the window; and then he left: for he had enough to do in the parish, where two or three miles was the ordinary distance between cottage and cottage.
Though I cannot say I made a gentle nurse, and Joseph and the master were no better, and though our patient was as wearisome and headstrong as a patient could be, she weathered it through. Old Mrs. Linton paid us several visits, to be sure, and set things to rights, and scolded and ordered us all; and when Catherine was convalescent, she insisted on conveying her to Thrushcross Grange: for which deliverance we were very grateful. But the poor dame had reason to repent of her kindness: she and her husband both took the fever, and died within a few days of each other.
Our young lady returned to us saucier and more passionate, and haughtier than ever. Heathcliff had never been heard of since the evening of the thunder–storm; and, one day, I had the misfortune, when she had provoked me exceedingly, to lay the blame of his disappearance on her: where indeed it belonged, as she well knew. From that period, for several months, she ceased to hold any communication with me, save in the relation of a mere servant. Joseph fell under a ban also: he would speak his mind, and lecture her all the same as if she were a little girl; and she esteemed herself a woman, and our mistress, and thought that her recent illness gave her a claim to be treated with consideration. Then the doctor had said that she would not bear crossing much; she ought to have her own way; and it was nothing less than murder in her eyes for any one to presume to stand up and contradict her. From Mr. Earnshaw and his companions she kept aloof; and tutored by Kenneth, and serious threats of a fit that often attended her rages, her brother allowed her whatever she pleased to demand, and generally avoided aggravating her fiery temper. He was rather too indulgent in humouring her caprices; not from affection, but from pride: he wished earnestly to see her bring honour to the family by an alliance with the Lintons, and as long as she let him alone she might trample on us like slaves, for aught he cared! Edgar Linton, as multitudes have been before and will be after him, was infatuated: and believed himself the happiest man alive on the day he led her to Gimmerton Chapel, three years subsequent to his father's death.
Much against my inclination, I was persuaded to leave Wuthering Heights and accompany her here, Little Hareton was nearly five years old, and I had just begun to teach him his letters. We made a sad parting; but Catherine's tears were more powerful than ours. When I refused to go, and when she found her entreaties did not move me, she went lamenting to her husband and brother. The former offered me munificent wages; the latter ordered me to pack up: he wanted no women in the house, he said, now that there was no mistress; and as to Hareton, the curate should take him in hand, by–and–by. And so I had but one choice left: to do as I was ordered. I told the master he got rid of all decent people only to run to ruin a little faster; I kissed Hareton, said good–by; and since then he has been a stranger: and it's very queer to think it, but I've no doubt he has completely forgotten all about Ellen Dean, and that he was ever more than all the world to her and she to him! |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 13 | At this point of the housekeeper's story she chanced to glance towards the time–piece over the chimney; and was in amazement on seeing the minute–hand measure half–past one. She would not hear of staying a second longer: in truth, I felt rather disposed to defer the sequel of her narrative myself. And now that she is vanished to her rest, and I have meditated for another hour or two, I shall summon courage to go also, in spite of aching laziness of head and limbs.
A charming introduction to a hermit's life! Four weeks' torture, tossing, and sickness! Oh, these bleak winds and bitter northern skies, and impassable roads, and dilatory country surgeons! And oh, this dearth of the human physiognomy! and, worse than all, the terrible intimation of Kenneth that I need not expect to be out of doors till spring!
Mr. Heathcliff has just honoured me with a call. About seven days ago he sent me a brace of grouse—the last of the season. Scoundrel! He is not altogether guiltless in this illness of mine; and that I had a great mind to tell him. But, alas! how could I offend a man who was charitable enough to sit at my bedside a good hour, and talk on some other subject than pills and draughts, blisters and leeches? This is quite an easy interval. I am too weak to read; yet I feel as if I could enjoy something interesting. Why not have up Mrs. Dean to finish her tale? I can recollect its chief incidents, as far as she had gone. Yes: I remember her hero had run off, and never been heard of for three years; and the heroine was married. I'll ring: she'll be delighted to find me capable of talking cheerfully. Mrs. Dean came.
"It wants twenty minutes, sir, to taking the medicine," she commenced.
"Away, away with it!" I replied; "I desire to have—"
"The doctor says you must drop the powders."
"With all my heart! Don't interrupt me. Come and take your seat here. Keep your fingers from that bitter phalanx of vials. Draw your knitting out of your pocket—that will do—now continue the history of Mr. Heathcliff, from where you left off, to the present day. Did he finish his education on the Continent, and come back a gentleman? or did he get a sizar's place at college, or escape to America, and earn honours by drawing blood from his foster–country? or make a fortune more promptly on the English highways?"
"He may have done a little in all these vocations, Mr. Lockwood; but I couldn't give my word for any. I stated before that I didn't know how he gained his money; neither am I aware of the means he took to raise his mind from the savage ignorance into which it was sunk: but, with your leave, I'll proceed in my own fashion, if you think it will amuse and not weary you. Are you feeling better this morning?"
"Much."
"That's good news." |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 14 | I got Miss Catherine and myself to Thrushcross Grange; and, to my agreeable disappointment, she behaved infinitely better than I dared to expect. She seemed almost over–fond of Mr. Linton; and even to his sister she showed plenty of affection. They were both very attentive to her comfort, certainly. It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn. There were no mutual concessions: one stood erect, and the others yielded: and who can be ill–natured and bad–tempered when they encounter neither opposition nor indifference? I observed that Mr. Edgar had a deep–rooted fear of ruffling her humour. He concealed it from her; but if ever he heard me answer sharply, or saw any other servant grow cloudy at some imperious order of hers, he would show his trouble by a frown of displeasure that never darkened on his own account. He many a time spoke sternly to me about my pertness; and averred that the stab of a knife could not inflict a worse pang than he suffered at seeing his lady vexed. Not to grieve a kind master, I learned to be less touchy; and, for the space of half a year, the gunpowder lay as harmless as sand, because no fire came near to explode it. Catherine had seasons of gloom and silence now and then: they were respected with sympathising silence by her husband, who ascribed them to an alteration in her constitution, produced by her perilous illness; as she was never subject to depression of spirits before. The return of sunshine was welcomed by answering sunshine from him. I believe I may assert that they were really in possession of deep and growing happiness.
It ended. Well, we must be for ourselves in the long run; the mild and generous are only more justly selfish than the domineering; and it ended when circumstances caused each to feel that the one's interest was not the chief consideration in the other's thoughts. On a mellow evening in September, I was coming from the garden with a heavy basket of apples which I had been gathering. It had got dusk, and the moon looked over the high wall of the court, causing undefined shadows to lurk in the corners of the numerous projecting portions of the building. I set my burden on the house–steps by the kitchen–door, and lingered to rest, and drew in a few more breaths of the soft, sweet air; my eyes were on the moon, and my back to the entrance, when I heard a voice behind me say,—"Nelly, is that you?"
It was a deep voice, and foreign in tone; yet there was something in the manner of pronouncing my name which made it sound familiar. I turned about to discover who spoke, fearfully; for the doors were shut, and I had seen nobody on approaching the steps. Something stirred in the porch; and, moving nearer, I distinguished a tall man dressed in dark clothes, with dark face and hair. He leant against the side, and held his fingers on the latch as if intending to open for himself. "Who can it be?" I thought. "Mr. Earnshaw? Oh, no! The voice has no resemblance to his."
"I have waited here an hour," he resumed, while I continued staring; "and the whole of that time all round has been as still as death. I dared not enter. You do not know me? Look, I'm not a stranger!"
A ray fell on his features; the cheeks were sallow, and half covered with black whiskers; the brows lowering, the eyes deep–set and singular. I remembered the eyes.
"What!" I cried, uncertain whether to regard him as a worldly visitor, and I raised my hands in amazement. "What! you come back? Is it really you? Is it?"
"Yes, Heathcliff," he replied, glancing from me up to the windows, which reflected a score of glittering moons, but showed no lights from within. "Are they at home? where is she? Nelly, you are not glad! you needn't be so disturbed. Is she here? Speak! I want to have one word with her—your mistress. Go, and say some person from Gimmerton desires to see her."
"How will she take it?" I exclaimed. "What will she do? The surprise bewilders me—it will put her out of her head! And you are Heathcliff! But altered! Nay, there's no comprehending it. Have you been for a soldier?"
"Go and carry my message," he interrupted, impatiently. "I'm in hell till you do!"
He lifted the latch, and I entered; but when I got to the parlour where Mr. and Mrs. Linton were, I could not persuade myself to proceed. At length I resolved on making an excuse to ask if they would have the candles lighted, and I opened the door.
They sat together in a window whose lattice lay back against the wall, and displayed, beyond the garden trees, and the wild green park, the valley of Gimmerton, with a long line of mist winding nearly to its top (for very soon after you pass the chapel, as you may have noticed, the sough that runs from the marshes joins a beck which follows the bend of the glen). Wuthering Heights rose above this silvery vapour; but our old house was invisible; it rather dips down on the other side. Both the room and its occupants, and the scene they gazed on, looked wondrously peaceful. I shrank reluctantly from performing my errand; and was actually going away leaving it unsaid, after having put my question about the candles, when a sense of my folly compelled me to return, and mutter, "A person from Gimmerton wishes to see you ma'am."
"What does he want?" asked Mrs. Linton.
"I did not question him," I answered.
"Well, close the curtains, Nelly," she said; "and bring up tea. I'll be back again directly."
She quitted the apartment; Mr. Edgar inquired, carelessly, who it was.
"Some one mistress does not expect," I replied. "That Heathcliff—you recollect him, sir—who used to live at Mr. Earnshaw's."
"What! the gipsy—the ploughboy?" he cried. "Why did you not say so to Catherine?"
"Hush! you must not call him by those names, master," I said. "She'd be sadly grieved to hear you. She was nearly heartbroken when he ran off. I guess his return will make a jubilee to her."
Mr. Linton walked to a window on the other side of the room that overlooked the court. He unfastened it, and leant out. I suppose they were below, for he exclaimed quickly: "Don't stand there, love! Bring the person in, if it be anyone particular." Ere long, I heard the click of the latch, and Catherine flew up–stairs, breathless and wild; too excited to show gladness: indeed, by her face, you would rather have surmised an awful calamity.
"Oh, Edgar, Edgar!" she panted, flinging her arms round his neck. "Oh, Edgar darling! Heathcliff's come back—he is!" And she tightened her embrace to a squeeze.
"Well, well," cried her husband, crossly, "don't strangle me for that! He never struck me as such a marvellous treasure. There is no need to be frantic!"
"I know you didn't like him," she answered, repressing a little the intensity of her delight. "Yet, for my sake, you must be friends now. Shall I tell him to come up?"
"Here," he said, "into the parlour?"
"Where else?" she asked.
He looked vexed, and suggested the kitchen as a more suitable place for him. Mrs. Linton eyed him with a droll expression—half angry, half laughing at his fastidiousness.
"No," she added, after a while; "I cannot sit in the kitchen. Set two tables here, Ellen: one for your master and Miss Isabella, being gentry; the other for Heathcliff and myself, being of the lower orders. Will that please you, dear? Or must I have a fire lighted elsewhere? If so, give directions. I'll run down and secure my guest. I'm afraid the joy is too great to be real!"
She was about to dart off again; but Edgar arrested her.
"You bid him step up," he said, addressing me; "and, Catherine, try to be glad, without being absurd. The whole household need not witness the sight of your welcoming a runaway servant as a brother."
I descended, and found Heathcliff waiting under the porch, evidently anticipating an invitation to enter. He followed my guidance without waste of words, and I ushered him into the presence of the master and mistress, whose flushed cheeks betrayed signs of warm talking. But the lady's glowed with another feeling when her friend appeared at the door: she sprang forward, took both his hands, and led him to Linton; and then she seized Linton's reluctant fingers and crushed them into his. Now, fully revealed by the fire and candlelight, I was amazed, more than ever, to behold the transformation of Heathcliff. He had grown a tall, athletic, well–formed man; beside whom my master seemed quite slender and youth–like. His upright carriage suggested the idea of his having been in the army. His countenance was much older in expression and decision of feature than Mr. Linton's; it looked intelligent, and retained no marks of former degradation. A half–civilised ferocity lurked yet in the depressed brows and eyes full of black fire, but it was subdued; and his manner was even dignified: quite divested of roughness, though stern for grace. My master's surprise equalled or exceeded mine: he remained for a minute at a loss how to address the ploughboy, as he had called him. Heathcliff dropped his slight hand, and stood looking at him coolly till he chose to speak.
"Sit down, sir," he said, at length. "Mrs. Linton, recalling old times, would have me give you a cordial reception; and, of course, I am gratified when anything occurs to please her."
"And I also," answered Heathcliff, "especially if it be anything in which I have a part. I shall stay an hour or two willingly."
He took a seat opposite Catherine, who kept her gaze fixed on him as if she feared he would vanish were she to remove it. He did not raise his to her often: a quick glance now and then sufficed; but it flashed back, each time more confidently, the undisguised delight he drank from hers. They were too much absorbed in their mutual joy to suffer embarrassment. Not so Mr. Edgar: he grew pale with pure annoyance: a feeling that reached its climax when his lady rose, and stepping across the rug, seized Heathcliff's hands again, and laughed like one beside herself.
"I shall think it a dream to–morrow!" she cried. "I shall not be able to believe that I have seen, and touched, and spoken to you once more. And yet, cruel Heathcliff! you don't deserve this welcome. To be absent and silent for three years, and never to think of me!"
"A little more than you have thought of me," he murmured. "I heard of your marriage, Cathy, not long since; and, while waiting in the yard below, I meditated this plan—just to have one glimpse of your face, a stare of surprise, perhaps, and pretended pleasure; afterwards settle my score with Hindley; and then prevent the law by doing execution on myself. Your welcome has put these ideas out of my mind; but beware of meeting me with another aspect next time! Nay, you'll not drive me off again. You were really sorry for me, were you? Well, there was cause. I've fought through a bitter life since I last heard your voice; and you must forgive me, for I struggled only for you!"
"Catherine, unless we are to have cold tea, please to come to the table," interrupted Linton, striving to preserve his ordinary tone, and a due measure of politeness. "Mr. Heathcliff will have a long walk, wherever he may lodge to–night; and I'm thirsty."
She took her post before the urn; and Miss Isabella came, summoned by the bell; then, having handed their chairs forward, I left the room. The meal hardly endured ten minutes. Catherine's cup was never filled: she could neither eat nor drink. Edgar had made a slop in his saucer, and scarcely swallowed a mouthful. Their guest did not protract his stay that evening above an hour longer. I asked, as he departed, if he went to Gimmerton?
"No, to Wuthering Heights," he answered: "Mr. Earnshaw invited me, when I called this morning."
Mr. Earnshaw invited him! and he called on Mr. Earnshaw! I pondered this sentence painfully, after he was gone. Is he turning out a bit of a hypocrite, and coming into the country to work mischief under a cloak? I mused: I had a presentiment in the bottom of my heart that he had better have remained away.
About the middle of the night, I was wakened from my first nap by Mrs. Linton gliding into my chamber, taking a seat on my bedside, and pulling me by the hair to rouse me.
"I cannot rest, Ellen," she said, by way of apology. "And I want some living creature to keep me company in my happiness! Edgar is sulky, because I'm glad of a thing that does not interest him: he refuses to open his mouth, except to utter pettish, silly speeches; and he affirmed I was cruel and selfish for wishing to talk when he was so sick and sleepy. He always contrives to be sick at the least cross! I gave a few sentences of commendation to Heathcliff, and he, either for a headache or a pang of envy, began to cry: so I got up and left him."
"What use is it praising Heathcliff to him?" I answered. "As lads they had an aversion to each other, and Heathcliff would hate just as much to hear him praised: it's human nature. Let Mr. Linton alone about him, unless you would like an open quarrel between them."
"But does it not show great weakness?" pursued she. "I'm not envious: I never feel hurt at the brightness of Isabella's yellow hair and the whiteness of her skin, at her dainty elegance, and the fondness all the family exhibit for her. Even you, Nelly, if we have a dispute sometimes, you back Isabella at once; and I yield like a foolish mother: I call her a darling, and flatter her into a good temper. It pleases her brother to see us cordial, and that pleases me. But they are very much alike: they are spoiled children, and fancy the world was made for their accommodation; and though I humour both, I think a smart chastisement might improve them all the same."
"You're mistaken, Mrs. Linton," said I. "They humour you: I know what there would be to do if they did not. You can well afford to indulge their passing whims as long as their business is to anticipate all your desires. You may, however, fall out, at last, over something of equal consequence to both sides; and then those you term weak are very capable of being as obstinate as you."
"And then we shall fight to the death, sha'n't we, Nelly?" she returned, laughing. "No! I tell you, I have such faith in Linton's love, that I believe I might kill him, and he wouldn't wish to retaliate."
I advised her to value him the more for his affection.
"I do," she answered, "but he needn't resort to whining for trifles. It is childish and, instead of melting into tears because I said that Heathcliff was now worthy of anyone's regard, and it would honour the first gentleman in the country to be his friend, he ought to have said it for me, and been delighted from sympathy. He must get accustomed to him, and he may as well like him: considering how Heathcliff has reason to object to him, I'm sure he behaved excellently!"
"What do you think of his going to Wuthering Heights?" I inquired. "He is reformed in every respect, apparently: quite a Christian: offering the right hand of fellowship to his enemies all around!"
"He explained it," she replied. "I wonder as much as you. He said he called to gather information concerning me from you, supposing you resided there still; and Joseph told Hindley, who came out and fell to questioning him of what he had been doing, and how he had been living; and finally, desired him to walk in. There were some persons sitting at cards; Heathcliff joined them; my brother lost some money to him, and, finding him plentifully supplied, he requested that he would come again in the evening: to which he consented. Hindley is too reckless to select his acquaintance prudently: he doesn't trouble himself to reflect on the causes he might have for mistrusting one whom he has basely injured. But Heathcliff affirms his principal reason for resuming a connection with his ancient persecutor is a wish to instal himself in quarters at walking distance from the Grange, and an attachment to the house where we lived together; and likewise a hope that I shall have more opportunities of seeing him there than I could have if he settled in Gimmerton. He means to offer liberal payment for permission to lodge at the Heights; and doubtless my brother's covetousness will prompt him to accept the terms: he was always greedy; though what he grasps with one hand he flings away with the other."
"It's a nice place for a young man to fix his dwelling in!" said I. "Have you no fear of the consequences, Mrs. Linton?"
"None for my friend," she replied: "his strong head will keep him from danger; a little for Hindley: but he can't be made morally worse than he is; and I stand between him and bodily harm. The event of this evening has reconciled me to God and humanity! I had risen in angry rebellion against Providence. Oh, I've endured very, very bitter misery, Nelly! If that creature knew how bitter, he'd be ashamed to cloud its removal with idle petulance. It was kindness for him which induced me to bear it alone: had I expressed the agony I frequently felt, he would have been taught to long for its alleviation as ardently as I. However, it's over, and I'll take no revenge on his folly; I can afford to suffer anything hereafter! Should the meanest thing alive slap me on the cheek, I'd not only turn the other, but I'd ask pardon for provoking it; and, as a proof, I'll go make my peace with Edgar instantly. Good–night! I'm an angel!"
In this self–complacent conviction she departed; and the success of her fulfilled resolution was obvious on the morrow: Mr. Linton had not only abjured his peevishness (though his spirits seemed still subdued by Catherine's exuberance of vivacity), but he ventured no objection to her taking Isabella with her to Wuthering Heights in the afternoon; and she rewarded him with such a summer of sweetness and affection in return as made the house a paradise for several days; both master and servants profiting from the perpetual sunshine.
Heathcliff—Mr. Heathcliff I should say in future—used the liberty of visiting at Thrushcross Grange cautiously, at first: he seemed estimating how far its owner would bear his intrusion. Catherine, also, deemed it judicious to moderate her expressions of pleasure in receiving him; and he gradually established his right to be expected. He retained a great deal of the reserve for which his boyhood was remarkable; and that served to repress all startling demonstrations of feeling. My master's uneasiness experienced a lull, and further circumstances diverted it into another channel for a space.
His new source of trouble sprang from the not anticipated misfortune of Isabella Linton evincing a sudden and irresistible attraction towards the tolerated guest. She was at that time a charming young lady of eighteen; infantile in manners, though possessed of keen wit, keen feelings, and a keen temper, too, if irritated. Her brother, who loved her tenderly, was appalled at this fantastic preference. Leaving aside the degradation of an alliance with a nameless man, and the possible fact that his property, in default of heirs male, might pass into such a one's power, he had sense to comprehend Heathcliff's disposition: to know that, though his exterior was altered, his mind was unchangeable and unchanged. And he dreaded that mind: it revolted him: he shrank forebodingly from the idea of committing Isabella to its keeping. He would have recoiled still more had he been aware that her attachment rose unsolicited, and was bestowed where it awakened no reciprocation of sentiment; for the minute he discovered its existence he laid the blame on Heathcliff's deliberate designing.
We had all remarked, during some time, that Miss Linton fretted and pined over something. She grew cross and wearisome; snapping at and teasing Catherine continually, at the imminent risk of exhausting her limited patience. We excused her, to a certain extent, on the plea of ill–health: she was dwindling and fading before our eyes. But one day, when she had been peculiarly wayward, rejecting her breakfast, complaining that the servants did not do what she told them; that the mistress would allow her to be nothing in the house, and Edgar neglected her; that she had caught a cold with the doors being left open, and we let the parlour fire go out on purpose to vex her, with a hundred yet more frivolous accusations, Mrs. Linton peremptorily insisted that she should get to bed; and, having scolded her heartily, threatened to send for the doctor. Mention of Kenneth caused her to exclaim, instantly, that her health was perfect, and it was only Catherine's harshness which made her unhappy.
"How can you say I am harsh, you naughty fondling?" cried the mistress, amazed at the unreasonable assertion. "You are surely losing your reason. When have I been hash, tell me?"
"Yesterday," sobbed Isabella, "and now!"
"Yesterday!" said her sister–in–law. "On what occasion?"
"In our walk along the moor: you told me to ramble where I pleased, while you sauntered on with Mr. Heathcliff?"
"And that's your notion of harshness?" said Catherine, laughing. "It was no hint that your company was superfluous? We didn't care whether you kept with us or not; I merely thought Heathcliff's talk would have nothing entertaining for your ears."
"Oh, no," wept the young lady; "you wished me away, because you knew I liked to be there!"
"Is she sane?" asked Mrs. Linton, appealing to me. "I'll repeat our conversation, word for word, Isabella; and you point out any charm it could have had for you."
"I don't mind the conversation," she answered: "I wanted to be with—"
"Well?" said Catherine, perceiving her hesitate to complete the sentence.
"With him: and I won't be always sent off!" she continued, kindling up. "You are a dog in the manger, Cathy, and desire no one to be loved but yourself!"
"You are an impertinent little monkey!" exclaimed Mrs. Linton, in surprise. "But I'll not believe this idiotcy! It is impossible that you can covet the admiration of Heathcliff—that you consider him an agreeable person! I hope I have misunderstood you, Isabella?"
"No, you have not," said the infatuated girl. "I love him more than ever you loved Edgar, and he might love me, if you would let him!"
"I wouldn't be you for a kingdom, then!" Catherine declared, emphatically: and she seemed to speak sincerely. "Nelly, help me to convince her of her madness. Tell her what Heathcliff is: an unreclaimed creature, without refinement, without cultivation; an arid wilderness of furze and whinstone. I'd as soon put that little canary into the park on a winter's day, as recommend you to bestow your heart on him! It is deplorable ignorance of his character, child, and nothing else, which makes that dream enter your head. Pray, don't imagine that he conceals depths of benevolence and affection beneath a stern exterior! He's not a rough diamond—a pearl–containing oyster of a rustic: he's a fierce, pitiless, wolfish man. I never say to him, "Let this or that enemy alone, because it would be ungenerous or cruel to harm them;" I say, "Let them alone, because I should hate them to be wronged:" and he'd crush you like a sparrow's egg, Isabella, if he found you a troublesome charge. I know he couldn't love a Linton; and yet he'd be quite capable of marrying your fortune and expectations: avarice is growing with him a besetting sin. There's my picture: and I'm his friend—so much so, that had he thought seriously to catch you, I should, perhaps, have held my tongue, and let you fall into his trap."
Miss Linton regarded her sister–in–law with indignation.
"For shame! for shame!" she repeated, angrily. "You are worse than twenty foes, you poisonous friend!"
"Ah! you won't believe me, then?" said Catherine. "You think I speak from wicked selfishness?"
"I'm certain you do," retorted Isabella; "and I shudder at you!"
"Good!" cried the other. "Try for yourself, if that be your spirit: I have done, and yield the argument to your saucy insolence."—
"And I must suffer for her egotism!" she sobbed, as Mrs. Linton left the room. "All, all is against me: she has blighted my single consolation. But she uttered falsehoods, didn't she? Mr. Heathcliff is not a fiend: he has an honourable soul, and a true one, or how could he remember her?"
"Banish him from your thoughts, Miss," I said. "He's a bird of bad omen: no mate for you." Mrs. Linton spoke strongly, and yet I can't contradict her. She is better acquainted with his heart than I, or any one besides; and she never would represent him as worse than he is. Honest people don't hide their deeds. How has he been living? how has he got rich? why is he staying at Wuthering Heights, the house of a man whom he abhors? They say Mr. Earnshaw is worse and worse since he came. They sit up all night together continually, and Hindley has been borrowing money on his land, and does nothing but play and drink: I heard only a week ago—it was Joseph who told me—I met him at Gimmerton: "Nelly," he said, "we's hae a crowner's "quest enow, at ahr folks". One on 'em 's a'most getten his finger cut off wi' hauding t' other fro' stickin' hisseln loike a cawlf. That's maister, yeah knaw, 'at 's soa up o' going tuh t' grand 'sizes. He's noan feared o' t' bench o' judges, norther Paul, nur Peter, nur John, nur Matthew, nor noan on 'em, not he! He fair likes—he langs to set his brazened face agean "em! And yon bonny lad Heathcliff, yah mind, he's a rare 'un. He can girn a laugh as well 's onybody at a raight divil's jest. Does he niver say nowt of his fine living amang us, when he goes to t' Grange? This is t' way on 't:—up at sun–down: dice, brandy, cloised shutters, und can'le–light till next day at noon: then, t'fooil gangs banning und raving to his cham'er, makking dacent fowks dig thur fingers i' thur lugs fur varry shame; un' the knave, why he can caint his brass, un' ate, un' sleep, un' off to his neighbour's to gossip wi' t' wife. I' course, he tells Dame Catherine how her fathur's goold runs into his pocket, and her fathur's son gallops down t' broad road, while he flees afore to oppen t' pikes!" Now, Miss Linton, Joseph is an old rascal, but no liar; and, if his account of Heathcliff's conduct be true, you would never think of desiring such a husband, would you?"
"You are leagued with the rest, Ellen!" she replied. "I'll not listen to your slanders. What malevolence you must have to wish to convince me that there is no happiness in the world!"
Whether she would have got over this fancy if left to herself, or persevered in nursing it perpetually, I cannot say: she had little time to reflect. The day after, there was a justice–meeting at the next town; my master was obliged to attend; and Mr. Heathcliff, aware of his absence, called rather earlier than usual. Catherine and Isabella were sitting in the library, on hostile terms, but silent: the latter alarmed at her recent indiscretion, and the disclosure she had made of her secret feelings in a transient fit of passion; the former, on mature consideration, really offended with her companion; and, if she laughed again at her pertness, inclined to make it no laughing matter to her. She did laugh as she saw Heathcliff pass the window. I was sweeping the hearth, and I noticed a mischievous smile on her lips. Isabella, absorbed in her meditations, or a book, remained till the door opened; and it was too late to attempt an escape, which she would gladly have done had it been practicable.
"Come in, that's right!" exclaimed the mistress, gaily, pulling a chair to the fire. "Here are two people sadly in need of a third to thaw the ice between them; and you are the very one we should both of us choose. Heathcliff, I'm proud to show you, at last, somebody that dotes on you more than myself. I expect you to feel flattered. Nay, it's not Nelly; don't look at her! My poor little sister–in–law is breaking her heart by mere contemplation of your physical and moral beauty. It lies in your own power to be Edgar's brother! No, no, Isabella, you sha'n't run off," she continued, arresting, with feigned playfulness, the confounded girl, who had risen indignantly. "We were quarrelling like cats about you, Heathcliff; and I was fairly beaten in protestations of devotion and admiration: and, moreover, I was informed that if I would but have the manners to stand aside, my rival, as she will have herself to be, would shoot a shaft into your soul that would fix you for ever, and send my image into eternal oblivion!"
"Catherine!" said Isabella, calling up her dignity, and disdaining to struggle from the tight grasp that held her, "I'd thank you to adhere to the truth and not slander me, even in joke! Mr. Heathcliff, be kind enough to bid this friend of yours release me: she forgets that you and I are not intimate acquaintances; and what amuses her is painful to me beyond expression."
As the guest answered nothing, but took his seat, and looked thoroughly indifferent what sentiments she cherished concerning him, she turned and whispered an earnest appeal for liberty to her tormentor.
"By no means!" cried Mrs. Linton in answer. "I won't be named a dog in the manger again. You shall stay: now then! Heathcliff, why don't you evince satisfaction at my pleasant news? Isabella swears that the love Edgar has for me is nothing to that she entertains for you. I'm sure she made some speech of the kind; did she not, Ellen? And she has fasted ever since the day before yesterday's walk, from sorrow and rage that I despatched her out of your society under the idea of its being unacceptable."
"I think you belie her," said Heathcliff, twisting his chair to face them. "She wishes to be out of my society now, at any rate!"
And he stared hard at the object of discourse, as one might do at a strange repulsive animal: a centipede from the Indies, for instance, which curiosity leads one to examine in spite of the aversion it raises. The poor thing couldn't bear that; she grew white and red in rapid succession, and, while tears beaded her lashes, bent the strength of her small fingers to loosen the firm clutch of Catherine; and perceiving that as fast as she raised one finger off her arm another closed down, and she could not remove the whole together, she began to make use of her nails; and their sharpness presently ornamented the detainer's with crescents of red.
"There's a tigress!" exclaimed Mrs. Linton, setting her free, and shaking her hand with pain. "Begone, for God's sake, and hide your vixen face! How foolish to reveal those talons to him. Can't you fancy the conclusions he'll draw? Look, Heathcliff! they are instruments that will do execution—you must beware of your eyes."
"I'd wrench them off her fingers, if they ever menaced me," he answered, brutally, when the door had closed after her. "But what did you mean by teasing the creature in that manner, Cathy? You were not speaking the truth, were you?"
"I assure you I was," she returned. "She has been dying for your sake several weeks, and raving about you this morning, and pouring forth a deluge of abuse, because I represented your failings in a plain light, for the purpose of mitigating her adoration. But don't notice it further: I wished to punish her sauciness, that's all. I like her too well, my dear Heathcliff, to let you absolutely seize and devour her up."
"And I like her too ill to attempt it," said he, "except in a very ghoulish fashion. You'd hear of odd things if I lived alone with that mawkish, waxen face: the most ordinary would be painting on its white the colours of the rainbow, and turning the blue eyes black, every day or two: they detestably resemble Linton's."
"Delectably!" observed Catherine. "They are dove's eyes—angel's!"
"She's her brother's heir, is she not?" he asked, after a brief silence.
"I should be sorry to think so," returned his companion. "Half a dozen nephews shall erase her title, please heaven! Abstract your mind from the subject at present: you are too prone to covet your neighbour's goods; remember this neighbour's goods are mine."
"If they were mine, they would be none the less that," said Heathcliff; "but though Isabella Linton may be silly, she is scarcely mad; and, in short, we'll dismiss the matter, as you advise."
From their tongues they did dismiss it; and Catherine, probably, from her thoughts. The other, I felt certain, recalled it often in the course of the evening. I saw him smile to himself—grin rather—and lapse into ominous musing whenever Mrs. Linton had occasion to be absent from the apartment.
I determined to watch his movements. My heart invariably cleaved to the master's, in preference to Catherine's side: with reason I imagined, for he was kind, and trustful, and honourable; and she—she could not be called opposite, yet she seemed to allow herself such wide latitude, that I had little faith in her principles, and still less sympathy for her feelings. I wanted something to happen which might have the effect of freeing both Wuthering Heights and the Grange of Mr. Heathcliff quietly; leaving us as we had been prior to his advent. His visits were a continual nightmare to me; and, I suspected, to my master also. His abode at the Heights was an oppression past explaining. I felt that God had forsaken the stray sheep there to its own wicked wanderings, and an evil beast prowled between it and the fold, waiting his time to spring and destroy. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 15 | Sometimes, while meditating on these things in solitude, I've got up in a sudden terror, and put on my bonnet to go see how all was at the farm. I've persuaded my conscience that it was a duty to warn him how people talked regarding his ways; and then I've recollected his confirmed bad habits, and, hopeless of benefiting him, have flinched from re–entering the dismal house, doubting if I could bear to be taken at my word.
One time I passed the old gate, going out of my way, on a journey to Gimmerton. It was about the period that my narrative has reached: a bright frosty afternoon; the ground bare, and the road hard and dry. I came to a stone where the highway branches off on to the moor at your left hand; a rough sand–pillar, with the letters W. H. cut on its north side, on the east, G., and on the south–west, T. G. It serves as a guide–post to the Grange, the Heights, and village. The sun shone yellow on its grey head, reminding me of summer; and I cannot say why, but all at once a gush of child's sensations flowed into my heart. Hindley and I held it a favourite spot twenty years before. I gazed long at the weather–worn block; and, stooping down, perceived a hole near the bottom still full of snail–shells and pebbles, which we were fond of storing there with more perishable things; and, as fresh as reality, it appeared that I beheld my early playmate seated on the withered turf: his dark, square head bent forward, and his little hand scooping out the earth with a piece of slate. "Poor Hindley!" I exclaimed, involuntarily. I started: my bodily eye was cheated into a momentary belief that the child lifted its face and stared straight into mine! It vanished in a twinkling; but immediately I felt an irresistible yearning to be at the Heights. Superstition urged me to comply with this impulse: supposing he should be dead! I thought—or should die soon!—supposing it were a sign of death! The nearer I got to the house the more agitated I grew; and on catching sight of it I trembled in every limb. The apparition had outstripped me: it stood looking through the gate. That was my first idea on observing an elf–locked, brown–eyed boy setting his ruddy countenance against the bars. Further reflection suggested this must be Hareton, my Hareton, not altered greatly since I left him, ten months since.
"God bless thee, darling!" I cried, forgetting instantaneously my foolish fears. "Hareton, it's Nelly! Nelly, thy nurse."
He retreated out of arm's length, and picked up a large flint.
"I am come to see thy father, Hareton," I added, guessing from the action that Nelly, if she lived in his memory at all, was not recognised as one with me.
He raised his missile to hurl it; I commenced a soothing speech, but could not stay his hand: the stone struck my bonnet; and then ensued, from the stammering lips of the little fellow, a string of curses, which, whether he comprehended them or not, were delivered with practised emphasis, and distorted his baby features into a shocking expression of malignity. You may be certain this grieved more than angered me. Fit to cry, I took an orange from my pocket, and offered it to propitiate him. He hesitated, and then snatched it from my hold; as if he fancied I only intended to tempt and disappoint him. I showed another, keeping it out of his reach.
"Who has taught you those fine words, my bairn?" I inquired. "The curate?"
"Damn the curate, and thee! Gie me that," he replied.
"Tell us where you got your lessons, and you shall have it," said I. "Who's your master?"
"Devil daddy," was his answer.
"And what do you learn from daddy?" I continued.
He jumped at the fruit; I raised it higher. "What does he teach you?" I asked.
"Naught," said he, "but to keep out of his gait. Daddy cannot bide me, because I swear at him."
"Ah! and the devil teaches you to swear at daddy?" I observed.
"Ay—nay," he drawled.
"Who, then?"
"Heathcliff."
"I asked if he liked Mr. Heathcliff."
"Ay!" he answered again.
Desiring to have his reasons for liking him, I could only gather the sentences—"I known't: he pays dad back what he gies to me—he curses daddy for cursing me. He says I mun do as I will."
"And the curate does not teach you to read and write, then?" I pursued.
"No, I was told the curate should have his—teeth dashed down his—throat, if he stepped over the threshold—Heathcliff had promised that!"
I put the orange in his hand, and bade him tell his father that a woman called Nelly Dean was waiting to speak with him, by the garden gate. He went up the walk, and entered the house; but, instead of Hindley, Heathcliff appeared on the door–stones; and I turned directly and ran down the road as hard as ever I could race, making no halt till I gained the guide–post, and feeling as scared as if I had raised a goblin. This is not much connected with Miss Isabella's affair: except that it urged me to resolve further on mounting vigilant guard, and doing my utmost to cheek the spread of such bad influence at the Grange: even though I should wake a domestic storm, by thwarting Mrs. Linton's pleasure.
The next time Heathcliff came my young lady chanced to be feeding some pigeons in the court. She had never spoken a word to her sister–in–law for three days; but she had likewise dropped her fretful complaining, and we found it a great comfort. Heathcliff had not the habit of bestowing a single unnecessary civility on Miss Linton, I knew. Now, as soon as he beheld her, his first precaution was to take a sweeping survey of the house–front. I was standing by the kitchen–window, but I drew out of sight. He then stepped across the pavement to her, and said something: she seemed embarrassed, and desirous of getting away; to prevent it, he laid his hand on her arm. She averted her face: he apparently put some question which she had no mind to answer. There was another rapid glance at the house, and supposing himself unseen, the scoundrel had the impudence to embrace her.
"Judas! Traitor!" I ejaculated. "You are a hypocrite, too, are you? A deliberate deceiver."
"Who is, Nelly?" said Catherine's voice at my elbow: I had been over–intent on watching the pair outside to mark her entrance.
"Your worthless friend!" I answered, warmly: "the sneaking rascal yonder. Ah, he has caught a glimpse of us—he is coming in! I wonder will he have the heart to find a plausible excuse for making love to Miss, when he told you he hated her?"
Mrs. Linton saw Isabella tear herself free, and run into the garden; and a minute after, Heathcliff opened the door. I couldn't withhold giving some loose to my indignation; but Catherine angrily insisted on silence, and threatened to order me out of the kitchen, if I dared to be so presumptuous as to put in my insolent tongue.
"To hear you, people might think you were the mistress!" she cried. "You want setting down in your right place! Heathcliff, what are you about, raising this stir? I said you must let Isabella alone!—I beg you will, unless you are tired of being received here, and wish Linton to draw the bolts against you!"
"God forbid that he should try!" answered the black villain. I detested him just then. "God keep him meek and patient! Every day I grow madder after sending him to heaven!"
"Hush!" said Catherine, shutting the inner door! "Don't vex me. Why have you disregarded my request? Did she come across you on purpose?"
"What is it to you?" he growled. "I have a right to kiss her, if she chooses; and you have no right to object. I am not your husband: you needn't be jealous of me!"
"I'm not jealous of you," replied the mistress; "I'm jealous for you. Clear your face: you sha'n't scowl at me! If you like Isabella, you shall marry her. But do you like her? Tell the truth, Heathcliff! There, you won't answer. I'm certain you don't."
"And would Mr. Linton approve of his sister marrying that man?" I inquired.
"Mr. Linton should approve," returned my lady, decisively.
"He might spare himself the trouble," said Heathcliff: "I could do as well without his approbation. And as to you, Catherine, I have a mind to speak a few words now, while we are at it. I want you to be aware that I know you have treated me infernally—infernally! Do you hear? And if you flatter yourself that I don't perceive it, you are a fool; and if you think I can be consoled by sweet words, you are an idiot: and if you fancy I'll suffer unrevenged, I'll convince you of the contrary, in a very little while! Meantime, thank you for telling me your sister–in–law's secret: I swear I'll make the most of it. And stand you aside!"
"What new phase of his character is this?" exclaimed Mrs. Linton, in amazement. "I've treated you infernally—and you'll take your revenge! How will you take it, ungrateful brute? How have I treated you infernally?"
"I seek no revenge on you," replied Heathcliff, less vehemently. "That's not the plan. The tyrant grinds down his slaves and they don't turn against him; they crush those beneath them. You are welcome to torture me to death for your amusement, only allow me to amuse myself a little in the same style, and refrain from insult as much as you are able. Having levelled my palace, don't erect a hovel and complacently admire your own charity in giving me that for a home. If I imagined you really wished me to marry Isabel, I'd cut my throat!"
"Oh, the evil is that I am not jealous, is it?" cried Catherine. "Well, I won't repeat my offer of a wife: it is as bad as offering Satan a lost soul. Your bliss lies, like his, in inflicting misery. You prove it. Edgar is restored from the ill–temper he gave way to at your coming; I begin to be secure and tranquil; and you, restless to know us at peace, appear resolved on exciting a quarrel. Quarrel with Edgar, if you please, Heathcliff, and deceive his sister: you'll hit on exactly the most efficient method of revenging yourself on me."
The conversation ceased. Mrs. Linton sat down by the fire, flushed and gloomy. The spirit which served her was growing intractable: she could neither lay nor control it. He stood on the hearth with folded arms, brooding on his evil thoughts; and in this position I left them to seek the master, who was wondering what kept Catherine below so long.
"Ellen," said he, when I entered, "have you seen your mistress?"
"Yes; she's in the kitchen, sir," I answered. "She's sadly put out by Mr. Heathcliff's behaviour: and, indeed, I do think it's time to arrange his visits on another footing. There's harm in being too soft, and now it's come to this—." And I related the scene in the court, and, as near as I dared, the whole subsequent dispute. I fancied it could not be very prejudicial to Mrs. Linton; unless she made it so afterwards, by assuming the defensive for her guest. Edgar Linton had difficulty in hearing me to the close. His first words revealed that he did not clear his wife of blame.
"This is insufferable!" he exclaimed. "It is disgraceful that she should own him for a friend, and force his company on me! Call me two men out of the hall, Ellen. Catherine shall linger no longer to argue with the low ruffian—I have humoured her enough."
He descended, and bidding the servants wait in the passage, went, followed by me, to the kitchen. Its occupants had recommenced their angry discussion: Mrs. Linton, at least, was scolding with renewed vigour; Heathcliff had moved to the window, and hung his head, somewhat cowed by her violent rating apparently. He saw the master first, and made a hasty motion that she should be silent; which she obeyed, abruptly, on discovering the reason of his intimation.
"How is this?" said Linton, addressing her; "what notion of propriety must you have to remain here, after the language which has been held to you by that blackguard? I suppose, because it is his ordinary talk you think nothing of it: you are habituated to his baseness, and, perhaps, imagine I can get used to it too!"
"Have you been listening at the door, Edgar?" asked the mistress, in a tone particularly calculated to provoke her husband, implying both carelessness and contempt of his irritation. Heathcliff, who had raised his eyes at the former speech, gave a sneering laugh at the latter; on purpose, it seemed, to draw Mr. Linton's attention to him. He succeeded; but Edgar did not mean to entertain him with any high flights of passion.
"I've been so far forbearing with you, sir," he said quietly; "not that I was ignorant of your miserable, degraded character, but I felt you were only partly responsible for that; and Catherine wishing to keep up your acquaintance, I acquiesced—foolishly. Your presence is a moral poison that would contaminate the most virtuous: for that cause, and to prevent worse consequences, I shall deny you hereafter admission into this house, and give notice now that I require your instant departure. Three minutes" delay will render it involuntary and ignominious.
Heathcliff measured the height and breadth of the speaker with an eye full of derision.
"Cathy, this lamb of yours threatens like a bull!" he said. "It is in danger of splitting its skull against my knuckles. By God! Mr. Linton, I'm mortally sorry that you are not worth knocking down!"
My master glanced towards the passage, and signed me to fetch the men: he had no intention of hazarding a personal encounter. I obeyed the hint; but Mrs. Linton, suspecting something, followed; and when I attempted to call them, she pulled me back, slammed the door to, and locked it.
"Fair means!" she said, in answer to her husband's look of angry surprise. "If you have not courage to attack him, make an apology, or allow yourself to be beaten. It will correct you of feigning more valour than you possess. No, I'll swallow the key before you shall get it! I'm delightfully rewarded for my kindness to each! After constant indulgence of one's weak nature, and the other's bad one, I earn for thanks two samples of blind ingratitude, stupid to absurdity! Edgar, I was defending you and yours; and I wish Heathcliff may flog you sick, for daring to think an evil thought of me!"
It did not need the medium of a flogging to produce that effect on the master. He tried to wrest the key from Catherine's grasp, and for safety she flung it into the hottest part of the fire; whereupon Mr. Edgar was taken with a nervous trembling, and his countenance grew deadly pale. For his life he could not avert that excess of emotion: mingled anguish and humiliation overcame him completely. He leant on the back of a chair, and covered his face.
"Oh, heavens! In old days this would win you knighthood!" exclaimed Mrs. Linton. "We are vanquished! we are vanquished! Heathcliff would as soon lift a finger at you as the king would march his army against a colony of mice. Cheer up! you sha'n't be hurt! Your type is not a lamb, it's a sucking leveret."
"I wish you joy of the milk–blooded coward, Cathy!" said her friend. "I compliment you on your taste. And that is the slavering, shivering thing you preferred to me! I would not strike him with my fist, but I'd kick him with my foot, and experience considerable satisfaction. Is he weeping, or is he going to faint for fear?"
The fellow approached and gave the chair on which Linton rested a push. He'd better have kept his distance: my master quickly sprang erect, and struck him full on the throat a blow that would have levelled a slighter man. It took his breath for a minute; and while he choked, Mr. Linton walked out by the back door into the yard, and from thence to the front entrance.
"There! you've done with coming here," cried Catherine. "Get away, now; he'll return with a brace of pistols and half–a–dozen assistants. If he did overhear us, of course he'd never forgive you. You've played me an ill turn, Heathcliff! But go—make haste! I'd rather see Edgar at bay than you."
"Do you suppose I'm going with that blow burning in my gullet?" he thundered. "By hell, no! I'll crush his ribs in like a rotten hazel–nut before I cross the threshold! If I don't floor him now, I shall murder him some time; so, as you value his existence, let me get at him!"
"He is not coming," I interposed, framing a bit of a lie. "There's the coachman and the two gardeners; you'll surely not wait to be thrust into the road by them! Each has a bludgeon; and master will, very likely, be watching from the parlour–windows to see that they fulfil his orders."
The gardeners and coachman were there: but Linton was with them. They had already entered the court. Heathcliff, on the second thoughts, resolved to avoid a struggle against three underlings: he seized the poker, smashed the lock from the inner door, and made his escape as they tramped in.
Mrs. Linton, who was very much excited, bade me accompany her up–stairs. She did not know my share in contributing to the disturbance, and I was anxious to keep her in ignorance.
"I'm nearly distracted, Nelly!" she exclaimed, throwing herself on the sofa. "A thousand smiths" hammers are beating in my head! Tell Isabella to shun me; this uproar is owing to her; and should she or any one else aggravate my anger at present, I shall get wild. And, Nelly, say to Edgar, if you see him again to–night, that I'm in danger of being seriously ill. I wish it may prove true. He has startled and distressed me shockingly! I want to frighten him. Besides, he might come and begin a string of abuse or complainings; I'm certain I should recriminate, and God knows where we should end! Will you do so, my good Nelly? You are aware that I am no way blamable in this matter. What possessed him to turn listener? Heathcliff's talk was outrageous, after you left us; but I could soon have diverted him from Isabella, and the rest meant nothing. Now all is dashed wrong; by the fool's craving to hear evil of self, that haunts some people like a demon! Had Edgar never gathered our conversation, he would never have been the worse for it. Really, when he opened on me in that unreasonable tone of displeasure after I had scolded Heathcliff till I was hoarse for him, I did not care hardly what they did to each other; especially as I felt that, however the scene closed, we should all be driven asunder for nobody knows how long! Well, if I cannot keep Heathcliff for my friend—if Edgar will be mean and jealous, I'll try to break their hearts by breaking my own. That will be a prompt way of finishing all, when I am pushed to extremity! But it's a deed to be reserved for a forlorn hope; I'd not take Linton by surprise with it. To this point he has been discreet in dreading to provoke me; you must represent the peril of quitting that policy, and remind him of my passionate temper, verging, when kindled, on frenzy. I wish you could dismiss that apathy out of that countenance, and look rather more anxious about me.'
The stolidity with which I received these instructions was, no doubt, rather exasperating: for they were delivered in perfect sincerity; but I believed a person who could plan the turning of her fits of passion to account, beforehand, might, by exerting her will, manage to control herself tolerably, even while under their influence; and I did not wish to "frighten" her husband, as she said, and multiply his annoyances for the purpose of serving her selfishness. Therefore I said nothing when I met the master coming towards the parlour; but I took the liberty of turning back to listen whether they would resume their quarrel together. He began to speak first.
"Remain where you are, Catherine," he said; without any anger in his voice, but with much sorrowful despondency. "I shall not stay. I am neither come to wrangle nor be reconciled; but I wish just to learn whether, after this evening's events, you intend to continue your intimacy with—"
"Oh, for mercy's sake," interrupted the mistress, stamping her foot, "for mercy's sake, let us hear no more of it now! Your cold blood cannot be worked into a fever: your veins are full of ice–water; but mine are boiling, and the sight of such chillness makes them dance."
"To get rid of me, answer my question," persevered Mr. Linton. "You must answer it; and that violence does not alarm me. I have found that you can be as stoical as anyone, when you please. Will you give up Heathcliff hereafter, or will you give up me? It is impossible for you to be my friend and his at the same time; and I absolutely require to know which you choose."
"I require to be let alone?" exclaimed Catherine, furiously. "I demand it! Don't you see I can scarcely stand? Edgar, you—you leave me!"
She rang the bell till it broke with a twang; I entered leisurely. It was enough to try the temper of a saint, such senseless, wicked rages! There she lay dashing her head against the arm of the sofa, and grinding her teeth, so that you might fancy she would crash them to splinters! Mr. Linton stood looking at her in sudden compunction and fear. He told me to fetch some water. She had no breath for speaking. I brought a glass full; and as she would not drink, I sprinkled it on her face. In a few seconds she stretched herself out stiff, and turned up her eyes, while her cheeks, at once blanched and livid, assumed the aspect of death. Linton looked terrified.
"There is nothing in the world the matter," I whispered. I did not want him to yield, though I could not help being afraid in my heart.
"She has blood on her lips!" he said, shuddering.
"Never mind!" I answered, tartly. And I told him how she had resolved, previous to his coming, on exhibiting a fit of frenzy. I incautiously gave the account aloud, and she heard me; for she started up—her hair flying over her shoulders, her eyes flashing, the muscles of her neck and arms standing out preternaturally. I made up my mind for broken bones, at least; but she only glared about her for an instant, and then rushed from the room. The master directed me to follow; I did, to her chamber–door: she hindered me from going further by securing it against me.
As she never offered to descend to breakfast next morning, I went to ask whether she would have some carried up. "No!" she replied, peremptorily. The same question was repeated at dinner and tea; and again on the morrow after, and received the same answer. Mr. Linton, on his part, spent his time in the library, and did not inquire concerning his wife's occupations. Isabella and he had had an hour's interview, during which he tried to elicit from her some sentiment of proper horror for Heathcliff's advances: but he could make nothing of her evasive replies, and was obliged to close the examination unsatisfactorily; adding, however, a solemn warning, that if she were so insane as to encourage that worthless suitor, it would dissolve all bonds of relationship between herself and him. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 16 | While Miss Linton moped about the park and garden, always silent, and almost always in tears; and her brother shut himself up among books that he never opened—wearying, I guessed, with a continual vague expectation that Catherine, repenting her conduct, would come of her own accord to ask pardon, and seek a reconciliation—and she fasted pertinaciously, under the idea, probably, that at every meal Edgar was ready to choke for her absence, and pride alone held him from running to cast himself at her feet; I went about my household duties, convinced that the Grange had but one sensible soul in its walls, and that lodged in my body. I wasted no condolences on Miss, nor any expostulations on my mistress; nor did I pay much attention to the sighs of my master, who yearned to hear his lady's name, since he might not hear her voice. I determined they should come about as they pleased for me; and though it was a tiresomely slow process, I began to rejoice at length in a faint dawn of its progress: as I thought at first.
Mrs. Linton, on the third day, unbarred her door, and having finished the water in her pitcher and decanter, desired a renewed supply, and a basin of gruel, for she believed she was dying. That I set down as a speech meant for Edgar's ears; I believed no such thing, so I kept it to myself and brought her some tea and dry toast. She ate and drank eagerly, and sank back on her pillow again, clenching her hands and groaning. "Oh, I will die," she exclaimed, "since no one cares anything about me. I wish I had not taken that." Then a good while after I heard her murmur, "No, I'll not die—he'd be glad—he does not love me at all—he would never miss me!"
"Did you want anything, ma'am?" I inquired, still preserving my external composure, in spite of her ghastly countenance and strange, exaggerated manner.
"What is that apathetic being doing?" she demanded, pushing the thick entangled locks from her wasted face. "Has he fallen into a lethargy, or is he dead?"
"Neither," replied I; "if you mean Mr. Linton. He's tolerably well, I think, though his studies occupy him rather more than they ought: he is continually among his books, since he has no other society."
I should not have spoken so if I had known her true condition, but I could not get rid of the notion that she acted a part of her disorder.
"Among his books!" she cried, confounded. "And I dying! I on the brink of the grave! My God! does he know how I'm altered?" continued she, staring at her reflection in a mirror hanging against the opposite wall. "Is that Catherine Linton? He imagines me in a pet—in play, perhaps. Cannot you inform him that it is frightful earnest? Nelly, if it be not too late, as soon as I learn how he feels, I'll choose between these two: either to starve at once—that would be no punishment unless he had a heart—or to recover, and leave the country. Are you speaking the truth about him now? Take care. Is he actually so utterly indifferent for my life?"
"Why, ma'am," I answered, "the master has no idea of your being deranged; and of course he does not fear that you will let yourself die of hunger."
"You think not? Cannot you tell him I will?" she returned. "Persuade him! speak of your own mind: say you are certain I will!"
"No, you forget, Mrs. Linton," I suggested, "that you have eaten some food with a relish this evening, and to–morrow you will perceive its good effects."
"If I were only sure it would kill him," she interrupted, "I'd kill myself directly! These three awful nights I've never closed my lids—and oh, I've been tormented! I've been haunted, Nelly! But I begin to fancy you don't like me. How strange! I thought, though everybody hated and despised each other, they could not avoid loving me. And they have all turned to enemies in a few hours: they have, I'm positive; the people here. How dreary to meet death, surrounded by their cold faces! Isabella, terrified and repelled, afraid to enter the room, it would be so dreadful to watch Catherine go. And Edgar standing solemnly by to see it over; then offering prayers of thanks to God for restoring peace to his house, and going back to his books! What in the name of all that feels has he to do with books, when I am dying?"
She could not bear the notion which I had put into her head of Mr. Linton's philosophical resignation. Tossing about, she increased her feverish bewilderment to madness, and tore the pillow with her teeth; then raising herself up all burning, desired that I would open the window. We were in the middle of winter, the wind blew strong from the north–east, and I objected. Both the expressions flitting over her face, and the changes of her moods, began to alarm me terribly; and brought to my recollection her former illness, and the doctor's injunction that she should not be crossed. A minute previously she was violent; now, supported on one arm, and not noticing my refusal to obey her, she seemed to find childish diversion in pulling the feathers from the rents she had just made, and ranging them on the sheet according to their different species: her mind had strayed to other associations.
"That's a turkey's," she murmured to herself; "and this is a wild duck's; and this is a pigeon's. Ah, they put pigeons" feathers in the pillows—no wonder I couldn't die! Let me take care to throw it on the floor when I lie down. And here is a moor–cock's; and this—I should know it among a thousand—it's a lapwing's. Bonny bird; wheeling over our heads in the middle of the moor. It wanted to get to its nest, for the clouds had touched the swells, and it felt rain coming. This feather was picked up from the heath, the bird was not shot: we saw its nest in the winter, full of little skeletons. Heathcliff set a trap over it, and the old ones dared not come. I made him promise he'd never shoot a lapwing after that, and he didn't. Yes, here are more! Did he shoot my lapwings, Nelly? Are they red, any of them? Let me look.'
"Give over with that baby–work!" I interrupted, dragging the pillow away, and turning the holes towards the mattress, for she was removing its contents by handfuls. "Lie down and shut your eyes: you're wandering. There's a mess! The down is flying about like snow."
I went here and there collecting it.
"I see in you, Nelly," she continued dreamily, "an aged woman: you have grey hair and bent shoulders. This bed is the fairy cave under Penistone crags, and you are gathering elf–bolts to hurt our heifers; pretending, while I am near, that they are only locks of wool. That's what you'll come to fifty years hence: I know you are not so now. I'm not wandering: you're mistaken, or else I should believe you really were that withered hag, and I should think I was under Penistone Crags; and I'm conscious it's night, and there are two candles on the table making the black press shine like jet."
"The black press? where is that?" I asked. "You are talking in your sleep!"
"It's against the wall, as it always is," she replied. "It does appear odd—I see a face in it!"
"There's no press in the room, and never was," said I, resuming my seat, and looping up the curtain that I might watch her.
"Don't you see that face?" she inquired, gazing earnestly at the mirror.
And say what I could, I was incapable of making her comprehend it to be her own; so I rose and covered it with a shawl.
"It's behind there still!" she pursued, anxiously. "And it stirred. Who is it? I hope it will not come out when you are gone! Oh! Nelly, the room is haunted! I'm afraid of being alone!"
I took her hand in mine, and bid her be composed; for a succession of shudders convulsed her frame, and she would keep straining her gaze towards the glass.
"There's nobody here!" I insisted. "It was yourself, Mrs. Linton: you knew it a while since."
"Myself!" she gasped, "and the clock is striking twelve! It's true, then! that's dreadful!"
Her fingers clutched the clothes, and gathered them over her eyes. I attempted to steal to the door with an intention of calling her husband; but I was summoned back by a piercing shriek—the shawl had dropped from the frame.
"Why, what is the matter?" cried I. "Who is coward now? Wake up! That is the glass—the mirror, Mrs. Linton; and you see yourself in it, and there am I too by your side."
Trembling and bewildered, she held me fast, but the horror gradually passed from her countenance; its paleness gave place to a glow of shame.
"Oh, dear! I thought I was at home," she sighed. "I thought I was lying in my chamber at Wuthering Heights. Because I'm weak, my brain got confused, and I screamed unconsciously. Don't say anything; but stay with me. I dread sleeping: my dreams appal me."
"A sound sleep would do you good, ma'am," I answered: "and I hope this suffering will prevent your trying starving again."
"Oh, if I were but in my own bed in the old house!" she went on bitterly, wringing her hands. "And that wind sounding in the firs by the lattice. Do let me feel it—it comes straight down the moor—do let me have one breath!" To pacify her I held the casement ajar a few seconds. A cold blast rushed through; I closed it, and returned to my post. She lay still now, her face bathed in tears. Exhaustion of body had entirely subdued her spirit: our fiery Catherine was no better than a wailing child.
"How long is it since I shut myself in here?" she asked, suddenly reviving.
"It was Monday evening," I replied, "and this is Thursday night, or rather Friday morning, at present."
"What! of the same week?" she exclaimed. "Only that brief time?"
"Long enough to live on nothing but cold water and ill–temper," observed I.
"Well, it seems a weary number of hours," she muttered doubtfully: "it must be more. I remember being in the parlour after they had quarrelled, and Edgar being cruelly provoking, and me running into this room desperate. As soon as ever I had barred the door, utter blackness overwhelmed me, and I fell on the floor. I couldn't explain to Edgar how certain I felt of having a fit, or going raging mad, if he persisted in teasing me! I had no command of tongue, or brain, and he did not guess my agony, perhaps: it barely left me sense to try to escape from him and his voice. Before I recovered sufficiently to see and hear, it began to be dawn, and, Nelly, I'll tell you what I thought, and what has kept recurring and recurring till I feared for my reason. I thought as I lay there, with my head against that table leg, and my eyes dimly discerning the grey square of the window, that I was enclosed in the oak–panelled bed at home; and my heart ached with some great grief which, just waking, I could not recollect. I pondered, and worried myself to discover what it could be, and, most strangely, the whole last seven years of my life grew a blank! I did not recall that they had been at all. I was a child; my father was just buried, and my misery arose from the separation that Hindley had ordered between me and Heathcliff. I was laid alone, for the first time; and, rousing from a dismal doze after a night of weeping, I lifted my hand to push the panels aside: it struck the table–top! I swept it along the carpet, and then memory burst in: my late anguish was swallowed in a paroxysm of despair. I cannot say why I felt so wildly wretched: it must have been temporary derangement; for there is scarcely cause. But, supposing at twelve years old I had been wrenched from the Heights, and every early association, and my all in all, as Heathcliff was at that time, and been converted at a stroke into Mrs. Linton, the lady of Thrushcross Grange, and the wife of a stranger: an exile, and outcast, thenceforth, from what had been my world. You may fancy a glimpse of the abyss where I grovelled! Shake your head as you will, Nelly, you have helped to unsettle me! You should have spoken to Edgar, indeed you should, and compelled him to leave me quiet! Oh, I'm burning! I wish I were out of doors! I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free; and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed? why does my blood rush into a hell of tumult at a few words? I'm sure I should be myself were I once among the heather on those hills. Open the window again wide: fasten it open! Quick, why don't you move?"
"Because I won't give you your death of cold," I answered.
"You won't give me a chance of life, you mean," she said, sullenly. "However, I'm not helpless yet; I'll open it myself."
And sliding from the bed before I could hinder her, she crossed the room, walking very uncertainly, threw it back, and bent out, careless of the frosty air that cut about her shoulders as keen as a knife. I entreated, and finally attempted to force her to retire. But I soon found her delirious strength much surpassed mine (she was delirious, I became convinced by her subsequent actions and ravings). There was no moon, and everything beneath lay in misty darkness: not a light gleamed from any house, far or near all had been extinguished long ago: and those at Wuthering Heights were never visible—still she asserted she caught their shining.
"Look!" she cried eagerly, "that's my room with the candle in it, and the trees swaying before it; and the other candle is in Joseph's garret. Joseph sits up late, doesn't he? He's waiting till I come home that he may lock the gate. Well, he'll wait a while yet. It's a rough journey, and a sad heart to travel it; and we must pass by Gimmerton Kirk to go that journey! We've braved its ghosts often together, and dared each other to stand among the graves and ask them to come. But, Heathcliff, if I dare you now, will you venture? If you do, I'll keep you. I'll not lie there by myself: they may bury me twelve feet deep, and throw the church down over me, but I won't rest till you are with me. I never will!"
She paused, and resumed with a strange smile. "He's considering—he'd rather I'd come to him! Find a way, then! not through that kirkyard. You are slow! Be content, you always followed me!"
Perceiving it vain to argue against her insanity, I was planning how I could reach something to wrap about her, without quitting my hold of herself (for I could not trust her alone by the gaping lattice), when, to my consternation, I heard the rattle of the door–handle, and Mr. Linton entered. He had only then come from the library; and, in passing through the lobby, had noticed our talking and been attracted by curiosity, or fear, to examine what it signified, at that late hour.
"Oh, sir!" I cried, checking the exclamation risen to his lips at the sight which met him, and the bleak atmosphere of the chamber. "My poor mistress is ill, and she quite masters me: I cannot manage her at all; pray, come and persuade her to go to bed. Forget your anger, for she's hard to guide any way but her own."
"Catherine ill?" he said, hastening to us. "Shut the window, Ellen! Catherine! why—"
He was silent. The haggardness of Mrs. Linton's appearance smote him speechless, and he could only glance from her to me in horrified astonishment.
"She's been fretting here," I continued, "and eating scarcely anything, and never complaining: she would admit none of us till this evening, and so we couldn't inform you of her state, as we were not aware of it ourselves; but it is nothing."
I felt I uttered my explanations awkwardly; the master frowned. "It is nothing, is it, Ellen Dean?" he said sternly. "You shall account more clearly for keeping me ignorant of this!" And he took his wife in his arms, and looked at her with anguish.
At first she gave him no glance of recognition: he was invisible to her abstracted gaze. The delirium was not fixed, however; having weaned her eyes from contemplating the outer darkness, by degrees she centred her attention on him, and discovered who it was that held her.
"Ah! you are come, are you, Edgar Linton?" she said, with angry animation. "You are one of those things that are ever found when least wanted, and when you are wanted, never! I suppose we shall have plenty of lamentations now—I see we shall—but they can't keep me from my narrow home out yonder: my resting–place, where I'm bound before spring is over! There it is: not among the Lintons, mind, under the chapel–roof, but in the open air, with a head–stone; and you may please yourself whether you go to them or come to me!"
"Catherine, what have you done?" commenced the master. "Am I nothing to you any more? Do you love that wretch Heath—"
"Hush!" cried Mrs. Linton. "Hush, this moment! You mention that name and I end the matter instantly by a spring from the window! What you touch at present you may have; but my soul will be on that hill–top before you lay hands on me again. I don't want you, Edgar: I'm past wanting you. Return to your books. I'm glad you possess a consolation, for all you had in me is gone."
"Her mind wanders, sir," I interposed. "She has been talking nonsense the whole evening; but let her have quiet, and proper attendance, and she'll rally. Hereafter, we must be cautious how we vex her."
"I desire no further advice from you," answered Mr. Linton. "You knew your mistress's nature, and you encouraged me to harass her. And not to give me one hint of how she has been these three days! It was heartless! Months of sickness could not cause such a change!"
I began to defend myself, thinking it too bad to be blamed for another's wicked waywardness. "I knew Mrs. Linton's nature to be headstrong and domineering," cried I: "but I didn't know that you wished to foster her fierce temper! I didn't know that, to humour her, I should wink at Mr. Heathcliff. I performed the duty of a faithful servant in telling you, and I have got a faithful servant's wages! Well, it will teach me to be careful next time. Next time you may gather intelligence for yourself!"
"The next time you bring a tale to me you shall quit my service, Ellen Dean," he replied.
"You'd rather hear nothing about it, I suppose, then, Mr. Linton?" said I. "Heathcliff has your permission to come a–courting to Miss, and to drop in at every opportunity your absence offers, on purpose to poison the mistress against you?"
Confused as Catherine was, her wits were alert at applying our conversation.
"Ah! Nelly has played traitor," she exclaimed, passionately. "Nelly is my hidden enemy. You witch! So you do seek elf–bolts to hurt us! Let me go, and I'll make her rue! I'll make her howl a recantation!"
A maniac's fury kindled under her brows; she struggled desperately to disengage herself from Linton's arms. I felt no inclination to tarry the event; and, resolving to seek medical aid on my own responsibility, I quitted the chamber.
In passing the garden to reach the road, at a place where a bridle hook is driven into the wall, I saw something white moved irregularly, evidently by another agent than the wind. Notwithstanding my hurry, I stayed to examine it, lest ever after I should have the conviction impressed on my imagination that it was a creature of the other world. My surprise and perplexity were great on discovering, by touch more than vision, Miss Isabella's springer, Fanny, suspended by a handkerchief, and nearly at its last gasp. I quickly released the animal, and lifted it into the garden. I had seen it follow its mistress up–stairs when she went to bed; and wondered much how it could have got out there, and what mischievous person had treated it so. While untying the knot round the hook, it seemed to me that I repeatedly caught the beat of horses' feet galloping at some distance; but there were such a number of things to occupy my reflections that I hardly gave the circumstance a thought: though it was a strange sound, in that place, at two o'clock in the morning.
Mr. Kenneth was fortunately just issuing from his house to see a patient in the village as I came up the street; and my account of Catherine Linton's malady induced him to accompany me back immediately. He was a plain rough man; and he made no scruple to speak his doubts of her surviving this second attack; unless she were more submissive to his directions than she had shown herself before.
"Nelly Dean," said he, "I can't help fancying there's an extra cause for this. What has there been to do at the Grange? We've odd reports up here. A stout, hearty lass like Catherine does not fall ill for a trifle; and that sort of people should not either. It's hard work bringing them through fevers, and such things. How did it begin?"
"The master will inform you," I answered; "but you are acquainted with the Earnshaws" violent dispositions, and Mrs. Linton caps them all. I may say this; it commenced in a quarrel. She was struck during a tempest of passion with a kind of fit. That's her account, at least: for she flew off in the height of it, and locked herself up. Afterwards, she refused to eat, and now she alternately raves and remains in a half dream; knowing those about her, but having her mind filled with all sorts of strange ideas and illusions.'
"Mr. Linton will be sorry?" observed Kenneth, interrogatively.
"Sorry? he'll break his heart should anything happen!" I replied. "Don't alarm him more than necessary."
"Well, I told him to beware," said my companion; "and he must bide the consequences of neglecting my warning! Hasn't he been intimate with Mr. Heathcliff lately?"
"Heathcliff frequently visits at the Grange," answered I, "though more on the strength of the mistress having known him when a boy, than because the master likes his company. At present he's discharged from the trouble of calling; owing to some presumptuous aspirations after Miss Linton which he manifested. I hardly think he'll be taken in again."
"And does Miss Linton turn a cold shoulder on him?" was the doctor's next question.
"I'm not in her confidence," returned I, reluctant to continue the subject.
"No, she's a sly one," he remarked, shaking his head. "She keeps her own counsel! But she's a real little fool. I have it from good authority that last night (and a pretty night it was!) she and Heathcliff were walking in the plantation at the back of your house above two hours; and he pressed her not to go in again, but just mount his horse and away with him! My informant said she could only put him off by pledging her word of honour to be prepared on their first meeting after that: when it was to be he didn't hear; but you urge Mr. Linton to look sharp!"
This news filled me with fresh fears; I outstripped Kenneth, and ran most of the way back. The little dog was yelping in the garden yet. I spared a minute to open the gate for it, but instead of going to the house door, it coursed up and down snuffing the grass, and would have escaped to the road, had I not seized it and conveyed it in with me. On ascending to Isabella's room, my suspicions were confirmed: it was empty. Had I been a few hours sooner Mrs. Linton's illness might have arrested her rash step. But what could be done now? There was a bare possibility of overtaking them if pursued instantly. I could not pursue them, however; and I dared not rouse the family, and fill the place with confusion; still less unfold the business to my master, absorbed as he was in his present calamity, and having no heart to spare for a second grief! I saw nothing for it but to hold my tongue, and suffer matters to take their course; and Kenneth being arrived, I went with a badly composed countenance to announce him. Catherine lay in a troubled sleep: her husband had succeeded in soothing the excess of frenzy; he now hung over her pillow, watching every shade and every change of her painfully expressive features.
The doctor, on examining the case for himself, spoke hopefully to him of its having a favourable termination, if we could only preserve around her perfect and constant tranquillity. To me, he signified the threatening danger was not so much death, as permanent alienation of intellect.
I did not close my eyes that night, nor did Mr. Linton: indeed, we never went to bed; and the servants were all up long before the usual hour, moving through the house with stealthy tread, and exchanging whispers as they encountered each other in their vocations. Every one was active but Miss Isabella; and they began to remark how sound she slept: her brother, too, asked if she had risen, and seemed impatient for her presence, and hurt that she showed so little anxiety for her sister–in–law. I trembled lest he should send me to call her; but I was spared the pain of being the first proclaimant of her flight. One of the maids, a thoughtless girl, who had been on an early errand to Gimmerton, came panting up–stairs, open–mouthed, and dashed into the chamber, crying: "Oh, dear, dear! What mun we have next? Master, master, our young lady—"
"Hold your noise!" cried, I hastily, enraged at her clamorous manner.
"Speak lower, Mary—What is the matter?" said Mr. Linton. "What ails your young lady?"
"She's gone, she's gone! Yon" Heathcliff's run off wi' her!' gasped the girl.
"That is not true!" exclaimed Linton, rising in agitation. "It cannot be: how has the idea entered your head? Ellen Dean, go and seek her. It is incredible: it cannot be."
As he spoke he took the servant to the door, and then repeated his demand to know her reasons for such an assertion.
"Why, I met on the road a lad that fetches milk here," she stammered, "and he asked whether we weren't in trouble at the Grange. I thought he meant for missis's sickness, so I answered, yes. Then says he, "There's somebody gone after 'em, I guess?" I stared. He saw I knew nought about it, and he told how a gentleman and lady had stopped to have a horse's shoe fastened at a blacksmith's shop, two miles out of Gimmerton, not very long after midnight! and how the blacksmith's lass had got up to spy who they were: she knew them both directly. And she noticed the man—Heathcliff it was, she felt certain: nob'dy could mistake him, besides—put a sovereign in her father's hand for payment. The lady had a cloak about her face; but having desired a sup of water, while she drank it fell back, and she saw her very plain. Heathcliff held both bridles as they rode on, and they set their faces from the village, and went as fast as the rough roads would let them. The lass said nothing to her father, but she told it all over Gimmerton this morning."
I ran and peeped, for form's sake, into Isabella's room; confirming, when I returned, the servant's statement. Mr. Linton had resumed his seat by the bed; on my re–entrance, he raised his eyes, read the meaning of my blank aspect, and dropped them without giving an order, or uttering a word.
"Are we to try any measures for overtaking and bringing her back," I inquired. "How should we do?"
"She went of her own accord," answered the master; "she had a right to go if she pleased. Trouble me no more about her. Hereafter she is only my sister in name: not because I disown her, but because she has disowned me."
And that was all he said on the subject: he did not make single inquiry further, or mention her in any way, except directing me to send what property she had in the house to her fresh home, wherever it was, when I knew it. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 17 | For two months the fugitives remained absent; in those two months, Mrs. Linton encountered and conquered the worst shock of what was denominated a brain fever. No mother could have nursed an only child more devotedly than Edgar tended her. Day and night he was watching, and patiently enduring all the annoyances that irritable nerves and a shaken reason could inflict; and, though Kenneth remarked that what he saved from the grave would only recompense his care by forming the source of constant future anxiety—in fact, that his health and strength were being sacrificed to preserve a mere ruin of humanity—he knew no limits in gratitude and joy when Catherine's life was declared out of danger; and hour after hour he would sit beside her, tracing the gradual return to bodily health, and flattering his too sanguine hopes with the illusion that her mind would settle back to its right balance also, and she would soon be entirely her former self.
The first time she left her chamber was at the commencement of the following March. Mr. Linton had put on her pillow, in the morning, a handful of golden crocuses; her eye, long stranger to any gleam of pleasure, caught them in waking, and shone delighted as she gathered them eagerly together.
"These are the earliest flowers at the Heights," she exclaimed. "They remind me of soft thaw winds, and warm sunshine, and nearly melted snow. Edgar, is there not a south wind, and is not the snow almost gone?"
"The snow is quite gone down here, darling," replied her husband; "and I only see two white spots on the whole range of moors: the sky is blue, and the larks are singing, and the becks and brooks are all brim full. Catherine, last spring at this time, I was longing to have you under this roof; now, I wish you were a mile or two up those hills: the air blows so sweetly, I feel that it would cure you."
"I shall never be there but once more," said the invalid; "and then you'll leave me, and I shall remain for ever. Next spring you'll long again to have me under this roof, and you'll look back and think you were happy to–day."
Linton lavished on her the kindest caresses, and tried to cheer her by the fondest words; but, vaguely regarding the flowers, she let the tears collect on her lashes and stream down her cheeks unheeding. We knew she was really better, and, therefore, decided that long confinement to a single place produced much of this despondency, and it might be partially removed by a change of scene. The master told me to light a fire in the many–weeks' deserted parlour, and to set an easy–chair in the sunshine by the window; and then he brought her down, and she sat a long while enjoying the genial heat, and, as we expected, revived by the objects round her: which, though familiar, were free from the dreary associations investing her hated sick chamber. By evening she seemed greatly exhausted; yet no arguments could persuade her to return to that apartment, and I had to arrange the parlour sofa for her bed, till another room could be prepared. To obviate the fatigue of mounting and descending the stairs, we fitted up this, where you lie at present—on the same floor with the parlour; and she was soon strong enough to move from one to the other, leaning on Edgar's arm. Ah, I thought myself, she might recover, so waited on as she was. And there was double cause to desire it, for on her existence depended that of another: we cherished the hope that in a little while Mr. Linton's heart would be gladdened, and his lands secured from a stranger's gripe, by the birth of an heir.
I should mention that Isabella sent to her brother, some six weeks from her departure, a short note, announcing her marriage with Heathcliff. It appeared dry and cold; but at the bottom was dotted in with pencil an obscure apology, and an entreaty for kind remembrance and reconciliation, if her proceeding had offended him: asserting that she could not help it then, and being done, she had now no power to repeal it. Linton did not reply to this, I believe; and, in a fortnight more, I got a long letter, which I considered odd, coming from the pen of a bride just out of the honeymoon. I'll read it: for I keep it yet. Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 18 | DEAR ELLEN, it begins,—I came last night to Wuthering Heights, and heard, for the first time, that Catherine has been, and is yet, very ill. I must not write to her, I suppose, and my brother is either too angry or too distressed to answer what I sent him. Still, I must write to somebody, and the only choice left me is you.
Inform Edgar that I'd give the world to see his face again—that my heart returned to Thrushcross Grange in twenty–four hours after I left it, and is there at this moment, full of warm feelings for him, and Catherine! I can't follow it though—(these words are underlined)—they need not expect me, and they may draw what conclusions they please; taking care, however, to lay nothing at the door of my weak will or deficient affection.
The remainder of the letter is for yourself alone. I want to ask you two questions: the first is,—How did you contrive to preserve the common sympathies of human nature when you resided here? I cannot recognise any sentiment which those around share with me.
The second question I have great interest in; it is this—Is Mr. Heathcliff a man? If so, is he mad? And if not, is he a devil? I sha'n't tell my reasons for making this inquiry; but I beseech you to explain, if you can, what I have married: that is, when you call to see me; and you must call, Ellen, very soon. Don't write, but come, and bring me something from Edgar.
Now, you shall hear how I have been received in my new home, as I am led to imagine the Heights will be. It is to amuse myself that I dwell on such subjects as the lack of external comforts: they never occupy my thoughts, except at the moment when I miss them. I should laugh and dance for joy, if I found their absence was the total of my miseries, and the rest was an unnatural dream!
The sun set behind the Grange as we turned on to the moors; by that, I judged it to be six o'clock; and my companion halted half an hour, to inspect the park, and the gardens, and, probably, the place itself, as well as he could; so it was dark when we dismounted in the paved yard of the farm–house, and your old fellow–servant, Joseph, issued out to receive us by the light of a dip candle. He did it with a courtesy that redounded to his credit. His first act was to elevate his torch to a level with my face, squint malignantly, project his under–lip, and turn away. Then he took the two horses, and led them into the stables; reappearing for the purpose of locking the outer gate, as if we lived in an ancient castle.
Heathcliff stayed to speak to him, and I entered the kitchen—a dingy, untidy hole; I daresay you would not know it, it is so changed since it was in your charge. By the fire stood a ruffianly child, strong in limb and dirty in garb, with a look of Catherine in his eyes and about his mouth.
"This is Edgar's legal nephew," I reflected—"mine in a manner; I must shake hands, and—yes—I must kiss him. It is right to establish a good understanding at the beginning."
I approached, and, attempting to take his chubby fist, said—"How do you do, my dear?"
He replied in a jargon I did not comprehend.
"Shall you and I be friends, Hareton?" was my next essay at conversation.
An oath, and a threat to set Throttler on me if I did not "frame off" rewarded my perseverance.
"Hey, Throttler, lad!" whispered the little wretch, rousing a half–bred bull–dog from its lair in a corner. "Now, wilt thou be ganging?" he asked authoritatively.
Love for my life urged a compliance; I stepped over the threshold to wait till the others should enter. Mr. Heathcliff was nowhere visible; and Joseph, whom I followed to the stables, and requested to accompany me in, after staring and muttering to himself, screwed up his nose and replied—"Mim! mim! mim! Did iver Christian body hear aught like it? Mincing un" munching! How can I tell whet ye say?'
"I say, I wish you to come with me into the house!" I cried, thinking him deaf, yet highly disgusted at his rudeness.
"None o" me! I getten summut else to do,' he answered, and continued his work; moving his lantern jaws meanwhile, and surveying my dress and countenance (the former a great deal too fine, but the latter, I'm sure, as sad as he could desire) with sovereign contempt.
I walked round the yard, and through a wicket, to another door, at which I took the liberty of knocking, in hopes some more civil servant might show himself. After a short suspense, it was opened by a tall, gaunt man, without neckerchief, and otherwise extremely slovenly; his features were lost in masses of shaggy hair that hung on his shoulders; and his eyes, too, were like a ghostly Catherine's with all their beauty annihilated.
"What's your business here?" he demanded, grimly. "Who are you?"
"My name was Isabella Linton," I replied. "You've seen me before, sir. I'm lately married to Mr. Heathcliff, and he has brought me here—I suppose, by your permission."
"Is he come back, then?" asked the hermit, glaring like a hungry wolf.
"Yes—we came just now," I said; "but he left me by the kitchen door; and when I would have gone in, your little boy played sentinel over the place, and frightened me off by the help of a bull–dog."
"It's well the hellish villain has kept his word!" growled my future host, searching the darkness beyond me in expectation of discovering Heathcliff; and then he indulged in a soliloquy of execrations, and threats of what he would have done had the "fiend" deceived him.
I repented having tried this second entrance, and was almost inclined to slip away before he finished cursing, but ere I could execute that intention, he ordered me in, and shut and re–fastened the door. There was a great fire, and that was all the light in the huge apartment, whose floor had grown a uniform grey; and the once brilliant pewter–dishes, which used to attract my gaze when I was a girl, partook of a similar obscurity, created by tarnish and dust. I inquired whether I might call the maid, and be conducted to a bedroom! Mr. Earnshaw vouchsafed no answer. He walked up and down, with his hands in his pockets, apparently quite forgetting my presence; and his abstraction was evidently so deep, and his whole aspect so misanthropical, that I shrank from disturbing him again.
You'll not be surprised, Ellen, at my feeling particularly cheerless, seated in worse than solitude on that inhospitable hearth, and remembering that four miles distant lay my delightful home, containing the only people I loved on earth; and there might as well be the Atlantic to part us, instead of those four miles: I could not overpass them! I questioned with myself—where must I turn for comfort? and—mind you don't tell Edgar, or Catherine—above every sorrow beside, this rose pre–eminent: despair at finding nobody who could or would be my ally against Heathcliff! I had sought shelter at Wuthering Heights, almost gladly, because I was secured by that arrangement from living alone with him; but he knew the people we were coming amongst, and he did not fear their intermeddling.
I sat and thought a doleful time: the clock struck eight, and nine, and still my companion paced to and fro, his head bent on his breast, and perfectly silent, unless a groan or a bitter ejaculation forced itself out at intervals. I listened to detect a woman's voice in the house, and filled the interim with wild regrets and dismal anticipations, which, at last, spoke audibly in irrepressible sighing and weeping. I was not aware how openly I grieved, till Earnshaw halted opposite, in his measured walk, and gave me a stare of newly–awakened surprise. Taking advantage of his recovered attention, I exclaimed—"I'm tired with my journey, and I want to go to bed! Where is the maid–servant? Direct me to her, as she won't come to me!"
"We have none," he answered; "you must wait on yourself!"
"Where must I sleep, then?" I sobbed; I was beyond regarding self–respect, weighed down by fatigue and wretchedness.
"Joseph will show you Heathcliff's chamber," said he; "open that door—he's in there."
I was going to obey, but he suddenly arrested me, and added in the strangest tone—"Be so good as to turn your lock, and draw your bolt—don't omit it!"
"Well!" I said. "But why, Mr. Earnshaw?" I did not relish the notion of deliberately fastening myself in with Heathcliff.
"Look here!" he replied, pulling from his waistcoat a curiously–constructed pistol, having a double–edged spring knife attached to the barrel. "That's a great tempter to a desperate man, is it not? I cannot resist going up with this every night, and trying his door. If once I find it open he's done for; I do it invariably, even though the minute before I have been recalling a hundred reasons that should make me refrain: it is some devil that urges me to thwart my own schemes by killing him. You fight against that devil for love as long as you may; when the time comes, not all the angels in heaven shall save him!"
I surveyed the weapon inquisitively. A hideous notion struck me: how powerful I should be possessing such an instrument! I took it from his hand, and touched the blade. He looked astonished at the expression my face assumed during a brief second: it was not horror, it was covetousness. He snatched the pistol back, jealously; shut the knife, and returned it to its concealment.
"I don't care if you tell him," said he. "Put him on his guard, and watch for him. You know the terms we are on, I see: his danger does not shock you."
"What has Heathcliff done to you?" I asked. "In what has he wronged you, to warrant this appalling hatred? Wouldn't it be wiser to bid him quit the house?"
"No!" thundered Earnshaw; "should he offer to leave me, he's a dead man: persuade him to attempt it, and you are a murderess! Am I to lose all, without a chance of retrieval? Is Hareton to be a beggar? Oh, damnation! I will have it back; and I'll have his gold too; and then his blood; and hell shall have his soul! It will be ten times blacker with that guest than ever it was before!"
You've acquainted me, Ellen, with your old master's habits. He is clearly on the verge of madness: he was so last night at least. I shuddered to be near him, and thought on the servant's ill–bred moroseness as comparatively agreeable. He now recommenced his moody walk, and I raised the latch, and escaped into the kitchen. Joseph was bending over the fire, peering into a large pan that swung above it; and a wooden bowl of oatmeal stood on the settle close by. The contents of the pan began to boil, and he turned to plunge his hand into the bowl; I conjectured that this preparation was probably for our supper, and, being hungry, I resolved it should be eatable; so, crying out sharply, "I'll make the porridge!" I removed the vessel out of his reach, and proceeded to take off my hat and riding–habit. "Mr. Earnshaw," I continued, "directs me to wait on myself: I will. I'm not going to act the lady among you, for fear I should starve."
"Gooid Lord!" he muttered, sitting down, and stroking his ribbed stockings from the knee to the ankle. "If there's to be fresh ortherings—just when I getten used to two maisters, if I mun hev" a mistress set o'er my heead, it's like time to be flitting. I niver did think to see t' day that I mud lave th' owld place—but I doubt it's nigh at hand!'
This lamentation drew no notice from me: I went briskly to work, sighing to remember a period when it would have been all merry fun; but compelled speedily to drive off the remembrance. It racked me to recall past happiness and the greater peril there was of conjuring up its apparition, the quicker the thible ran round, and the faster the handfuls of meal fell into the water. Joseph beheld my style of cookery with growing indignation.
"Thear!" he ejaculated. "Hareton, thou willn't sup thy porridge to–neeght; they'll be naught but lumps as big as my neive. Thear, agean! I'd fling in bowl un" all, if I wer ye! There, pale t' guilp off, un' then ye'll hae done wi' "t. Bang, bang. It's a mercy t" bothom isn't deaved out!'
It was rather a rough mess, I own, when poured into the basins; four had been provided, and a gallon pitcher of new milk was brought from the dairy, which Hareton seized and commenced drinking and spilling from the expansive lip. I expostulated, and desired that he should have his in a mug; affirming that I could not taste the liquid treated so dirtily. The old cynic chose to be vastly offended at this nicety; assuring me, repeatedly, that "the barn was every bit as good" as I, "and every bit as wollsome," and wondering how I could fashion to be so conceited. Meanwhile, the infant ruffian continued sucking; and glowered up at me defyingly, as he slavered into the jug.
"I shall have my supper in another room," I said. "Have you no place you call a parlour?"
"Parlour!" he echoed, sneeringly, "parlour! Nay, we've noa parlours. If yah dunnut loike wer company, there's maister's; un" if yah dunnut loike maister, there's us.'
"Then I shall go up–stairs," I answered; "show me a chamber."
I put my basin on a tray, and went myself to fetch some more milk. With great grumblings, the fellow rose, and preceded me in my ascent: we mounted to the garrets; he opened a door, now and then, to look into the apartments we passed.
"Here's a rahm," he said, at last, flinging back a cranky board on hinges. "It's weel eneugh to ate a few porridge in. There's a pack o" corn i' t' corner, thear, meeterly clane; if ye're feared o' muckying yer grand silk cloes, spread yer hankerchir o' t' top on't.'
The "rahm" was a kind of lumber–hole smelling strong of malt and grain; various sacks of which articles were piled around, leaving a wide, bare space in the middle.
"Why, man," I exclaimed, facing him angrily, "this is not a place to sleep in. I wish to see my bed–room."
"Bed–rume!" he repeated, in a tone of mockery. "Yah's see all t"bed–rumes thear is—yon's mine.'
He pointed into the second garret, only differing from the first in being more naked about the walls, and having a large, low, curtainless bed, with an indigo–coloured quilt, at one end.
"What do I want with yours?" I retorted. "I suppose Mr. Heathcliff does not lodge at the top of the house, does he?"
"Oh! it's Maister Hathecliff's ye're wanting?" cried he, as if making a new discovery. "Couldn't ye ha" said soa, at onst? un' then, I mud ha' telled ye, baht all this wark, that that's just one ye cannut see—he allas keeps it locked, un' nob'dy iver mells on't but hisseln.'
"You've a nice house, Joseph," I could not refrain from observing, "and pleasant inmates; and I think the concentrated essence of all the madness in the world took up its abode in my brain the day I linked my fate with theirs! However, that is not to the present purpose—there are other rooms. For heaven's sake be quick, and let me settle somewhere!"
He made no reply to this adjuration; only plodding doggedly down the wooden steps, and halting, before an apartment which, from that halt and the superior quality of its furniture, I conjectured to be the best one. There was a carpet—a good one, but the pattern was obliterated by dust; a fireplace hung with cut–paper, dropping to pieces; a handsome oak–bedstead with ample crimson curtains of rather expensive material and modern make; but they had evidently experienced rough usage: the vallances hung in festoons, wrenched from their rings, and the iron rod supporting them was bent in an arc on one side, causing the drapery to trail upon the floor. The chairs were also damaged, many of them severely; and deep indentations deformed the panels of the walls. I was endeavouring to gather resolution for entering and taking possession, when my fool of a guide announced,—"This here is t" maister's.' My supper by this time was cold, my appetite gone, and my patience exhausted. I insisted on being provided instantly with a place of refuge, and means of repose.
"Whear the divil?" began the religious elder. "The Lord bless us! The Lord forgie us! Whear the hell wold ye gang? ye marred, wearisome nowt! Ye've seen all but Hareton's bit of a cham'er. There's not another hoile to lig down in i" th' hahse!'
I was so vexed, I flung my tray and its contents on the ground; and then seated myself at the stairs'-head, hid my face in my hands, and cried.
"Ech! ech!" exclaimed Joseph. "Weel done, Miss Cathy! weel done, Miss Cathy! Howsiver, t" maister sall just tum'le o'er them brooken pots; un' then we's hear summut; we's hear how it's to be. Gooid–for–naught madling! ye desarve pining fro' this to Churstmas, flinging t' precious gifts o'God under fooit i' yer flaysome rages! But I'm mista'en if ye shew yer sperrit lang. Will Hathecliff bide sich bonny ways, think ye? I nobbut wish he may catch ye i' that plisky. I nobbut wish he may.'
And so he went on scolding to his den beneath, taking the candle with him; and I remained in the dark. The period of reflection succeeding this silly action compelled me to admit the necessity of smothering my pride and choking my wrath, and bestirring myself to remove its effects. An unexpected aid presently appeared in the shape of Throttler, whom I now recognised as a son of our old Skulker: it had spent its whelphood at the Grange, and was given by my father to Mr. Hindley. I fancy it knew me: it pushed its nose against mine by way of salute, and then hastened to devour the porridge; while I groped from step to step, collecting the shattered earthenware, and drying the spatters of milk from the banister with my pocket–handkerchief. Our labours were scarcely over when I heard Earnshaw's tread in the passage; my assistant tucked in his tail, and pressed to the wall; I stole into the nearest doorway. The dog's endeavour to avoid him was unsuccessful; as I guessed by a scutter down–stairs, and a prolonged, piteous yelping. I had better luck: he passed on, entered his chamber, and shut the door. Directly after Joseph came up with Hareton, to put him to bed. I had found shelter in Hareton's room, and the old man, on seeing me, said,—"They's rahm for boath ye un" yer pride, now, I sud think i' the hahse. It's empty; ye may hev' it all to yerseln, un' Him as allus maks a third, i' sich ill company!'
Gladly did I take advantage of this intimation; and the minute I flung myself into a chair, by the fire, I nodded, and slept. My slumber was deep and sweet, though over far too soon. Mr. Heathcliff awoke me; he had just come in, and demanded, in his loving manner, what I was doing there? I told him the cause of my staying up so late—that he had the key of our room in his pocket. The adjective our gave mortal offence. He swore it was not, nor ever should be, mine; and he'd—but I'll not repeat his language, nor describe his habitual conduct: he is ingenious and unresting in seeking to gain my abhorrence! I sometimes wonder at him with an intensity that deadens my fear: yet, I assure you, a tiger or a venomous serpent could not rouse terror in me equal to that which he wakens. He told me of Catherine's illness, and accused my brother of causing it promising that I should be Edgar's proxy in suffering, till he could get hold of him.
I do hate him—I am wretched—I have been a fool! Beware of uttering one breath of this to any one at the Grange. I shall expect you every day—don't disappoint me!—ISABELLA. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 19 | As soon as I had perused this epistle I went to the master, and informed him that his sister had arrived at the Heights, and sent me a letter expressing her sorrow for Mrs. Linton's situation, and her ardent desire to see him; with a wish that he would transmit to her, as early as possible, some token of forgiveness by me.
"Forgiveness!" said Linton. "I have nothing to forgive her, Ellen. You may call at Wuthering Heights this afternoon, if you like, and say that I am not angry, but I'm sorry to have lost her; especially as I can never think she'll be happy. It is out of the question my going to see her, however: we are eternally divided; and should she really wish to oblige me, let her persuade the villain she has married to leave the country."
"And you won't write her a little note, sir?" I asked, imploringly.
"No," he answered. "It is needless. My communication with Heathcliff's family shall be as sparing as his with mine. It shall not exist!"
Mr. Edgar's coldness depressed me exceedingly; and all the way from the Grange I puzzled my brains how to put more heart into what he said, when I repeated it; and how to soften his refusal of even a few lines to console Isabella. I daresay she had been on the watch for me since morning: I saw her looking through the lattice as I came up the garden causeway, and I nodded to her; but she drew back, as if afraid of being observed. I entered without knocking. There never was such a dreary, dismal scene as the formerly cheerful house presented! I must confess, that if I had been in the young lady's place, I would, at least, have swept the hearth, and wiped the tables with a duster. But she already partook of the pervading spirit of neglect which encompassed her. Her pretty face was wan and listless; her hair uncurled: some locks hanging lankly down, and some carelessly twisted round her head. Probably she had not touched her dress since yester evening. Hindley was not there. Mr. Heathcliff sat at a table, turning over some papers in his pocket–book; but he rose when I appeared, asked me how I did, quite friendly, and offered me a chair. He was the only thing there that seemed decent; and I thought he never looked better. So much had circumstances altered their positions, that he would certainly have struck a stranger as a born and bred gentleman; and his wife as a thorough little slattern! She came forward eagerly to greet me, and held out one hand to take the expected letter. I shook my head. She wouldn't understand the hint, but followed me to a sideboard, where I went to lay my bonnet, and importuned me in a whisper to give her directly what I had brought. Heathcliff guessed the meaning of her manoeuvres, and said—"If you have got anything for Isabella (as no doubt you have, Nelly), give it to her. You needn't make a secret of it: we have no secrets between us."
"Oh, I have nothing," I replied, thinking it best to speak the truth at once. "My master bid me tell his sister that she must not expect either a letter or a visit from him at present. He sends his love, ma'am, and his wishes for your happiness, and his pardon for the grief you have occasioned; but he thinks that after this time his household and the household here should drop intercommunication, as nothing could come of keeping it up."
Mrs. Heathcliff's lip quivered slightly, and she returned to her seat in the window. Her husband took his stand on the hearthstone, near me, and began to put questions concerning Catherine. I told him as much as I thought proper of her illness, and he extorted from me, by cross–examination, most of the facts connected with its origin. I blamed her, as she deserved, for bringing it all on herself; and ended by hoping that he would follow Mr. Linton's example and avoid future interference with his family, for good or evil.
"Mrs. Linton is now just recovering," I said; "she'll never be like she was, but her life is spared; and if you really have a regard for her, you'll shun crossing her way again: nay, you'll move out of this country entirely; and that you may not regret it, I'll inform you Catherine Linton is as different now from your old friend Catherine Earnshaw, as that young lady is different from me. Her appearance is changed greatly, her character much more so; and the person who is compelled, of necessity, to be her companion, will only sustain his affection hereafter by the remembrance of what she once was, by common humanity, and a sense of duty!"
"That is quite possible," remarked Heathcliff, forcing himself to seem calm: "quite possible that your master should have nothing but common humanity and a sense of duty to fall back upon. But do you imagine that I shall leave Catherine to his duty and humanity? and can you compare my feelings respecting Catherine to his? Before you leave this house, I must exact a promise from you that you'll get me an interview with her: consent, or refuse, I will see her! What do you say?"
"I say, Mr. Heathcliff," I replied, "you must not: you never shall, through my means. Another encounter between you and the master would kill her altogether."
"With your aid that may be avoided," he continued; "and should there be danger of such an event—should he be the cause of adding a single trouble more to her existence—why, I think I shall be justified in going to extremes! I wish you had sincerity enough to tell me whether Catherine would suffer greatly from his loss: the fear that she would restrains me. And there you see the distinction between our feelings: had he been in my place, and I in his, though I hated him with a hatred that turned my life to gall, I never would have raised a hand against him. You may look incredulous, if you please! I never would have banished him from her society as long as she desired his. The moment her regard ceased, I would have torn his heart out, and drunk his blood! But, till then—if you don't believe me, you don't know me—till then, I would have died by inches before I touched a single hair of his head!"
"And yet," I interrupted, "you have no scruples in completely ruining all hopes of her perfect restoration, by thrusting yourself into her remembrance now, when she has nearly forgotten you, and involving her in a new tumult of discord and distress."
"You suppose she has nearly forgotten me?" he said. "Oh, Nelly! you know she has not! You know as well as I do, that for every thought she spends on Linton she spends a thousand on me! At a most miserable period of my life, I had a notion of the kind: it haunted me on my return to the neighbourhood last summer; but only her own assurance could make me admit the horrible idea again. And then, Linton would be nothing, nor Hindley, nor all the dreams that ever I dreamt. Two words would comprehend my future—death and hell: existence, after losing her, would be hell. Yet I was a fool to fancy for a moment that she valued Edgar Linton's attachment more than mine. If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn't love as much in eighty years as I could in a day. And Catherine has a heart as deep as I have: the sea could be as readily contained in that horse–trough as her whole affection be monopolised by him. Tush! He is scarcely a degree dearer to her than her dog, or her horse. It is not in him to be loved like me: how can she love in him what he has not?"
"Catherine and Edgar are as fond of each other as any two people can be," cried Isabella, with sudden vivacity. "No one has a right to talk in that manner, and I won't hear my brother depreciated in silence!"
"Your brother is wondrous fond of you too, isn't he?" observed Heathcliff, scornfully. "He turns you adrift on the world with surprising alacrity."
"He is not aware of what I suffer," she replied. "I didn't tell him that."
"You have been telling him something, then: you have written, have you?"
"To say that I was married, I did write—you saw the note."
"And nothing since?"
"No."
"My young lady is looking sadly the worse for her change of condition," I remarked. "Somebody's love comes short in her case, obviously; whose, I may guess; but, perhaps, I shouldn't say."
"I should guess it was her own," said Heathcliff. "She degenerates into a mere slut! She is tired of trying to please me uncommonly early. You'd hardly credit it, but the very morrow of our wedding she was weeping to go home. However, she'll suit this house so much the better for not being over nice, and I'll take care she does not disgrace me by rambling abroad."
"Well, sir," returned I, "I hope you'll consider that Mrs. Heathcliff is accustomed to be looked after and waited on; and that she has been brought up like an only daughter, whom every one was ready to serve. You must let her have a maid to keep things tidy about her, and you must treat her kindly. Whatever be your notion of Mr. Edgar, you cannot doubt that she has a capacity for strong attachments, or she wouldn't have abandoned the elegancies, and comforts, and friends of her former home, to fix contentedly, in such a wilderness as this, with you."
"She abandoned them under a delusion," he answered; "picturing in me a hero of romance, and expecting unlimited indulgences from my chivalrous devotion. I can hardly regard her in the light of a rational creature, so obstinately has she persisted in forming a fabulous notion of my character and acting on the false impressions she cherished. But, at last, I think she begins to know me: I don't perceive the silly smiles and grimaces that provoked me at first; and the senseless incapability of discerning that I was in earnest when I gave her my opinion of her infatuation and herself. It was a marvellous effort of perspicacity to discover that I did not love her. I believed, at one time, no lessons could teach her that! And yet it is poorly learnt; for this morning she announced, as a piece of appalling intelligence, that I had actually succeeded in making her hate me! A positive labour of Hercules, I assure you! If it be achieved, I have cause to return thanks. Can I trust your assertion, Isabella? Are you sure you hate me? If I let you alone for half a day, won't you come sighing and wheedling to me again? I daresay she would rather I had seemed all tenderness before you: it wounds her vanity to have the truth exposed. But I don't care who knows that the passion was wholly on one side: and I never told her a lie about it. She cannot accuse me of showing one bit of deceitful softness. The first thing she saw me do, on coming out of the Grange, was to hang up her little dog; and when she pleaded for it, the first words I uttered were a wish that I had the hanging of every being belonging to her, except one: possibly she took that exception for herself. But no brutality disgusted her: I suppose she has an innate admiration of it, if only her precious person were secure from injury! Now, was it not the depth of absurdity—of genuine idiotcy, for that pitiful, slavish, mean–minded brach to dream that I could love her? Tell your master, Nelly, that I never, in all my life, met with such an abject thing as she is. She even disgraces the name of Linton; and I've sometimes relented, from pure lack of invention, in my experiments on what she could endure, and still creep shamefully cringing back! But tell him, also, to set his fraternal and magisterial heart at ease: that I keep strictly within the limits of the law. I have avoided, up to this period, giving her the slightest right to claim a separation; and, what's more, she'd thank nobody for dividing us. If she desired to go, she might: the nuisance of her presence outweighs the gratification to be derived from tormenting her!"
"Mr. Heathcliff," said I, "this is the talk of a madman; your wife, most likely, is convinced you are mad; and, for that reason, she has borne with you hitherto: but now that you say she may go, she'll doubtless avail herself of the permission. You are not so bewitched, ma'am, are you, as to remain with him of your own accord?"
"Take care, Ellen!" answered Isabella, her eyes sparkling irefully; there was no misdoubting by their expression the full success of her partner's endeavours to make himself detested. "Don't put faith in a single word he speaks. He's a lying fiend! a monster, and not a human being! I've been told I might leave him before; and I've made the attempt, but I dare not repeat it! Only, Ellen, promise you'll not mention a syllable of his infamous conversation to my brother or Catherine. Whatever he may pretend, he wishes to provoke Edgar to desperation: he says he has married me on purpose to obtain power over him; and he sha'n't obtain it—I'll die first! I just hope, I pray, that he may forget his diabolical prudence and kill me! The single pleasure I can imagine is to die, or to see him dead!"
"There—that will do for the present!" said Heathcliff. "If you are called upon in a court of law, you'll remember her language, Nelly! And take a good look at that countenance: she's near the point which would suit me. No; you're not fit to be your own guardian, Isabella, now; and I, being your legal protector, must retain you in my custody, however distasteful the obligation may be. Go up–stairs; I have something to say to Ellen Dean in private. That's not the way: up–stairs, I tell you! Why, this is the road upstairs, child!"
He seized, and thrust her from the room; and returned muttering—"I have no pity! I have no pity! The more the worms writhe, the more I yearn to crush out their entrails! It is a moral teething; and I grind with greater energy in proportion to the increase of pain."
"Do you understand what the word pity means?" I said, hastening to resume my bonnet. "Did you ever feel a touch of it in your life?"
"Put that down!" he interrupted, perceiving my intention to depart. "You are not going yet. Come here now, Nelly: I must either persuade or compel you to aid me in fulfilling my determination to see Catherine, and that without delay. I swear that I meditate no harm: I don't desire to cause any disturbance, or to exasperate or insult Mr. Linton; I only wish to hear from herself how she is, and why she has been ill; and to ask if anything that I could do would be of use to her. Last night I was in the Grange garden six hours, and I'll return there to–night; and every night I'll haunt the place, and every day, till I find an opportunity of entering. If Edgar Linton meets me, I shall not hesitate to knock him down, and give him enough to insure his quiescence while I stay. If his servants oppose me, I shall threaten them off with these pistols. But wouldn't it be better to prevent my coming in contact with them, or their master? And you could do it so easily. I'd warn you when I came, and then you might let me in unobserved, as soon as she was alone, and watch till I departed, your conscience quite calm: you would be hindering mischief."
I protested against playing that treacherous part in my employer's house: and, besides, I urged the cruelty and selfishness of his destroying Mrs. Linton's tranquillity for his satisfaction. "The commonest occurrence startles her painfully," I said. "She's all nerves, and she couldn't bear the surprise, I'm positive. Don't persist, sir! or else I shall be obliged to inform my master of your designs; and he'll take measures to secure his house and its inmates from any such unwarrantable intrusions!"
"In that case I'll take measures to secure you, woman!" exclaimed Heathcliff; "you shall not leave Wuthering Heights till to–morrow morning. It is a foolish story to assert that Catherine could not bear to see me; and as to surprising her, I don't desire it: you must prepare her—ask her if I may come. You say she never mentions my name, and that I am never mentioned to her. To whom should she mention me if I am a forbidden topic in the house? She thinks you are all spies for her husband. Oh, I've no doubt she's in hell among you! I guess by her silence, as much as anything, what she feels. You say she is often restless, and anxious–looking: is that a proof of tranquillity? You talk of her mind being unsettled. How the devil could it be otherwise in her frightful isolation? And that insipid, paltry creature attending her from duty and humanity! From pity and charity! He might as well plant an oak in a flower–pot, and expect it to thrive, as imagine he can restore her to vigour in the soil of his shallow cares? Let us settle it at once: will you stay here, and am I to fight my way to Catherine over Linton and his footman? Or will you be my friend, as you have been hitherto, and do what I request? Decide! because there is no reason for my lingering another minute, if you persist in your stubborn ill–nature!"
Well, Mr. Lockwood, I argued and complained, and flatly refused him fifty times; but in the long run he forced me to an agreement. I engaged to carry a letter from him to my mistress; and should she consent, I promised to let him have intelligence of Linton's next absence from home, when he might come, and get in as he was able: I wouldn't be there, and my fellow–servants should be equally out of the way. Was it right or wrong? I fear it was wrong, though expedient. I thought I prevented another explosion by my compliance; and I thought, too, it might create a favourable crisis in Catherine's mental illness: and then I remembered Mr. Edgar's stern rebuke of my carrying tales; and I tried to smooth away all disquietude on the subject, by affirming, with frequent iteration, that that betrayal of trust, if it merited so harsh an appellation, should be the last. Notwithstanding, my journey homeward was sadder than my journey thither; and many misgivings I had, ere I could prevail on myself to put the missive into Mrs. Linton's hand.
But here is Kenneth; I'll go down, and tell him how much better you are. My history is dree, as we say, and will serve to while away another morning.
Dree, and dreary! I reflected as the good woman descended to receive the doctor: and not exactly of the kind which I should have chosen to amuse me. But never mind! I'll extract wholesome medicines from Mrs. Dean's bitter herbs; and firstly, let me beware of the fascination that lurks in Catherine Heathcliff's brilliant eyes. I should be in a curious taking if I surrendered my heart to that young person, and the daughter turned out a second edition of the mother. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 20 | Another week over—and I am so many days nearer health, and spring! I have now heard all my neighbour's history, at different sittings, as the housekeeper could spare time from more important occupations. I'll continue it in her own words, only a little condensed. She is, on the whole, a very fair narrator, and I don't think I could improve her style.
In the evening, she said, the evening of my visit to the Heights, I knew, as well as if I saw him, that Mr. Heathcliff was about the place; and I shunned going out, because I still carried his letter in my pocket, and didn't want to be threatened or teased any more. I had made up my mind not to give it till my master went somewhere, as I could not guess how its receipt would affect Catherine. The consequence was, that it did not reach her before the lapse of three days. The fourth was Sunday, and I brought it into her room after the family were gone to church. There was a manservant left to keep the house with me, and we generally made a practice of locking the doors during the hours of service; but on that occasion the weather was so warm and pleasant that I set them wide open, and, to fulfil my engagement, as I knew who would be coming, I told my companion that the mistress wished very much for some oranges, and he must run over to the village and get a few, to be paid for on the morrow. He departed, and I went up–stairs.
Mrs. Linton sat in a loose white dress, with a light shawl over her shoulders, in the recess of the open window, as usual. Her thick, long hair had been partly removed at the beginning of her illness, and now she wore it simply combed in its natural tresses over her temples and neck. Her appearance was altered, as I had told Heathcliff; but when she was calm, there seemed unearthly beauty in the change. The flash of her eyes had been succeeded by a dreamy and melancholy softness; they no longer gave the impression of looking at the objects around her: they appeared always to gaze beyond, and far beyond—you would have said out of this world. Then, the paleness of her face—its haggard aspect having vanished as she recovered flesh—and the peculiar expression arising from her mental state, though painfully suggestive of their causes, added to the touching interest which she awakened; and—invariably to me, I know, and to any person who saw her, I should think—refuted more tangible proofs of convalescence, and stamped her as one doomed to decay.
A book lay spread on the sill before her, and the scarcely perceptible wind fluttered its leaves at intervals. I believe Linton had laid it there: for she never endeavoured to divert herself with reading, or occupation of any kind, and he would spend many an hour in trying to entice her attention to some subject which had formerly been her amusement. She was conscious of his aim, and in her better moods endured his efforts placidly, only showing their uselessness by now and then suppressing a wearied sigh, and checking him at last with the saddest of smiles and kisses. At other times, she would turn petulantly away, and hide her face in her hands, or even push him off angrily; and then he took care to let her alone, for he was certain of doing no good.
Gimmerton chapel bells were still ringing; and the full, mellow flow of the beck in the valley came soothingly on the ear. It was a sweet substitute for the yet absent murmur of the summer foliage, which drowned that music about the Grange when the trees were in leaf. At Wuthering Heights it always sounded on quiet days following a great thaw or a season of steady rain. And of Wuthering Heights Catherine was thinking as she listened: that is, if she thought or listened at all; but she had the vague, distant look I mentioned before, which expressed no recognition of material things either by ear or eye.
"There's a letter for you, Mrs. Linton," I said, gently inserting it in one hand that rested on her knee. "You must read it immediately, because it wants an answer. Shall I break the seal?"
"Yes," she answered, without altering the direction of her eyes. I opened it—it was very short. "Now," I continued, "read it." She drew away her hand, and let it fall. I replaced it in her lap, and stood waiting till it should please her to glance down; but that movement was so long delayed that at last I resumed—"Must I read it, ma'am? It is from Mr. Heathcliff."
There was a start and a troubled gleam of recollection, and a struggle to arrange her ideas. She lifted the letter, and seemed to peruse it; and when she came to the signature she sighed: yet still I found she had not gathered its import, for, upon my desiring to hear her reply, she merely pointed to the name, and gazed at me with mournful and questioning eagerness.
"Well, he wishes to see you," said I, guessing her need of an interpreter. "He's in the garden by this time, and impatient to know what answer I shall bring."
As I spoke, I observed a large dog lying on the sunny grass beneath raise its ears as if about to bark, and then smoothing them back, announce, by a wag of the tail, that some one approached whom it did not consider a stranger. Mrs. Linton bent forward, and listened breathlessly. The minute after a step traversed the hall; the open house was too tempting for Heathcliff to resist walking in: most likely he supposed that I was inclined to shirk my promise, and so resolved to trust to his own audacity. With straining eagerness Catherine gazed towards the entrance of her chamber. He did not hit the right room directly: she motioned me to admit him, but he found it out ere I could reach the door, and in a stride or two was at her side, and had her grasped in his arms.
He neither spoke nor loosed his hold for some five minutes, during which period he bestowed more kisses than ever he gave in his life before, I daresay: but then my mistress had kissed him first, and I plainly saw that he could hardly bear, for downright agony, to look into her face! The same conviction had stricken him as me, from the instant he beheld her, that there was no prospect of ultimate recovery there—she was fated, sure to die.
"Oh, Cathy! Oh, my life! how can I bear it?" was the first sentence he uttered, in a tone that did not seek to disguise his despair. And now he stared at her so earnestly that I thought the very intensity of his gaze would bring tears into his eyes; but they burned with anguish: they did not melt.
"What now?" said Catherine, leaning back, and returning his look with a suddenly clouded brow: her humour was a mere vane for constantly varying caprices. "You and Edgar have broken my heart, Heathcliff! And you both come to bewail the deed to me, as if you were the people to be pitied! I shall not pity you, not I. You have killed me—and thriven on it, I think. How strong you are! How many years do you mean to live after I am gone?"
Heathcliff had knelt on one knee to embrace her; he attempted to rise, but she seized his hair, and kept him down.
"I wish I could hold you," she continued, bitterly, "till we were both dead! I shouldn't care what you suffered. I care nothing for your sufferings. Why shouldn't you suffer? I do! Will you forget me? Will you be happy when I am in the earth? Will you say twenty years hence, "That's the grave of Catherine Earnshaw? I loved her long ago, and was wretched to lose her; but it is past. I've loved many others since: my children are dearer to me than she was; and, at death, I shall not rejoice that I are going to her: I shall be sorry that I must leave them!" Will you say so, Heathcliff?"
"Don't torture me till I'm as mad as yourself," cried he, wrenching his head free, and grinding his teeth.
The two, to a cool spectator, made a strange and fearful picture. Well might Catherine deem that heaven would be a land of exile to her, unless with her mortal body she cast away her moral character also. Her present countenance had a wild vindictiveness in its white cheek, and a bloodless lip and scintillating eye; and she retained in her closed fingers a portion of the locks she had been grasping. As to her companion, while raising himself with one hand, he had taken her arm with the other; and so inadequate was his stock of gentleness to the requirements of her condition, that on his letting go I saw four distinct impressions left blue in the colourless skin.
"Are you possessed with a devil," he pursued, savagely, "to talk in that manner to me when you are dying? Do you reflect that all those words will be branded in my memory, and eating deeper eternally after you have left me? You know you lie to say I have killed you: and, Catherine, you know that I could as soon forget you as my existence! Is it not sufficient for your infernal selfishness, that while you are at peace I shall writhe in the torments of hell?"
"I shall not be at peace," moaned Catherine, recalled to a sense of physical weakness by the violent, unequal throbbing of her heart, which beat visibly and audibly under this excess of agitation. She said nothing further till the paroxysm was over; then she continued, more kindly—
"I'm not wishing you greater torment than I have, Heathcliff. I only wish us never to be parted: and should a word of mine distress you hereafter, think I feel the same distress underground, and for my own sake, forgive me! Come here and kneel down again! You never harmed me in your life. Nay, if you nurse anger, that will be worse to remember than my harsh words! Won't you come here again? Do!"
Heathcliff went to the back of her chair, and leant over, but not so far as to let her see his face, which was livid with emotion. She bent round to look at him; he would not permit it: turning abruptly, he walked to the fireplace, where he stood, silent, with his back towards us. Mrs. Linton's glance followed him suspiciously: every movement woke a new sentiment in her. After a pause and a prolonged gaze, she resumed; addressing me in accents of indignant disappointment:—
"Oh, you see, Nelly, he would not relent a moment to keep me out of the grave. That is how I'm loved! Well, never mind. That is not my Heathcliff. I shall love mine yet; and take him with me: he's in my soul. And," added she musingly, "the thing that irks me most is this shattered prison, after all. I'm tired of being enclosed here. I'm wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there: not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart: but really with it, and in it. Nelly, you think you are better and more fortunate than I; in full health and strength: you are sorry for me—very soon that will be altered. I shall be sorry for you. I shall be incomparably beyond and above you all. I wonder he won't be near me!" She went on to herself. "I thought he wished it. Heathcliff, dear! you should not be sullen now. Do come to me, Heathcliff."
In her eagerness she rose and supported herself on the arm of the chair. At that earnest appeal he turned to her, looking absolutely desperate. His eyes, wide and wet, at last flashed fiercely on her; his breast heaved convulsively. An instant they held asunder, and then how they met I hardly saw, but Catherine made a spring, and he caught her, and they were locked in an embrace from which I thought my mistress would never be released alive: in fact, to my eyes, she seemed directly insensible. He flung himself into the nearest seat, and on my approaching hurriedly to ascertain if she had fainted, he gnashed at me, and foamed like a mad dog, and gathered her to him with greedy jealousy. I did not feel as if I were in the company of a creature of my own species: it appeared that he would not understand, though I spoke to him; so I stood off, and held my tongue, in great perplexity.
A movement of Catherine's relieved me a little presently: she put up her hand to clasp his neck, and bring her cheek to his as he held her; while he, in return, covering her with frantic caresses, said wildly—
"You teach me now how cruel you've been—cruel and false. Why did you despise me? Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they'll blight you—they'll damn you. You loved me—then what right had you to leave me? What right—answer me—for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart—you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine. So much the worse for me that I am strong. Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you—oh, God! would you like to live with your soul in the grave?"
"Let me alone. Let me alone," sobbed Catherine. "If I've done wrong, I'm dying for it. It is enough! You left me too: but I won't upbraid you! I forgive you. Forgive me!"
"It is hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes, and feel those wasted hands," he answered. "Kiss me again; and don't let me see your eyes! I forgive what you have done to me. I love my murderer—but yours! How can I?"
They were silent–their faces hid against each other, and washed by each other's tears. At least, I suppose the weeping was on both sides; as it seemed Heathcliff could weep on a great occasion like this.
I grew very uncomfortable, meanwhile; for the afternoon wore fast away, the man whom I had sent off returned from his errand, and I could distinguish, by the shine of the western sun up the valley, a concourse thickening outside Gimmerton chapel porch.
"Service is over," I announced. "My master will be here in half an hour."
Heathcliff groaned a curse, and strained Catherine closer: she never moved.
Ere long I perceived a group of the servants passing up the road towards the kitchen wing. Mr. Linton was not far behind; he opened the gate himself and sauntered slowly up, probably enjoying the lovely afternoon that breathed as soft as summer.
"Now he is here," I exclaimed. "For heaven's sake, hurry down! You'll not meet any one on the front stairs. Do be quick; and stay among the trees till he is fairly in."
"I must go, Cathy," said Heathcliff, seeking to extricate himself from his companion's arms. "But if I live, I'll see you again before you are asleep. I won't stray five yards from your window."
"You must not go!" she answered, holding him as firmly as her strength allowed. "You shall not, I tell you."
"For one hour," he pleaded earnestly.
"Not for one minute," she replied.
"I must—Linton will be up immediately," persisted the alarmed intruder.
He would have risen, and unfixed her fingers by the act—she clung fast, gasping: there was mad resolution in her face.
"No!" she shrieked. "Oh, don't, don't go. It is the last time! Edgar will not hurt us. Heathcliff, I shall die! I shall die!"
"Damn the fool! There he is," cried Heathcliff, sinking back into his seat. "Hush, my darling! Hush, hush, Catherine! I'll stay. If he shot me so, I'd expire with a blessing on my lips."
And there they were fast again. I heard my master mounting the stairs—the cold sweat ran from my forehead: I was horrified.
"Are you going to listen to her ravings?" I said, passionately. "She does not know what she says. Will you ruin her, because she has not wit to help herself? Get up! You could be free instantly. That is the most diabolical deed that ever you did. We are all done for—master, mistress, and servant."
I wrung my hands, and cried out; and Mr. Linton hastened his step at the noise. In the midst of my agitation, I was sincerely glad to observe that Catherine's arms had fallen relaxed, and her head hung down.
"She's fainted, or dead," I thought: "so much the better. Far better that she should be dead, than lingering a burden and a misery–maker to all about her."
Edgar sprang to his unbidden guest, blanched with astonishment and rage. What he meant to do I cannot tell; however, the other stopped all demonstrations, at once, by placing the lifeless–looking form in his arms.
"Look there!" he said. "Unless you be a fiend, help her first—then you shall speak to me!"
He walked into the parlour, and sat down. Mr. Linton summoned me, and with great difficulty, and after resorting to many means, we managed to restore her to sensation; but she was all bewildered; she sighed, and moaned, and knew nobody. Edgar, in his anxiety for her, forgot her hated friend. I did not. I went, at the earliest opportunity, and besought him to depart; affirming that Catherine was better, and he should hear from me in the morning how she passed the night.
"I shall not refuse to go out of doors," he answered; "but I shall stay in the garden: and, Nelly, mind you keep your word to–morrow. I shall be under those larch–trees. Mind! or I pay another visit, whether Linton be in or not."
He sent a rapid glance through the half–open door of the chamber, and, ascertaining that what I stated was apparently true, delivered the house of his luckless presence. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 21 | About twelve o'clock that night was born the Catherine you saw at Wuthering Heights: a puny, seven–months' child; and two hours after the mother died, having never recovered sufficient consciousness to miss Heathcliff, or know Edgar. The latter's distraction at his bereavement is a subject too painful to be dwelt on; its after–effects showed how deep the sorrow sunk. A great addition, in my eyes, was his being left without an heir. I bemoaned that, as I gazed on the feeble orphan; and I mentally abused old Linton for (what was only natural partiality) the securing his estate to his own daughter, instead of his son's. An unwelcomed infant it was, poor thing! It might have wailed out of life, and nobody cared a morsel, during those first hours of existence. We redeemed the neglect afterwards; but its beginning was as friendless as its end is likely to be.
Next morning—bright and cheerful out of doors—stole softened in through the blinds of the silent room, and suffused the couch and its occupant with a mellow, tender glow. Edgar Linton had his head laid on the pillow, and his eyes shut. His young and fair features were almost as deathlike as those of the form beside him, and almost as fixed: but his was the hush of exhausted anguish, and hers of perfect peace. Her brow smooth, her lids closed, her lips wearing the expression of a smile; no angel in heaven could be more beautiful than she appeared. And I partook of the infinite calm in which she lay: my mind was never in a holier frame than while I gazed on that untroubled image of Divine rest. I instinctively echoed the words she had uttered a few hours before: "Incomparably beyond and above us all! Whether still on earth or now in heaven, her spirit is at home with God!"
I don't know if it be a peculiarity in me, but I am seldom otherwise than happy while watching in the chamber of death, should no frenzied or despairing mourner share the duty with me. I see a repose that neither earth nor hell can break, and I feel an assurance of the endless and shadowless hereafter—the Eternity they have entered—where life is boundless in its duration, and love in its sympathy, and joy in its fulness. I noticed on that occasion how much selfishness there is even in a love like Mr. Linton's, when he so regretted Catherine's blessed release! To be sure, one might have doubted, after the wayward and impatient existence she had led, whether she merited a haven of peace at last. One might doubt in seasons of cold reflection; but not then, in the presence of her corpse. It asserted its own tranquillity, which seemed a pledge of equal quiet to its former inhabitant.
Do you believe such people are happy in the other world, sir? I'd give a great deal to know.
I declined answering Mrs. Dean's question, which struck me as something heterodox. She proceeded:
Retracing the course of Catherine Linton, I fear we have no right to think she is; but we'll leave her with her Maker.
The master looked asleep, and I ventured soon after sunrise to quit the room and steal out to the pure refreshing air. The servants thought me gone to shake off the drowsiness of my protracted watch; in reality, my chief motive was seeing Mr. Heathcliff. If he had remained among the larches all night, he would have heard nothing of the stir at the Grange; unless, perhaps, he might catch the gallop of the messenger going to Gimmerton. If he had come nearer, he would probably be aware, from the lights flitting to and fro, and the opening and shutting of the outer doors, that all was not right within. I wished, yet feared, to find him. I felt the terrible news must be told, and I longed to get it over; but how to do it I did not know. He was there—at least, a few yards further in the park; leant against an old ash–tree, his hat off, and his hair soaked with the dew that had gathered on the budded branches, and fell pattering round him. He had been standing a long time in that position, for I saw a pair of ousels passing and repassing scarcely three feet from him, busy in building their nest, and regarding his proximity no more than that of a piece of timber. They flew off at my approach, and he raised his eyes and spoke:—"She's dead!" he said; "I've not waited for you to learn that. Put your handkerchief away—don't snivel before me. Damn you all! she wants none of your tears!"
I was weeping as much for him as her: we do sometimes pity creatures that have none of the feeling either for themselves or others. When I first looked into his face, I perceived that he had got intelligence of the catastrophe; and a foolish notion struck me that his heart was quelled and he prayed, because his lips moved and his gaze was bent on the ground.
"Yes, she's dead!" I answered, checking my sobs and drying my cheeks. "Gone to heaven, I hope; where we may, every one, join her, if we take due warning and leave our evil ways to follow good!"
"Did she take due warning, then?" asked Heathcliff, attempting a sneer. "Did she die like a saint? Come, give me a true history of the event. How did—?"
He endeavoured to pronounce the name, but could not manage it; and compressing his mouth he held a silent combat with his inward agony, defying, meanwhile, my sympathy with an unflinching, ferocious stare. "How did she die?" he resumed, at last—fain, notwithstanding his hardihood, to have a support behind him; for, after the struggle, he trembled, in spite of himself, to his very finger–ends.
"Poor wretch!" I thought; "you have a heart and nerves the same as your brother men! Why should you be anxious to conceal them? Your pride cannot blind God! You tempt him to wring them, till he forces a cry of humiliation."
"Quietly as a lamb!" I answered, aloud. "She drew a sigh, and stretched herself, like a child reviving, and sinking again to sleep; and five minutes after I felt one little pulse at her heart, and nothing more!"
"And—did she ever mention me?" he asked, hesitating, as if he dreaded the answer to his question would introduce details that he could not bear to hear.
"Her senses never returned: she recognised nobody from the time you left her," I said. "She lies with a sweet smile on her face; and her latest ideas wandered back to pleasant early days. Her life closed in a gentle dream—may she wake as kindly in the other world!"
"May she wake in torment!" he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion. "Why, she's a liar to the end! Where is she? Not there—not in heaven—not perished—where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my sufferings! And I pray one prayer—I repeat it till my tongue stiffens—Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living; you said I killed you—haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!"
He dashed his head against the knotted trunk; and, lifting up his eyes, howled, not like a man, but like a savage beast being goaded to death with knives and spears. I observed several splashes of blood about the bark of the tree, and his hand and forehead were both stained; probably the scene I witnessed was a repetition of others acted during the night. It hardly moved my compassion—it appalled me: still, I felt reluctant to quit him so. But the moment he recollected himself enough to notice me watching, he thundered a command for me to go, and I obeyed. He was beyond my skill to quiet or console!
Mrs. Linton's funeral was appointed to take place on the Friday following her decease; and till then her coffin remained uncovered, and strewn with flowers and scented leaves, in the great drawing–room. Linton spent his days and nights there, a sleepless guardian; and—a circumstance concealed from all but me—Heathcliff spent his nights, at least, outside, equally a stranger to repose. I held no communication with him: still, I was conscious of his design to enter, if he could; and on the Tuesday, a little after dark, when my master, from sheer fatigue, had been compelled to retire a couple of hours, I went and opened one of the windows; moved by his perseverance to give him a chance of bestowing on the faded image of his idol one final adieu. He did not omit to avail himself of the opportunity, cautiously and briefly; too cautiously to betray his presence by the slightest noise. Indeed, I shouldn't have discovered that he had been there, except for the disarrangement of the drapery about the corpse's face, and for observing on the floor a curl of light hair, fastened with a silver thread; which, on examination, I ascertained to have been taken from a locket hung round Catherine's neck. Heathcliff had opened the trinket and cast out its contents, replacing them by a black lock of his own. I twisted the two, and enclosed them together.
Mr. Earnshaw was, of course, invited to attend the remains of his sister to the grave; he sent no excuse, but he never came; so that, besides her husband, the mourners were wholly composed of tenants and servants. Isabella was not asked.
The place of Catherine's interment, to the surprise of the villagers, was neither in the chapel under the carved monument of the Lintons, nor yet by the tombs of her own relations, outside. It was dug on a green slope in a corner of the kirk–yard, where the wall is so low that heath and bilberry–plants have climbed over it from the moor; and peat–mould almost buries it. Her husband lies in the same spot now; and they have each a simple headstone above, and a plain grey block at their feet, to mark the graves. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 22 | That Friday made the last of our fine days for a month. In the evening the weather broke: the wind shifted from south to north–east, and brought rain first, and then sleet and snow. On the morrow one could hardly imagine that there had been three weeks of summer: the primroses and crocuses were hidden under wintry drifts; the larks were silent, the young leaves of the early trees smitten and blackened. And dreary, and chill, and dismal, that morrow did creep over! My master kept his room; I took possession of the lonely parlour, converting it into a nursery: and there I was, sitting with the moaning doll of a child laid on my knee; rocking it to and fro, and watching, meanwhile, the still driving flakes build up the uncurtained window, when the door opened, and some person entered, out of breath and laughing! My anger was greater than my astonishment for a minute. I supposed it one of the maids, and I cried—"Have done! How dare you show your giddiness here; What would Mr. Linton say if he heard you?"
"Excuse me!" answered a familiar voice; "but I know Edgar is in bed, and I cannot stop myself."
With that the speaker came forward to the fire, panting and holding her hand to her side.
"I have run the whole way from Wuthering Heights!" she continued, after a pause; "except where I've flown. I couldn't count the number of falls I've had. Oh, I'm aching all over! Don't be alarmed! There shall be an explanation as soon as I can give it; only just have the goodness to step out and order the carriage to take me on to Gimmerton, and tell a servant to seek up a few clothes in my wardrobe."
The intruder was Mrs. Heathcliff. She certainly seemed in no laughing predicament: her hair streamed on her shoulders, dripping with snow and water; she was dressed in the girlish dress she commonly wore, befitting her age more than her position: a low frock with short sleeves, and nothing on either head or neck. The frock was of light silk, and clung to her with wet, and her feet were protected merely by thin slippers; add to this a deep cut under one ear, which only the cold prevented from bleeding profusely, a white face scratched and bruised, and a frame hardly able to support itself through fatigue; and you may fancy my first fright was not much allayed when I had had leisure to examine her.
"My dear young lady," I exclaimed, "I'll stir nowhere, and hear nothing, till you have removed every article of your clothes, and put on dry things; and certainly you shall not go to Gimmerton to–night, so it is needless to order the carriage."
"Certainly I shall," she said; "walking or riding: yet I've no objection to dress myself decently. And—ah, see how it flows down my neck now! The fire does make it smart."
She insisted on my fulfilling her directions, before she would let me touch her; and not till after the coachman had been instructed to get ready, and a maid set to pack up some necessary attire, did I obtain her consent for binding the wound and helping to change her garments.
"Now, Ellen," she said, when my task was finished and she was seated in an easy–chair on the hearth, with a cup of tea before her, "you sit down opposite me, and put poor Catherine's baby away: I don't like to see it! You mustn't think I care little for Catherine, because I behaved so foolishly on entering: I've cried, too, bitterly—yes, more than any one else has reason to cry. We parted unreconciled, you remember, and I sha'n't forgive myself. But, for all that, I was not going to sympathise with him—the brute beast! Oh, give me the poker! This is the last thing of his I have about me:" she slipped the gold ring from her third finger, and threw it on the floor. "I'll smash it!" she continued, striking it with childish spite, "and then I'll burn it!" and she took and dropped the misused article among the coals. "There! he shall buy another, if he gets me back again. He'd be capable of coming to seek me, to tease Edgar. I dare not stay, lest that notion should possess his wicked head! And besides, Edgar has not been kind, has he? And I won't come suing for his assistance; nor will I bring him into more trouble. Necessity compelled me to seek shelter here; though, if I had not learned he was out of the way, I'd have halted at the kitchen, washed my face, warmed myself, got you to bring what I wanted, and departed again to anywhere out of the reach of my accursed—of that incarnate goblin! Ah, he was in such a fury! If he had caught me! It's a pity Earnshaw is not his match in strength: I wouldn't have run till I'd seen him all but demolished, had Hindley been able to do it!"
"Well, don't talk so fast, Miss!" I interrupted; "you'll disorder the handkerchief I have tied round your face, and make the cut bleed again. Drink your tea, and take breath, and give over laughing: laughter is sadly out of place under this roof, and in your condition!"
"An undeniable truth," she replied. "Listen to that child! It maintains a constant wail—send it out of my hearing for an hour; I sha'n't stay any longer."
I rang the bell, and committed it to a servant's care; and then I inquired what had urged her to escape from Wuthering Heights in such an unlikely plight, and where she meant to go, as she refused remaining with us.
"I ought, and I wished to remain," answered she, "to cheer Edgar and take care of the baby, for two things, and because the Grange is my right home. But I tell you he wouldn't let me! Do you think he could bear to see me grow fat and merry—could bear to think that we were tranquil, and not resolve on poisoning our comfort? Now, I have the satisfaction of being sure that he detests me, to the point of its annoying him seriously to have me within ear–shot or eyesight: I notice, when I enter his presence, the muscles of his countenance are involuntarily distorted into an expression of hatred; partly arising from his knowledge of the good causes I have to feel that sentiment for him, and partly from original aversion. It is strong enough to make me feel pretty certain that he would not chase me over England, supposing I contrived a clear escape; and therefore I must get quite away. I've recovered from my first desire to be killed by him: I'd rather he'd kill himself! He has extinguished my love effectually, and so I'm at my ease. I can recollect yet how I loved him; and can dimly imagine that I could still be loving him, if—no, no! Even if he had doted on me, the devilish nature would have revealed its existence somehow. Catherine had an awfully perverted taste to esteem him so dearly, knowing him so well. Monster! would that he could be blotted out of creation, and out of my memory!"
"Hush, hush! He's a human being," I said. "Be more charitable: there are worse men than he is yet!"
"He's not a human being," she retorted; "and he has no claim on my charity. I gave him my heart, and he took and pinched it to death, and flung it back to me. People feel with their hearts, Ellen: and since he has destroyed mine, I have not power to feel for him: and I would not, though he groaned from this to his dying day, and wept tears of blood for Catherine! No, indeed, indeed, I wouldn't!" And here Isabella began to cry; but, immediately dashing the water from her lashes, she recommenced. "You asked, what has driven me to flight at last? I was compelled to attempt it, because I had succeeded in rousing his rage a pitch above his malignity. Pulling out the nerves with red hot pincers requires more coolness than knocking on the head. He was worked up to forget the fiendish prudence he boasted of, and proceeded to murderous violence. I experienced pleasure in being able to exasperate him: the sense of pleasure woke my instinct of self–preservation, so I fairly broke free; and if ever I come into his hands again he is welcome to a signal revenge."
"Yesterday, you know, Mr. Earnshaw should have been at the funeral. He kept himself sober for the purpose—tolerably sober: not going to bed mad at six o'clock and getting up drunk at twelve. Consequently, he rose, in suicidal low spirits, as fit for the church as for a dance; and instead, he sat down by the fire and swallowed gin or brandy by tumblerfuls."
"Heathcliff—I shudder to name him! has been a stranger in the house from last Sunday till to–day. Whether the angels have fed him, or his kin beneath, I cannot tell; but he has not eaten a meal with us for nearly a week. He has just come home at dawn, and gone up–stairs to his chamber; looking himself in—as if anybody dreamt of coveting his company! There he has continued, praying like a Methodist: only the deity he implored is senseless dust and ashes; and God, when addressed, was curiously confounded with his own black father! After concluding these precious orisons—and they lasted generally till he grew hoarse and his voice was strangled in his throat—he would be off again; always straight down to the Grange! I wonder Edgar did not send for a constable, and give him into custody! For me, grieved as I was about Catherine, it was impossible to avoid regarding this season of deliverance from degrading oppression as a holiday."
"I recovered spirits sufficient to bear Joseph's eternal lectures without weeping, and to move up and down the house less with the foot of a frightened thief than formerly. You wouldn't think that I should cry at anything Joseph could say; but he and Hareton are detestable companions. I'd rather sit with Hindley, and hear his awful talk, than with 't' little maister" and his staunch supporter, that odious old man! When Heathcliff is in, I'm often obliged to seek the kitchen and their society, or starve among the damp uninhabited chambers; when he is not, as was the case this week, I establish a table and chair at one corner of the house fire, and never mind how Mr. Earnshaw may occupy himself; and he does not interfere with my arrangements. He is quieter now than he used to be, if no one provokes him: more sullen and depressed, and less furious. Joseph affirms he's sure he's an altered man: that the Lord has touched his heart, and he is saved "so as by fire." I'm puzzled to detect signs of the favourable change: but it is not my business.
"Yester–evening I sat in my nook reading some old books till late on towards twelve. It seemed so dismal to go up–stairs, with the wild snow blowing outside, and my thoughts continually reverting to the kirk–yard and the new–made grave! I dared hardly lift my eyes from the page before me, that melancholy scene so instantly usurped its place. Hindley sat opposite, his head leant on his hand; perhaps meditating on the same subject. He had ceased drinking at a point below irrationality, and had neither stirred nor spoken during two or three hours. There was no sound through the house but the moaning wind, which shook the windows every now and then, the faint crackling of the coals, and the click of my snuffers as I removed at intervals the long wick of the candle. Hareton and Joseph were probably fast asleep in bed. It was very, very sad: and while I read I sighed, for it seemed as if all joy had vanished from the world, never to be restored."
"The doleful silence was broken at length by the sound of the kitchen latch: Heathcliff had returned from his watch earlier than usual; owing, I suppose, to the sudden storm. That entrance was fastened, and we heard him coming round to get in by the other. I rose with an irrepressible expression of what I felt on my lips, which induced my companion, who had been staring towards the door, to turn and look at me."
"I'll keep him out five minutes," he exclaimed. "You won't object?"
"No, you may keep him out the whole night for me," I answered. "Do! put the key in the look, and draw the bolts."
"Earnshaw accomplished this ere his guest reached the front; he then came and brought his chair to the other side of my table, leaning over it, and searching in my eyes for a sympathy with the burning hate that gleamed from his: as he both looked and felt like an assassin, he couldn't exactly find that; but he discovered enough to encourage him to speak."
"You, and I," he said, "have each a great debt to settle with the man out yonder! If we were neither of us cowards, we might combine to discharge it. Are you as soft as your brother? Are you willing to endure to the last, and not once attempt a repayment?"
"I'm weary of enduring now," I replied; "and I'd be glad of a retaliation that wouldn't recoil on myself; but treachery and violence are spears pointed at both ends; they wound those who resort to them worse than their enemies."
"Treachery and violence are a just return for treachery and violence!" cried Hindley. "Mrs. Heathcliff, I'll ask you to do nothing; but sit still and be dumb. Tell me now, can you? I'm sure you would have as much pleasure as I in witnessing the conclusion of the fiend's existence; he'll be your death unless you overreach him; and he'll be my ruin. Damn the hellish villain! He knocks at the door as if he were master here already! Promise to hold your tongue, and before that clock strikes—it wants three minutes of one—you're a free woman!"
"He took the implements which I described to you in my letter from his breast, and would have turned down the candle. I snatched it away, however, and seized his arm."
"I'll not hold my tongue!" I said; "you mustn't touch him. Let the door remain shut, and be quiet!"
"No! I've formed my resolution, and by God I'll execute it!" cried the desperate being. "I'll do you a kindness in spite of yourself, and Hareton justice! And you needn't trouble your head to screen me; Catherine is gone. Nobody alive would regret me, or be ashamed, though I cut my throat this minute—and it's time to make an end!"
"I might as well have struggled with a bear, or reasoned with a lunatic. The only resource left me was to run to a lattice and warn his intended victim of the fate which awaited him."
"You'd better seek shelter somewhere else to–night!" I exclaimed, in rather a triumphant tone. "Mr. Earnshaw has a mind to shoot you, if you persist in endeavouring to enter."
"You'd better open the door, you—" he answered, addressing me by some elegant term that I don't care to repeat."
"I shall not meddle in the matter," I retorted again. "Come in and get shot, if you please. I've done my duty."
"With that I shut the window and returned to my place by the fire; having too small a stock of hypocrisy at my command to pretend any anxiety for the danger that menaced him. Earnshaw swore passionately at me: affirming that I loved the villain yet; and calling me all sorts of names for the base spirit I evinced. And I, in my secret heart (and conscience never reproached me), thought what a blessing it would be for him should Heathcliff put him out of misery; and what a blessing for me should he send Heathcliff to his right abode! As I sat nursing these reflections, the casement behind me was banged on to the floor by a blow from the latter individual, and his black countenance looked blightingly through. The stanchions stood too close to suffer his shoulders to follow, and I smiled, exulting in my fancied security. His hair and clothes were whitened with snow, and his sharp cannibal teeth, revealed by cold and wrath, gleamed through the dark."
"Isabella, let me in, or I'll make you repent!" he "girned," as Joseph calls it."
"I cannot commit murder," I replied. "Mr. Hindley stands sentinel with a knife and loaded pistol."
"Let me in by the kitchen door," he said."
"Hindley will be there before me," I answered: "and that's a poor love of yours that cannot bear a shower of snow! We were left at peace in our beds as long as the summer moon shone, but the moment a blast of winter returns, you must run for shelter! Heathcliff, if I were you, I'd go stretch myself over her grave and die like a faithful dog. The world is surely not worth living in now, is it? You had distinctly impressed on me the idea that Catherine was the whole joy of your life: I can't imagine how you think of surviving her loss."
"He's there, is he?" exclaimed my companion, rushing to the gap. "If I can get my arm out I can hit him!"
"I'm afraid, Ellen, you'll set me down as really wicked; but you don't know all, so don't judge. I wouldn't have aided or abetted an attempt on even his life for anything. Wish that he were dead, I must; and therefore I was fearfully disappointed, and unnerved by terror for the consequences of my taunting speech, when he flung himself on Earnshaw's weapon and wrenched it from his grasp."
"The charge exploded, and the knife, in springing back, closed into its owner's wrist. Heathcliff pulled it away by main force, slitting up the flesh as it passed on, and thrust it dripping into his pocket. He then took a stone, struck down the division between two windows, and sprang in. His adversary had fallen senseless with excessive pain and the flow of blood, that gushed from an artery or a large vein. The ruffian kicked and trampled on him, and dashed his head repeatedly against the flags, holding me with one hand, meantime, to prevent me summoning Joseph. He exerted preterhuman self–denial in abstaining from finishing him completely; but getting out of breath, he finally desisted, and dragged the apparently inanimate body on to the settle. There he tore off the sleeve of Earnshaw's coat, and bound up the wound with brutal roughness; spitting and cursing during the operation as energetically as he had kicked before. Being at liberty, I lost no time in seeking the old servant; who, having gathered by degrees the purport of my hasty tale, hurried below, gasping, as he descended the steps two at once."
"What is ther to do, now? what is ther to do, now?"
"There's this to do," thundered Heathcliff, "that your master's mad; and should he last another month, I'll have him to an asylum. And how the devil did you come to fasten me out, you toothless hound? Don't stand muttering and mumbling there. Come, I'm not going to nurse him. Wash that stuff away; and mind the sparks of your candle—it is more than half brandy!"
"And so ye've been murthering on him?" exclaimed Joseph, lifting his hands and eyes in horror. "If iver I seed a seeght loike this! May the Lord—"
"Heathcliff gave him a push on to his knees in the middle of the blood, and flung a towel to him; but instead of proceeding to dry it up, he joined his hands and began a prayer, which excited my laughter from its odd phraseology. I was in the condition of mind to be shocked at nothing: in fact, I was as reckless as some malefactors show themselves at the foot of the gallows."
"Oh, I forgot you," said the tyrant. "You shall do that. Down with you. And you conspire with him against me, do you, viper? There, that is work fit for you!"
"He shook me till my teeth rattled, and pitched me beside Joseph, who steadily concluded his supplications, and then rose, vowing he would set off for the Grange directly. Mr. Linton was a magistrate, and though he had fifty wives dead, he should inquire into this. He was so obstinate in his resolution, that Heathcliff deemed it expedient to compel from my lips a recapitulation of what had taken place; standing over me, heaving with malevolence, as I reluctantly delivered the account in answer to his questions. It required a great deal of labour to satisfy the old man that Heathcliff was not the aggressor; especially with my hardly–wrung replies. However, Mr. Earnshaw soon convinced him that he was alive still; Joseph hastened to administer a dose of spirits, and by their succour his master presently regained motion and consciousness. Heathcliff, aware that his opponent was ignorant of the treatment received while insensible, called him deliriously intoxicated; and said he should not notice his atrocious conduct further, but advised him to get to bed. To my joy, he left us, after giving this judicious counsel, and Hindley stretched himself on the hearthstone. I departed to my own room, marvelling that I had escaped so easily."
"This morning, when I came down, about half an hour before noon, Mr. Earnshaw was sitting by the fire, deadly sick; his evil genius, almost as gaunt and ghastly, leant against the chimney. Neither appeared inclined to dine, and, having waited till all was cold on the table, I commenced alone. Nothing hindered me from eating heartily, and I experienced a certain sense of satisfaction and superiority, as, at intervals, I cast a look towards my silent companions, and felt the comfort of a quiet conscience within me. After I had done, I ventured on the unusual liberty of drawing near the fire, going round Earnshaw's seat, and kneeling in the corner beside him."
"Heathcliff did not glance my way, and I gazed up, and contemplated his features almost as confidently as if they had been turned to stone. His forehead, that I once thought so manly, and that I now think so diabolical, was shaded with a heavy cloud; his basilisk eyes were nearly quenched by sleeplessness, and weeping, perhaps, for the lashes were wet then: his lips devoid of their ferocious sneer, and sealed in an expression of unspeakable sadness. Had it been another, I would have covered my face in the presence of such grief. In his case, I was gratified; and, ignoble as it seems to insult a fallen enemy, I couldn't miss this chance of sticking in a dart: his weakness was the only time when I could taste the delight of paying wrong for wrong."
"Fie, fie, Miss!" I interrupted. "One might suppose you had never opened a Bible in your life. If God afflict your enemies, surely that ought to suffice you. It is both mean and presumptuous to add your torture to his!"
"In general I'll allow that it would be, Ellen," she continued; "but what misery laid on Heathcliff could content me, unless I have a hand in it? I'd rather he suffered less, if I might cause his sufferings and he might know that I was the cause. Oh, I owe him so much. On only one condition can I hope to forgive him. It is, if I may take an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; for every wrench of agony return a wrench: reduce him to my level. As he was the first to injure, make him the first to implore pardon; and then—why then, Ellen, I might show you some generosity. But it is utterly impossible I can ever be revenged, and therefore I cannot forgive him. Hindley wanted some water, and I handed him a glass, and asked him how he was."
"Not as ill as I wish," he replied. "But leaving out my arm, every inch of me is as sore as if I had been fighting with a legion of imps!"
"Yes, no wonder," was my next remark. "Catherine used to boast that she stood between you and bodily harm: she meant that certain persons would not hurt you for fear of offending her. It's well people don't really rise from their grave, or, last night, she might have witnessed a repulsive scene! Are not you bruised, and cut over your chest and shoulders?"
"I can't say," he answered, "but what do you mean? Did he dare to strike me when I was down?"
"He trampled on and kicked you, and dashed you on the ground," I whispered. "And his mouth watered to tear you with his teeth; because he's only half man: not so much, and the rest fiend."
"Mr. Earnshaw looked up, like me, to the countenance of our mutual foe; who, absorbed in his anguish, seemed insensible to anything around him: the longer he stood, the plainer his reflections revealed their blackness through his features."
"Oh, if God would but give me strength to strangle him in my last agony, I'd go to hell with joy," groaned the impatient man, writhing to rise, and sinking back in despair, convinced of his inadequacy for the struggle."
"Nay, it's enough that he has murdered one of you," I observed aloud. "At the Grange, every one knows your sister would have been living now had it not been for Mr. Heathcliff. After all, it is preferable to be hated than loved by him. When I recollect how happy we were—how happy Catherine was before he came—I'm fit to curse the day."
"Most likely, Heathcliff noticed more the truth of what was said, than the spirit of the person who said it. His attention was roused, I saw, for his eyes rained down tears among the ashes, and he drew his breath in suffocating sighs. I stared full at him, and laughed scornfully. The clouded windows of hell flashed a moment towards me; the fiend which usually looked out, however, was so dimmed and drowned that I did not fear to hazard another sound of derision."
"Get up, and begone out of my sight," said the mourner."
"I guessed he uttered those words, at least, though his voice was hardly intelligible."
"I beg your pardon," I replied. "But I loved Catherine too; and her brother requires attendance, which, for her sake, I shall supply. Now, that she's dead, I see her in Hindley: Hindley has exactly her eyes, if you had not tried to gouge them out, and made them black and red; and her—"
"Get up, wretched idiot, before I stamp you to death!" he cried, making a movement that caused me to make one also."
"But then," I continued, holding myself ready to flee, "if poor Catherine had trusted you, and assumed the ridiculous, contemptible, degrading title of Mrs. Heathcliff, she would soon have presented a similar picture! She wouldn't have borne your abominable behaviour quietly: her detestation and disgust must have found voice."
"The back of the settle and Earnshaw's person interposed between me and him; so instead of endeavouring to reach me, he snatched a dinner–knife from the table and flung it at my head. It struck beneath my ear, and stopped the sentence I was uttering; but, pulling it out, I sprang to the door and delivered another; which I hope went a little deeper than his missile. The last glimpse I caught of him was a furious rush on his part, checked by the embrace of his host; and both fell locked together on the hearth. In my flight through the kitchen I bid Joseph speed to his master; I knocked over Hareton, who was hanging a litter of puppies from a chair–back in the doorway; and, blessed as a soul escaped from purgatory, I bounded, leaped, and flew down the steep road; then, quitting its windings, shot direct across the moor, rolling over banks, and wading through marshes: precipitating myself, in fact, towards the beacon–light of the Grange. And far rather would I be condemned to a perpetual dwelling in the infernal regions than, even for one night, abide beneath the roof of Wuthering Heights again."
Isabella ceased speaking, and took a drink of tea; then she rose, and bidding me put on her bonnet, and a great shawl I had brought, and turning a deaf ear to my entreaties for her to remain another hour, she stepped on to a chair, kissed Edgar's and Catherine's portraits, bestowed a similar salute on me, and descended to the carriage, accompanied by Fanny, who yelped wild with joy at recovering her mistress. She was driven away, never to revisit this neighbourhood: but a regular correspondence was established between her and my master when things were more settled. I believe her new abode was in the south, near London; there she had a son born a few months subsequent to her escape. He was christened Linton, and, from the first, she reported him to be an ailing, peevish creature.
Mr. Heathcliff, meeting me one day in the village, inquired where she lived. I refused to tell. He remarked that it was not of any moment, only she must beware of coming to her brother: she should not be with him, if he had to keep her himself. Though I would give no information, he discovered, through some of the other servants, both her place of residence and the existence of the child. Still, he didn't molest her: for which forbearance she might thank his aversion, I suppose. He often asked about the infant, when he saw me; and on hearing its name, smiled grimly, and observed: "They wish me to hate it too, do they?"
"I don't think they wish you to know anything about it," I answered.
"But I'll have it," he said, "when I want it. They may reckon on that!"
Fortunately its mother died before the time arrived; some thirteen years after the decease of Catherine, when Linton was twelve, or a little more.
On the day succeeding Isabella's unexpected visit I had no opportunity of speaking to my master: he shunned conversation, and was fit for discussing nothing. When I could get him to listen, I saw it pleased him that his sister had left her husband; whom he abhorred with an intensity which the mildness of his nature would scarcely seem to allow. So deep and sensitive was his aversion, that he refrained from going anywhere where he was likely to see or hear of Heathcliff. Grief, and that together, transformed him into a complete hermit: he threw up his office of magistrate, ceased even to attend church, avoided the village on all occasions, and spent a life of entire seclusion within the limits of his park and grounds; only varied by solitary rambles on the moors, and visits to the grave of his wife, mostly at evening, or early morning before other wanderers were abroad. But he was too good to be thoroughly unhappy long. He didn't pray for Catherine's soul to haunt him. Time brought resignation, and a melancholy sweeter than common joy. He recalled her memory with ardent, tender love, and hopeful aspiring to the better world; where he doubted not she was gone.
And he had earthly consolation and affections also. For a few days, I said, he seemed regardless of the puny successor to the departed: that coldness melted as fast as snow in April, and ere the tiny thing could stammer a word or totter a step it wielded a despot's sceptre in his heart. It was named Catherine; but he never called it the name in full, as he had never called the first Catherine short: probably because Heathcliff had a habit of doing so. The little one was always Cathy: it formed to him a distinction from the mother, and yet a connection with her; and his attachment sprang from its relation to her, far more than from its being his own.
I used to draw a comparison between him and Hindley Earnshaw, and perplex myself to explain satisfactorily why their conduct was so opposite in similar circumstances. They had both been fond husbands, and were both attached to their children; and I could not see how they shouldn't both have taken the same road, for good or evil. But, I thought in my mind, Hindley, with apparently the stronger head, has shown himself sadly the worse and the weaker man. When his ship struck, the captain abandoned his post; and the crew, instead of trying to save her, rushed into riot and confusion, leaving no hope for their luckless vessel. Linton, on the contrary, displayed the true courage of a loyal and faithful soul: he trusted God; and God comforted him. One hoped, and the other despaired: they chose their own lots, and were righteously doomed to endure them. But you'll not want to hear my moralising, Mr. Lockwood; you'll judge, as well as I can, all these things: at least, you'll think you will, and that's the same. The end of Earnshaw was what might have been expected; it followed fast on his sister's: there were scarcely six months between them. We, at the Grange, never got a very succinct account of his state preceding it; all that I did learn was on occasion of going to aid in the preparations for the funeral. Mr. Kenneth came to announce the event to my master.
"Well, Nelly," said he, riding into the yard one morning, too early not to alarm me with an instant presentiment of bad news, "it's yours and my turn to go into mourning at present. Who's given us the slip now, do you think?"
"Who?" I asked in a flurry.
"Why, guess!" he returned, dismounting, and slinging his bridle on a hook by the door. "And nip up the corner of your apron: I'm certain you'll need it."
"Not Mr. Heathcliff, surely?" I exclaimed.
"What! would you have tears for him?" said the doctor. "No, Heathcliff's a tough young fellow: he looks blooming to–day. I've just seen him. He's rapidly regaining flesh since he lost his better half."
"Who is it, then, Mr. Kenneth?" I repeated impatiently.
"Hindley Earnshaw! Your old friend Hindley," he replied, "and my wicked gossip: though he's been too wild for me this long while. There! I said we should draw water. But cheer up! He died true to his character: drunk as a lord. Poor lad! I'm sorry, too. One can't help missing an old companion: though he had the worst tricks with him that ever man imagined, and has done me many a rascally turn. He's barely twenty–seven, it seems; that's your own age: who would have thought you were born in one year?"
I confess this blow was greater to me than the shock of Mrs. Linton's death: ancient associations lingered round my heart; I sat down in the porch and wept as for a blood relation, desiring Mr. Kenneth to get another servant to introduce him to the master. I could not hinder myself from pondering on the question—"Had he had fair play?" Whatever I did, that idea would bother me: it was so tiresomely pertinacious that I resolved on requesting leave to go to Wuthering Heights, and assist in the last duties to the dead. Mr. Linton was extremely reluctant to consent, but I pleaded eloquently for the friendless condition in which he lay; and I said my old master and foster–brother had a claim on my services as strong as his own. Besides, I reminded him that the child Hareton was his wife's nephew, and, in the absence of nearer kin, he ought to act as its guardian; and he ought to and must inquire how the property was left, and look over the concerns of his brother–in–law. He was unfit for attending to such matters then, but he bid me speak to his lawyer; and at length permitted me to go. His lawyer had been Earnshaw's also: I called at the village, and asked him to accompany me. He shook his head, and advised that Heathcliff should be let alone; affirming, if the truth were known, Hareton would be found little else than a beggar.
"His father died in debt," he said; "the whole property is mortgaged, and the sole chance for the natural heir is to allow him an opportunity of creating some interest in the creditor's heart, that he may be inclined to deal leniently towards him."
When I reached the Heights, I explained that I had come to see everything carried on decently; and Joseph, who appeared in sufficient distress, expressed satisfaction at my presence. Mr. Heathcliff said he did not perceive that I was wanted; but I might stay and order the arrangements for the funeral, if I chose.
"Correctly," he remarked, "that fool's body should he buried at the cross–roads, without ceremony of any kind. I happened to leave him ten minutes yesterday afternoon, and in that interval he fastened the two doors of the house against me, and he has spent the night in drinking himself to death deliberately! We broke in this morning, for we heard him sporting like a horse; and there he was, laid over the settle: flaying and scalping would not have wakened him. I sent for Kenneth, and he came; but not till the beast had changed into carrion: he was both dead and cold, and stark; and so you'll allow it was useless making more stir about him!"
The old servant confirmed this statement, but muttered:
"I'd rayther he'd goan hisseln for t" doctor! I sud ha,' taen tent o' t' maister better nor him—and he warn't deead when I left, naught o' t' soart!'
I insisted on the funeral being respectable. Mr. Heathcliff said I might have my own way there too: only, he desired me to remember that the money for the whole affair came out of his pocket. He maintained a hard, careless deportment, indicative of neither joy nor sorrow: if anything, it expressed a flinty gratification at a piece of difficult work successfully executed. I observed once, indeed, something like exultation in his aspect: it was just when the people were bearing the coffin from the house. He had the hypocrisy to represent a mourner: and previous to following with Hareton, he lifted the unfortunate child on to the table and muttered, with peculiar gusto, "Now, my bonny lad, you are mine! And we'll see if one tree won't grow as crooked as another, with the same wind to twist it!" The unsuspecting thing was pleased at this speech: he played with Heathcliff's whiskers, and stroked his cheek; but I divined its meaning, and observed tartly, "That boy must go back with me to Thrushcross Grange, sir. There is nothing in the world less yours than he is!"
"Does Linton say so?" he demanded.
"Of course—he has ordered me to take him," I replied.
"Well," said the scoundrel, "we'll not argue the subject now: but I have a fancy to try my hand at rearing a young one; so intimate to your master that I must supply the place of this with my own, if he attempt to remove it. I don't engage to let Hareton go undisputed; but I'll be pretty sure to make the other come! Remember to tell him."
This hint was enough to bind our hands. I repeated its substance on my return; and Edgar Linton, little interested at the commencement, spoke no more of interfering. I'm not aware that he could have done it to any purpose, had he been ever so willing.
The guest was now the master of Wuthering Heights: he held firm possession, and proved to the attorney—who, in his turn, proved it to Mr. Linton—that Earnshaw had mortgaged every yard of land he owned for cash to supply his mania for gaming; and he, Heathcliff, was the mortgagee. In that manner Hareton, who should now be the first gentleman in the neighbourhood, was reduced to a state of complete dependence on his father's inveterate enemy; and lives in his own house as a servant, deprived of the advantage of wages: quite unable to right himself, because of his friendlessness, and his ignorance that he has been wronged. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 23 | The twelve years, continued Mrs. Dean, following that dismal period were the happiest of my life: my greatest troubles in their passage rose from our little lady's trifling illnesses, which she had to experience in common with all children, rich and poor. For the rest, after the first six months, she grew like a larch, and could walk and talk too, in her own way, before the heath blossomed a second time over Mrs. Linton's dust. She was the most winning thing that ever brought sunshine into a desolate house: a real beauty in face, with the Earnshaws' handsome dark eyes, but the Lintons' fair skin and small features, and yellow curling hair. Her spirit was high, though not rough, and qualified by a heart sensitive and lively to excess in its affections. That capacity for intense attachments reminded me of her mother: still she did not resemble her: for she could be soft and mild as a dove, and she had a gentle voice and pensive expression: her anger was never furious; her love never fierce: it was deep and tender. However, it must be acknowledged, she had faults to foil her gifts. A propensity to be saucy was one; and a perverse will, that indulged children invariably acquire, whether they be good tempered or cross. If a servant chanced to vex her, it was always—"I shall tell papa!" And if he reproved her, even by a look, you would have thought it a heart–breaking business: I don't believe he ever did speak a harsh word to her. He took her education entirely on himself, and made it an amusement. Fortunately, curiosity and a quick intellect made her an apt scholar: she learned rapidly and eagerly, and did honour to his teaching.
Till she reached the age of thirteen she had not once been beyond the range of the park by herself. Mr. Linton would take her with him a mile or so outside, on rare occasions; but he trusted her to no one else. Gimmerton was an unsubstantial name in her ears; the chapel, the only building she had approached or entered, except her own home. Wuthering Heights and Mr. Heathcliff did not exist for her: she was a perfect recluse; and, apparently, perfectly contented. Sometimes, indeed, while surveying the country from her nursery window, she would observe—
"Ellen, how long will it be before I can walk to the top of those hills? I wonder what lies on the other side—is it the sea?"
"No, Miss Cathy," I would answer; "it is hills again, just like these."
"And what are those golden rocks like when you stand under them?" she once asked.
The abrupt descent of Penistone Crags particularly attracted her notice; especially when the setting sun shone on it and the topmost heights, and the whole extent of landscape besides lay in shadow. I explained that they were bare masses of stone, with hardly enough earth in their clefts to nourish a stunted tree.
"And why are they bright so long after it is evening here?" she pursued.
"Because they are a great deal higher up than we are," replied I; "you could not climb them, they are too high and steep. In winter the frost is always there before it comes to us; and deep into summer I have found snow under that black hollow on the north–east side!"
"Oh, you have been on them!" she cried gleefully. "Then I can go, too, when I am a woman. Has papa been, Ellen?"
"Papa would tell you, Miss," I answered, hastily, "that they are not worth the trouble of visiting. The moors, where you ramble with him, are much nicer; and Thrushcross Park is the finest place in the world."
"But I know the park, and I don't know those," she murmured to herself. "And I should delight to look round me from the brow of that tallest point: my little pony Minny shall take me some time."
One of the maids mentioning the Fairy Cave, quite turned her head with a desire to fulfil this project: she teased Mr. Linton about it; and he promised she should have the journey when she got older. But Miss Catherine measured her age by months, and, "Now, am I old enough to go to Penistone Crags?" was the constant question in her mouth. The road thither wound close by Wuthering Heights. Edgar had not the heart to pass it; so she received as constantly the answer, "Not yet, love: not yet."
I said Mrs. Heathcliff lived above a dozen years after quitting her husband. Her family were of a delicate constitution: she and Edgar both lacked the ruddy health that you will generally meet in these parts. What her last illness was, I am not certain: I conjecture, they died of the same thing, a kind of fever, slow at its commencement, but incurable, and rapidly consuming life towards the close. She wrote to inform her brother of the probable conclusion of a four–months' indisposition under which she had suffered, and entreated him to come to her, if possible; for she had much to settle, and she wished to bid him adieu, and deliver Linton safely into his hands. Her hope was that Linton might be left with him, as he had been with her: his father, she would fain convince herself, had no desire to assume the burden of his maintenance or education. My master hesitated not a moment in complying with her request: reluctant as he was to leave home at ordinary calls, he flew to answer this; commanding Catherine to my peculiar vigilance, in his absence, with reiterated orders that she must not wander out of the park, even under my escort he did not calculate on her going unaccompanied.
He was away three weeks. The first day or two my charge sat in a corner of the library, too sad for either reading or playing: in that quiet state she caused me little trouble; but it was succeeded by an interval of impatient, fretful weariness; and being too busy, and too old then, to run up and down amusing her, I hit on a method by which she might entertain herself. I used to send her on her travels round the grounds—now on foot, and now on a pony; indulging her with a patient audience of all her real and imaginary adventures when she returned.
The summer shone in full prime; and she took such a taste for this solitary rambling that she often contrived to remain out from breakfast till tea; and then the evenings were spent in recounting her fanciful tales. I did not fear her breaking bounds; because the gates were generally looked, and I thought she would scarcely venture forth alone, if they had stood wide open. Unluckily, my confidence proved misplaced. Catherine came to me, one morning, at eight o'clock, and said she was that day an Arabian merchant, going to cross the Desert with his caravan; and I must give her plenty of provision for herself and beasts: a horse, and three camels, personated by a large hound and a couple of pointers. I got together good store of dainties, and slung them in a basket on one side of the saddle; and she sprang up as gay as a fairy, sheltered by her wide–brimmed hat and gauze veil from the July sun, and trotted off with a merry laugh, mocking my cautious counsel to avoid galloping, and come back early. The naughty thing never made her appearance at tea. One traveller, the hound, being an old dog and fond of its ease, returned; but neither Cathy, nor the pony, nor the two pointers were visible in any direction: I despatched emissaries down this path, and that path, and at last went wandering in search of her myself. There was a labourer working at a fence round a plantation, on the borders of the grounds. I inquired of him if he had seen our young lady.
"I saw her at morn," he replied: "she would have me to cut her a hazel switch, and then she leapt her Galloway over the hedge yonder, where it is lowest, and galloped out of sight."
You may guess how I felt at hearing this news. It struck me directly she must have started for Penistone Crags. "What will become of her?" I ejaculated, pushing through a gap which the man was repairing, and making straight to the high–road. I walked as if for a wager, mile after mile, till a turn brought me in view of the Heights; but no Catherine could I detect, far or near. The Crags lie about a mile and a half beyond Mr. Heathcliff's place, and that is four from the Grange, so I began to fear night would fall ere I could reach them. "And what if she should have slipped in clambering among them," I reflected, "and been killed, or broken some of her bones?" My suspense was truly painful; and, at first, it gave me delightful relief to observe, in hurrying by the farmhouse, Charlie, the fiercest of the pointers, lying under a window, with swelled head and bleeding ear. I opened the wicket and ran to the door, knocking vehemently for admittance. A woman whom I knew, and who formerly lived at Gimmerton, answered: she had been servant there since the death of Mr. Earnshaw.
"Ah," said she, "you are come a–seeking your little mistress! Don't be frightened. She's here safe: but I'm glad it isn't the master."
"He is not at home then, is he?" I panted, quite breathless with quick walking and alarm.
"No, no," she replied: "both he and Joseph are off, and I think they won't return this hour or more. Step in and rest you a bit."
I entered, and beheld my stray lamb seated on the hearth, rocking herself in a little chair that had been her mother's when a child. Her hat was hung against the wall, and she seemed perfectly at home, laughing and chattering, in the best spirits imaginable, to Hareton—now a great, strong lad of eighteen—who stared at her with considerable curiosity and astonishment: comprehending precious little of the fluent succession of remarks and questions which her tongue never ceased pouring forth.
"Very well, Miss!" I exclaimed, concealing my joy under an angry countenance. "This is your last ride, till papa comes back. I'll not trust you over the threshold again, you naughty, naughty girl!"
"Aha, Ellen!" she cried, gaily, jumping up and running to my side. "I shall have a pretty story to tell to–night; and so you've found me out. Have you ever been here in your life before?"
"Put that hat on, and home at once," said I. "I'm dreadfully grieved at you, Miss Cathy: you've done extremely wrong! It's no use pouting and crying: that won't repay the trouble I've had, scouring the country after you. To think how Mr. Linton charged me to keep you in; and you stealing off so! It shows you are a cunning little fox, and nobody will put faith in you any more."
"What have I done?" sobbed she, instantly checked. "Papa charged me nothing: he'll not scold me, Ellen—he's never cross, like you!"
"Come, come!" I repeated. "I'll tie the riband. Now, let us have no petulance. Oh, for shame! You thirteen years old, and such a baby!"
This exclamation was caused by her pushing the hat from her head, and retreating to the chimney out of my reach.
"Nay," said the servant, "don't be hard on the bonny lass, Mrs. Dean. We made her stop: she'd fain have ridden forwards, afeard you should be uneasy. Hareton offered to go with her, and I thought he should: it's a wild road over the hills."
Hareton, during the discussion, stood with his hands in his pockets, too awkward to speak; though he looked as if he did not relish my intrusion.
"How long am I to wait?" I continued, disregarding the woman's interference. "It will be dark in ten minutes. Where is the pony, Miss Cathy? And where is Phoenix? I shall leave you, unless you be quick; so please yourself."
"The pony is in the yard," she replied, "and Phoenix is shut in there. He's bitten—and so is Charlie. I was going to tell you all about it; but you are in a bad temper, and don't deserve to hear."
I picked up her hat, and approached to reinstate it; but perceiving that the people of the house took her part, she commenced capering round the room; and on my giving chase, ran like a mouse over and under and behind the furniture, rendering it ridiculous for me to pursue. Hareton and the woman laughed, and she joined them, and waxed more impertinent still; till I cried, in great irritation,—"Well, Miss Cathy, if you were aware whose house this is you'd be glad enough to get out."
"It's your father's, isn't it?" said she, turning to Hareton.
"Nay," he replied, looking down, and blushing bashfully.
He could not stand a steady gaze from her eyes, though they were just his own.
"Whose then—your master's?" she asked.
He coloured deeper, with a different feeling, muttered an oath, and turned away.
"Who is his master?" continued the tiresome girl, appealing to me. "He talked about "our house," and "our folk." I thought he had been the owner's son. And he never said Miss: he should have done, shouldn't he, if he's a servant?"
Hareton grew black as a thunder–cloud at this childish speech. I silently shook my questioner, and at last succeeded in equipping her for departure.
"Now, get my horse," she said, addressing her unknown kinsman as she would one of the stable–boys at the Grange. "And you may come with me. I want to see where the goblin–hunter rises in the marsh, and to hear about the fairishes, as you call them: but make haste! What's the matter? Get my horse, I say."
"I'll see thee damned before I be thy servant!" growled the lad.
"You'll see me what!" asked Catherine in surprise.
"Damned—thou saucy witch!" he replied.
"There, Miss Cathy! you see you have got into pretty company," I interposed. "Nice words to be used to a young lady! Pray don't begin to dispute with him. Come, let us seek for Minny ourselves, and begone."
"But, Ellen," cried she, staring fixed in astonishment, "how dare he speak so to me? Mustn't he be made to do as I ask him? You wicked creature, I shall tell papa what you said.—Now, then!"
Hareton did not appear to feel this threat; so the tears sprang into her eyes with indignation. "You bring the pony," she exclaimed, turning to the woman, "and let my dog free this moment!"
"Softly, Miss," answered she addressed: "you'll lose nothing by being civil. Though Mr. Hareton, there, be not the master's son, he's your cousin: and I was never hired to serve you."
"He my cousin!" cried Cathy, with a scornful laugh.
"Yes, indeed," responded her reprover.
"Oh, Ellen! don't let them say such things," she pursued in great trouble. "Papa is gone to fetch my cousin from London: my cousin is a gentleman's son. That my—" she stopped, and wept outright; upset at the bare notion of relationship with such a clown.
"Hush, hush!" I whispered; "people can have many cousins and of all sorts, Miss Cathy, without being any the worse for it; only they needn't keep their company, if they be disagreeable and bad."
"He's not—he's not my cousin, Ellen!" she went on, gathering fresh grief from reflection, and flinging herself into my arms for refuge from the idea.
I was much vexed at her and the servant for their mutual revelations; having no doubt of Linton's approaching arrival, communicated by the former, being reported to Mr. Heathcliff; and feeling as confident that Catherine's first thought on her father's return would be to seek an explanation of the latter's assertion concerning her rude–bred kindred. Hareton, recovering from his disgust at being taken for a servant, seemed moved by her distress; and, having fetched the pony round to the door, he took, to propitiate her, a fine crooked–legged terrier whelp from the kennel, and putting it into her hand, bid her whist! for he meant nought. Pausing in her lamentations, she surveyed him with a glance of awe and horror, then burst forth anew.
I could scarcely refrain from smiling at this antipathy to the poor fellow; who was a well–made, athletic youth, good–looking in features, and stout and healthy, but attired in garments befitting his daily occupations of working on the farm and lounging among the moors after rabbits and game. Still, I thought I could detect in his physiognomy a mind owning better qualities than his father ever possessed. Good things lost amid a wilderness of weeds, to be sure, whose rankness far over–topped their neglected growth; yet, notwithstanding, evidence of a wealthy soil, that might yield luxuriant crops under other and favourable circumstances. Mr. Heathcliff, I believe, had not treated him physically ill; thanks to his fearless nature, which offered no temptation to that course of oppression: he had none of the timid susceptibility that would have given zest to ill–treatment, in Heathcliff's judgment. He appeared to have bent his malevolence on making him a brute: he was never taught to read or write; never rebuked for any bad habit which did not annoy his keeper; never led a single step towards virtue, or guarded by a single precept against vice. And from what I heard, Joseph contributed much to his deterioration, by a narrow–minded partiality which prompted him to flatter and pet him, as a boy, because he was the head of the old family. And as he had been in the habit of accusing Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff, when children, of putting the master past his patience, and compelling him to seek solace in drink by what he termed their "offald ways," so at present he laid the whole burden of Hareton's faults on the shoulders of the usurper of his property. If the lad swore, he wouldn't correct him: nor however culpably he behaved. It gave Joseph satisfaction, apparently, to watch him go the worst lengths: he allowed that the lad was ruined: that his soul was abandoned to perdition; but then he reflected that Heathcliff must answer for it. Hareton's blood would be required at his hands; and there lay immense consolation in that thought. Joseph had instilled into him a pride of name, and of his lineage; he would, had he dared, have fostered hate between him and the present owner of the Heights: but his dread of that owner amounted to superstition; and he confined his feelings regarding him to muttered innuendoes and private comminations. I don't pretend to be intimately acquainted with the mode of living customary in those days at Wuthering Heights: I only speak from hearsay; for I saw little. The villagers affirmed Mr. Heathcliff was near, and a cruel hard landlord to his tenants; but the house, inside, had regained its ancient aspect of comfort under female management, and the scenes of riot common in Hindley's time were not now enacted within its walls. The master was too gloomy to seek companionship with any people, good or bad; and he is yet.
This, however, is not making progress with my story. Miss Cathy rejected the peace–offering of the terrier, and demanded her own dogs, Charlie and Phoenix. They came limping and hanging their heads; and we set out for home, sadly out of sorts, every one of us. I could not wring from my little lady how she had spent the day; except that, as I supposed, the goal of her pilgrimage was Penistone Crags; and she arrived without adventure to the gate of the farm–house, when Hareton happened to issue forth, attended by some canine followers, who attacked her train. They had a smart battle, before their owners could separate them: that formed an introduction. Catherine told Hareton who she was, and where she was going; and asked him to show her the way: finally, beguiling him to accompany her. He opened the mysteries of the Fairy Cave, and twenty other queer places. But, being in disgrace, I was not favoured with a description of the interesting objects she saw. I could gather, however, that her guide had been a favourite till she hurt his feelings by addressing him as a servant; and Heathcliff's housekeeper hurt hers by calling him her cousin. Then the language he had held to her rankled in her heart; she who was always "love," and "darling," and "queen," and "angel," with everybody at the Grange, to be insulted so shockingly by a stranger! She did not comprehend it; and hard work I had to obtain a promise that she would not lay the grievance before her father. I explained how he objected to the whole household at the Heights, and how sorry he would be to find she had been there; but I insisted most on the fact, that if she revealed my negligence of his orders, he would perhaps be so angry that I should have to leave; and Cathy couldn't bear that prospect: she pledged her word, and kept it for my sake. After all, she was a sweet little girl. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 24 | A letter, edged with black, announced the day of my master's return, Isabella was dead; and he wrote to bid me get mourning for his daughter, and arrange a room, and other accommodations, for his youthful nephew. Catherine ran wild with joy at the idea of welcoming her father back; and indulged most sanguine anticipations of the innumerable excellencies of her "real" cousin. The evening of their expected arrival came. Since early morning she had been busy ordering her own small affairs; and now attired in her new black frock—poor thing! her aunt's death impressed her with no definite sorrow—she obliged me, by constant worrying, to walk with her down through the grounds to meet them.
"Linton is just six months younger than I am," she chattered, as we strolled leisurely over the swells and hollows of mossy turf, under shadow of the trees. "How delightful it will be to have him for a playfellow! Aunt Isabella sent papa a beautiful lock of his hair; it was lighter than mine—more flaxen, and quite as fine. I have it carefully preserved in a little glass box; and I've often thought what a pleasure it would be to see its owner. Oh! I am happy—and papa, dear, dear papa! Come, Ellen, let us run! come, run."
She ran, and returned and ran again, many times before my sober footsteps reached the gate, and then she seated herself on the grassy bank beside the path, and tried to wait patiently; but that was impossible: she couldn't be still a minute.
"How long they are!" she exclaimed. "Ah, I see, some dust on the road—they are coming! No! When will they be here? May we not go a little way—half a mile, Ellen, only just half a mile? Do say Yes: to that clump of birches at the turn!"
I refused staunchly. At length her suspense was ended: the travelling carriage rolled in sight. Miss Cathy shrieked and stretched out her arms as soon as she caught her father's face looking from the window. He descended, nearly as eager as herself; and a considerable interval elapsed ere they had a thought to spare for any but themselves. While they exchanged caresses I took a peep in to see after Linton. He was asleep in a corner, wrapped in a warm, fur–lined cloak, as if it had been winter. A pale, delicate, effeminate boy, who might have been taken for my master's younger brother, so strong was the resemblance: but there was a sickly peevishness in his aspect that Edgar Linton never had. The latter saw me looking; and having shaken hands, advised me to close the door, and leave him undisturbed; for the journey had fatigued him. Cathy would fain have taken one glance, but her father told her to come, and they walked together up the park, while I hastened before to prepare the servants.
"Now, darling," said Mr. Linton, addressing his daughter, as they halted at the bottom of the front steps: "your cousin is not so strong or so merry as you are, and he has lost his mother, remember, a very short time since; therefore, don't expect him to play and run about with you directly. And don't harass him much by talking: let him be quiet this evening, at least, will you?"
"Yes, yes, papa," answered Catherine: "but I do want to see him; and he hasn't once looked out."
The carriage stopped; and the sleeper being roused, was lifted to the ground by his uncle.
"This is your cousin Cathy, Linton," he said, putting their little hands together. "She's fond of you already; and mind you don't grieve her by crying to–night. Try to be cheerful now; the travelling is at an end, and you have nothing to do but rest and amuse yourself as you please."
"Let me go to bed, then," answered the boy, shrinking from Catherine's salute; and he put his fingers to remove incipient tears.
"Come, come, there's a good child," I whispered, leading him in. "You'll make her weep too—see how sorry she is for you!"
I do not know whether it was sorrow for him, but his cousin put on as sad a countenance as himself, and returned to her father. All three entered, and mounted to the library, where tea was laid ready. I proceeded to remove Linton's cap and mantle, and placed him on a chair by the table; but he was no sooner seated than he began to cry afresh. My master inquired what was the matter.
"I can't sit on a chair," sobbed the boy.
"Go to the sofa, then, and Ellen shall bring you some tea," answered his uncle patiently.
He had been greatly tried, during the journey, I felt convinced, by his fretful ailing charge. Linton slowly trailed himself off, and lay down. Cathy carried a footstool and her cup to his side. At first she sat silent; but that could not last: she had resolved to make a pet of her little cousin, as she would have him to be; and she commenced stroking his curls, and kissing his cheek, and offering him tea in her saucer, like a baby. This pleased him, for he was not much better: he dried his eyes, and lightened into a faint smile.
"Oh, he'll do very well," said the master to me, after watching them a minute. "Very well, if we can keep him, Ellen. The company of a child of his own age will instil new spirit into him soon, and by wishing for strength he'll gain it."
"Ay, if we can keep him!" I mused to myself; and sore misgivings came over me that there was slight hope of that. And then, I thought, how ever will that weakling live at Wuthering Heights? Between his father and Hareton, what playmates and instructors they'll be. Our doubts were presently decided—even earlier than I expected. I had just taken the children up–stairs, after tea was finished, and seen Linton asleep—he would not suffer me to leave him till that was the case—I had come down, and was standing by the table in the hall, lighting a bedroom candle for Mr. Edgar, when a maid stepped out of the kitchen and informed me that Mr. Heathcliff's servant Joseph was at the door, and wished to speak with the master.
"I shall ask him what he wants first," I said, in considerable trepidation. "A very unlikely hour to be troubling people, and the instant they have returned from a long journey. I don't think the master can see him."
Joseph had advanced through the kitchen as I uttered these words, and now presented himself in the hall. He was donned in his Sunday garments, with his most sanctimonious and sourest face, and, holding his hat in one hand, and his stick in the other, he proceeded to clean his shoes on the mat.
"Good–evening, Joseph," I said, coldly. "What business brings you here to–night?"
"It's Maister Linton I mun spake to," he answered, waving me disdainfully aside.
"Mr. Linton is going to bed; unless you have something particular to say, I'm sure he won't hear it now," I continued. "You had better sit down in there, and entrust your message to me."
"Which is his rahm?" pursued the fellow, surveying the range of closed doors.
I perceived he was bent on refusing my mediation, so very reluctantly I went up to the library, and announced the unseasonable visitor, advising that he should be dismissed till next day. Mr. Linton had no time to empower me to do so, for Joseph mounted close at my heels, and, pushing into the apartment, planted himself at the far side of the table, with his two fists clapped on the head of his stick, and began in an elevated tone, as if anticipating opposition—
"Hathecliff has sent me for his lad, and I munn't goa back "bout him."
Edgar Linton was silent a minute; an expression of exceeding sorrow overcast his features: he would have pitied the child on his own account; but, recalling Isabella's hopes and fears, and anxious wishes for her son, and her commendations of him to his care, he grieved bitterly at the prospect of yielding him up, and searched in his heart how it might be avoided. No plan offered itself: the very exhibition of any desire to keep him would have rendered the claimant more peremptory: there was nothing left but to resign him. However, he was not going to rouse him from his sleep.
"Tell Mr. Heathcliff," he answered calmly, "that his son shall come to Wuthering Heights to–morrow. He is in bed, and too tired to go the distance now. You may also tell him that the mother of Linton desired him to remain under my guardianship; and, at present, his health is very precarious."
"Noa!" said Joseph, giving a thud with his prop on the floor, and assuming an authoritative air. "Noa! that means naught. Hathecliff maks noa "count o" t" mother, nor ye norther; but he'll heu' his lad; und I mun tak' him—soa now ye knaw!'
"You shall not to–night!" answered Linton decisively. "Walk down stairs at once, and repeat to your master what I have said. Ellen, show him down. Go—"
And, aiding the indignant elder with a lift by the arm, he rid the room of him and closed the door.
"Varrah weell!" shouted Joseph, as he slowly drew off. "To–morn, he's come hisseln, and thrust him out, if ye darr!" |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 25 | To obviate the danger of this threat being fulfilled, Mr. Linton commissioned me to take the boy home early, on Catherine's pony; and, said he—"As we shall now have no influence over his destiny, good or bad, you must say nothing of where he is gone to my daughter: she cannot associate with him hereafter, and it is better for her to remain in ignorance of his proximity; lest she should be restless, and anxious to visit the Heights. Merely tell her his father sent for him suddenly, and he has been obliged to leave us."
Linton was very reluctant to be roused from his bed at five o'clock, and astonished to be informed that he must prepare for further travelling; but I softened off the matter by stating that he was going to spend some time with his father, Mr. Heathcliff, who wished to see him so much, he did not like to defer the pleasure till he should recover from his late journey.
"My father!" he cried, in strange perplexity. "Mamma never told me I had a father. Where does he live? I'd rather stay with uncle."
"He lives a little distance from the Grange," I replied; "just beyond those hills: not so far, but you may walk over here when you get hearty. And you should be glad to go home, and to see him. You must try to love him, as you did your mother, and then he will love you."
"But why have I not heard of him before?" asked Linton. "Why didn't mamma and he live together, as other people do?"
"He had business to keep him in the north," I answered, "and your mother's health required her to reside in the south."
"And why didn't mamma speak to me about him?" persevered the child. "She often talked of uncle, and I learnt to love him long ago. How am I to love papa? I don't know him."
"Oh, all children love their parents," I said. "Your mother, perhaps, thought you would want to be with him if she mentioned him often to you. Let us make haste. An early ride on such a beautiful morning is much preferable to an hour's more sleep."
"Is she to go with us," he demanded, "the little girl I saw yesterday?"
"Not now," replied I.
"Is uncle?" he continued.
"No, I shall be your companion there," I said.
Linton sank back on his pillow and fell into a brown study.
"I won't go without uncle," he cried at length: "I can't tell where you mean to take me."
I attempted to persuade him of the naughtiness of showing reluctance to meet his father; still he obstinately resisted any progress towards dressing, and I had to call for my master's assistance in coaxing him out of bed. The poor thing was finally got off, with several delusive assurances that his absence should be short: that Mr. Edgar and Cathy would visit him, and other promises, equally ill–founded, which I invented and reiterated at intervals throughout the way. The pure heather–scented air, the bright sunshine, and the gentle canter of Minny, relieved his despondency after a while. He began to put questions concerning his new home, and its inhabitants, with greater interest and liveliness.
"Is Wuthering Heights as pleasant a place as Thrushcross Grange?" he inquired, turning to take a last glance into the valley, whence a light mist mounted and formed a fleecy cloud on the skirts of the blue.
"It is not so buried in trees," I replied, "and it is not quite so large, but you can see the country beautifully all round; and the air is healthier for you—fresher and drier. You will, perhaps, think the building old and dark at first; though it is a respectable house: the next best in the neighbourhood. And you will have such nice rambles on the moors. Hareton Earnshaw—that is, Miss Cathy's other cousin, and so yours in a manner—will show you all the sweetest spots; and you can bring a book in fine weather, and make a green hollow your study; and, now and then, your uncle may join you in a walk: he does, frequently, walk out on the hills."
"And what is my father like?" he asked. "Is he as young and handsome as uncle?"
"He's as young," said I; "but he has black hair and eyes, and looks sterner; and he is taller and bigger altogether. He'll not seem to you so gentle and kind at first, perhaps, because it is not his way: still, mind you, be frank and cordial with him; and naturally he'll be fonder of you than any uncle, for you are his own."
"Black hair and eyes!" mused Linton. "I can't fancy him. Then I am not like him, am I?"
"Not much," I answered: not a morsel, I thought, surveying with regret the white complexion and slim frame of my companion, and his large languid eyes—his mother's eyes, save that, unless a morbid touchiness kindled them a moment, they had not a vestige of her sparkling spirit.
"How strange that he should never come to see mamma and me!" he murmured. "Has he ever seen me? If he has, I must have been a baby. I remember not a single thing about him!"
"Why, Master Linton," said I, "three hundred miles is a great distance; and ten years seem very different in length to a grown–up person compared with what they do to you. It is probable Mr. Heathcliff proposed going from summer to summer, but never found a convenient opportunity; and now it is too late. Don't trouble him with questions on the subject: it will disturb him, for no good."
The boy was fully occupied with his own cogitations for the remainder of the ride, till we halted before the farmhouse garden–gate. I watched to catch his impressions in his countenance. He surveyed the carved front and low–browed lattices, the straggling gooseberry–bushes and crooked firs, with solemn intentness, and then shook his head: his private feelings entirely disapproved of the exterior of his new abode. But he had sense to postpone complaining: there might be compensation within. Before he dismounted, I went and opened the door. It was half–past six; the family had just finished breakfast: the servant was clearing and wiping down the table. Joseph stood by his master's chair telling some tale concerning a lame horse; and Hareton was preparing for the hayfield.
"Hallo, Nelly!" said Mr. Heathcliff, when he saw me. "I feared I should have to come down and fetch my property myself. You've brought it, have you? Let us see what we can make of it."
He got up and strode to the door: Hareton and Joseph followed in gaping curiosity. Poor Linton ran a frightened eye over the faces of the three.
"Sure–ly," said Joseph after a grave inspection, "he's swopped wi" ye, Maister, an' yon's his lass!'
Heathcliff, having stared his son into an ague of confusion, uttered a scornful laugh.
"God! what a beauty! what a lovely, charming thing!" he exclaimed. "Hav'n't they reared it on snails and sour milk, Nelly? Oh, damn my soul! but that's worse than I expected—and the devil knows I was not sanguine!"
I bid the trembling and bewildered child get down, and enter. He did not thoroughly comprehend the meaning of his father's speech, or whether it were intended for him: indeed, he was not yet certain that the grim, sneering stranger was his father. But he clung to me with growing trepidation; and on Mr. Heathcliff's taking a seat and bidding him "come hither" he hid his face on my shoulder and wept.
"Tut, tut!" said Heathcliff, stretching out a hand and dragging him roughly between his knees, and then holding up his head by the chin. "None of that nonsense! We're not going to hurt thee, Linton—isn't that thy name? Thou art thy mother's child, entirely! Where is my share in thee, puling chicken?"
He took off the boy's cap and pushed back his thick flaxen curls, felt his slender arms and his small fingers; during which examination Linton ceased crying, and lifted his great blue eyes to inspect the inspector.
"Do you know me?" asked Heathcliff, having satisfied himself that the limbs were all equally frail and feeble.
"No," said Linton, with a gaze of vacant fear.
"You've heard of me, I daresay?"
"No," he replied again.
"No! What a shame of your mother, never to waken your filial regard for me! You are my son, then, I'll tell you; and your mother was a wicked slut to leave you in ignorance of the sort of father you possessed. Now, don't wince, and colour up! Though it is something to see you have not white blood. Be a good lad; and I'll do for you. Nelly, if you be tired you may sit down; if not, get home again. I guess you'll report what you hear and see to the cipher at the Grange; and this thing won't be settled while you linger about it."
"Well," replied I, "I hope you'll be kind to the boy, Mr. Heathcliff, or you'll not keep him long; and he's all you have akin in the wide world, that you will ever know—remember."
"I'll be very kind to him, you needn't fear," he said, laughing. "Only nobody else must be kind to him: I'm jealous of monopolising his affection. And, to begin my kindness, Joseph, bring the lad some breakfast. Hareton, you infernal calf, begone to your work. Yes, Nell," he added, when they had departed, "my son is prospective owner of your place, and I should not wish him to die till I was certain of being his successor. Besides, he's mine, and I want the triumph of seeing my descendant fairly lord of their estates; my child hiring their children to till their fathers" lands for wages. That is the sole consideration which can make me endure the whelp: I despise him for himself, and hate him for the memories he revives! But that consideration is sufficient: he's as safe with me, and shall be tended as carefully as your master tends his own. I have a room up–stairs, furnished for him in handsome style; I've engaged a tutor, also, to come three times a week, from twenty miles' distance, to teach him what he pleases to learn. I've ordered Hareton to obey him: and in fact I've arranged everything with a view to preserve the superior and the gentleman in him, above his associates. I do regret, however, that he so little deserves the trouble: if I wished any blessing in the world, it was to find him a worthy object of pride; and I'm bitterly disappointed with the whey–faced, whining wretch!'
While he was speaking, Joseph returned bearing a basin of milk–porridge, and placed it before Linton: who stirred round the homely mess with a look of aversion, and affirmed he could not eat it. I saw the old man–servant shared largely in his master's scorn of the child; though he was compelled to retain the sentiment in his heart, because Heathcliff plainly meant his underlings to hold him in honour.
"Cannot ate it?" repeated he, peering in Linton's face, and subduing his voice to a whisper, for fear of being overheard. "But Maister Hareton nivir ate naught else, when he wer a little "un; and what wer gooid enough for him's gooid enough for ye, I's rayther think!"
"I sha'n't eat it!" answered Linton, snappishly. "Take it away."
Joseph snatched up the food indignantly, and brought it to us.
"Is there aught ails th" victuals?' he asked, thrusting the tray under Heathcliff's nose.
"What should ail them?" he said.
"Wah!" answered Joseph, "yon dainty chap says he cannut ate "em. But I guess it's raight! His mother wer just soa—we wer a'most too mucky to sow t" corn for makking her breead."
"Don't mention his mother to me," said the master, angrily. "Get him something that he can eat, that's all. What is his usual food, Nelly?"
I suggested boiled milk or tea; and the housekeeper received instructions to prepare some. Come, I reflected, his father's selfishness may contribute to his comfort. He perceives his delicate constitution, and the necessity of treating him tolerably. I'll console Mr. Edgar by acquainting him with the turn Heathcliff's humour has taken. Having no excuse for lingering longer, I slipped out, while Linton was engaged in timidly rebuffing the advances of a friendly sheep–dog. But he was too much on the alert to be cheated: as I closed the door, I heard a cry, and a frantic repetition of the words—
"Don't leave me! I'll not stay here! I'll not stay here!"
Then the latch was raised and fell: they did not suffer him to come forth. I mounted Minny, and urged her to a trot; and so my brief guardianship ended. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 26 | We had sad work with little Cathy that day: she rose in high glee, eager to join her cousin, and such passionate tears and lamentations followed the news of his departure that Edgar himself was obliged to soothe her, by affirming he should come back soon: he added, however, "if I can get him"; and there were no hopes of that. This promise poorly pacified her; but time was more potent; and though still at intervals she inquired of her father when Linton would return, before she did see him again his features had waxed so dim in her memory that she did not recognise him.
When I chanced to encounter the housekeeper of Wuthering Heights, in paying business visits to Gimmerton, I used to ask how the young master got on; for he lived almost as secluded as Catherine herself, and was never to be seen. I could gather from her that he continued in weak health, and was a tiresome inmate. She said Mr. Heathcliff seemed to dislike him ever longer and worse, though he took some trouble to conceal it: he had an antipathy to the sound of his voice, and could not do at all with his sitting in the same room with him many minutes together. There seldom passed much talk between them: Linton learnt his lessons and spent his evenings in a small apartment they called the parlour: or else lay in bed all day: for he was constantly getting coughs, and colds, and aches, and pains of some sort.
"And I never know such a fainthearted creature," added the woman; "nor one so careful of hisseln. He will go on, if I leave the window open a bit late in the evening. Oh! it's killing, a breath of night air! And he must have a fire in the middle of summer; and Joseph's bacca–pipe is poison; and he must always have sweets and dainties, and always milk, milk for ever—heeding naught how the rest of us are pinched in winter; and there he'll sit, wrapped in his furred cloak in his chair by the fire, with some toast and water or other slop on the hob to sip at; and if Hareton, for pity, comes to amuse him—Hareton is not bad–natured, though he's rough—they're sure to part, one swearing and the other crying. I believe the master would relish Earnshaw's thrashing him to a mummy, if he were not his son; and I'm certain he would be fit to turn him out of doors, if he knew half the nursing he gives hisseln. But then he won't go into danger of temptation: he never enters the parlour, and should Linton show those ways in the house where he is, he sends him up–stairs directly."
I divined, from this account, that utter lack of sympathy had rendered young Heathcliff selfish and disagreeable, if he were not so originally; and my interest in him, consequently, decayed: though still I was moved with a sense of grief at his lot, and a wish that he had been left with us. Mr. Edgar encouraged me to gain information: he thought a great deal about him, I fancy, and would have run some risk to see him; and he told me once to ask the housekeeper whether he ever came into the village? She said he had only been twice, on horseback, accompanying his father; and both times he pretended to be quite knocked up for three or four days afterwards. That housekeeper left, if I recollect rightly, two years after he came; and another, whom I did not know, was her successor; she lives there still.
Time wore on at the Grange in its former pleasant way till Miss Cathy reached sixteen. On the anniversary of her birth we never manifested any signs of rejoicing, because it was also the anniversary of my late mistress's death. Her father invariably spent that day alone in the library; and walked, at dusk, as far as Gimmerton kirkyard, where he would frequently prolong his stay beyond midnight. Therefore Catherine was thrown on her own resources for amusement. This twentieth of March was a beautiful spring day, and when her father had retired, my young lady came down dressed for going out, and said she asked to have a ramble on the edge of the moor with me: Mr. Linton had given her leave, if we went only a short distance and were back within the hour.
"So make haste, Ellen!" she cried. "I know where I wish to go; where a colony of moor–game are settled: I want to see whether they have made their nests yet."
"That must be a good distance up," I answered; "they don't breed on the edge of the moor."
"No, it's not," she said. "I've gone very near with papa."
I put on my bonnet and sallied out, thinking nothing more of the matter. She bounded before me, and returned to my side, and was off again like a young greyhound; and, at first, I found plenty of entertainment in listening to the larks singing far and near, and enjoying the sweet, warm sunshine; and watching her, my pet and my delight, with her golden ringlets flying loose behind, and her bright cheek, as soft and pure in its bloom as a wild rose, and her eyes radiant with cloudless pleasure. She was a happy creature, and an angel, in those days. It's a pity she could not be content.
"Well," said I, "where are your moor–game, Miss Cathy? We should be at them: the Grange park–fence is a great way off now."
"Oh, a little further—only a little further, Ellen," was her answer, continually. "Climb to that hillock, pass that bank, and by the time you reach the other side I shall have raised the birds."
But there were so many hillocks and banks to climb and pass, that, at length, I began to be weary, and told her we must halt, and retrace our steps. I shouted to her, as she had outstripped me a long way; she either did not hear or did not regard, for she still sprang on, and I was compelled to follow. Finally, she dived into a hollow; and before I came in sight of her again, she was two miles nearer Wuthering Heights than her own home; and I beheld a couple of persons arrest her, one of whom I felt convinced was Mr. Heathcliff himself.
Cathy had been caught in the fact of plundering, or, at least, hunting out the nests of the grouse. The Heights were Heathcliff's land, and he was reproving the poacher.
"I've neither taken any nor found any," she said, as I toiled to them, expanding her hands in corroboration of the statement. "I didn't mean to take them; but papa told me there were quantities up here, and I wished to see the eggs."
Heathcliff glanced at me with an ill–meaning smile, expressing his acquaintance with the party, and, consequently, his malevolence towards it, and demanded who "papa" was?
"Mr. Linton of Thrushcross Grange," she replied. "I thought you did not know me, or you wouldn't have spoken in that way."
"You suppose papa is highly esteemed and respected, then?" he said, sarcastically.
"And what are you?" inquired Catherine, gazing curiously on the speaker. "That man I've seen before. Is he your son?"
She pointed to Hareton, the other individual, who had gained nothing but increased bulk and strength by the addition of two years to his age: he seemed as awkward and rough as ever.
"Miss Cathy," I interrupted, "it will be three hours instead of one that we are out, presently. We really must go back."
"No, that man is not my son," answered Heathcliff, pushing me aside. "But I have one, and you have seen him before too; and, though your nurse is in a hurry, I think both you and she would be the better for a little rest. Will you just turn this nab of heath, and walk into my house? You'll get home earlier for the ease; and you shall receive a kind welcome."
I whispered Catherine that she mustn't, on any account, accede to the proposal: it was entirely out of the question.
"Why?" she asked, aloud. "I'm tired of running, and the ground is dewy: I can't sit here. Let us go, Ellen. Besides, he says I have seen his son. He's mistaken, I think; but I guess where he lives: at the farmhouse I visited in coming from Penistone" Crags. Don't you?'
"I do. Come, Nelly, hold your tongue—it will he a treat for her to look in on us. Hareton, get forwards with the lass. You shall walk with me, Nelly."
"No, she's not going to any such place," I cried, struggling to release my arm, which he had seized: but she was almost at the door–stones already, scampering round the brow at full speed. Her appointed companion did not pretend to escort her: he shied off by the road–side, and vanished.
"Mr. Heathcliff, it's very wrong," I continued: "you know you mean no good. And there she'll see Linton, and all will be told as soon as ever we return; and I shall have the blame."
"I want her to see Linton," he answered; "he's looking better these few days; it's not often he's fit to be seen. And we'll soon persuade her to keep the visit secret: where is the harm of it?"
"The harm of it is, that her father would hate me if he found I suffered her to enter your house; and I am convinced you have a bad design in encouraging her to do so," I replied.
"My design is as honest as possible. I'll inform you of its whole scope," he said. "That the two cousins may fall in love, and get married. I'm acting generously to your master: his young chit has no expectations, and should she second my wishes she'll be provided for at once as joint successor with Linton."
"If Linton died," I answered, "and his life is quite uncertain, Catherine would be the heir."
"No, she would not," he said. "There is no clause in the will to secure it so: his property would go to me; but, to prevent disputes, I desire their union, and am resolved to bring it about."
"And I'm resolved she shall never approach your house with me again," I returned, as we reached the gate, where Miss Cathy waited our coming.
Heathcliff bade me be quiet; and, preceding us up the path, hastened to open the door. My young lady gave him several looks, as if she could not exactly make up her mind what to think of him; but now he smiled when he met her eye, and softened his voice in addressing her; and I was foolish enough to imagine the memory of her mother might disarm him from desiring her injury. Linton stood on the hearth. He had been out walking in the fields, for his cap was on, and he was calling to Joseph to bring him dry shoes. He had grown tall of his age, still wanting some months of sixteen. His features were pretty yet, and his eye and complexion brighter than I remembered them, though with merely temporary lustre borrowed from the salubrious air and genial sun.
"Now, who is that?" asked Mr. Heathcliff, turning to Cathy. "Can you tell?"
"Your son?" she said, having doubtfully surveyed, first one and then the other.
"Yes, yes," answered he: "but is this the only time you have beheld him? Think! Ah! you have a short memory. Linton, don't you recall your cousin, that you used to tease us so with wishing to see?"
"What, Linton!" cried Cathy, kindling into joyful surprise at the name. "Is that little Linton? He's taller than I am! Are you Linton?"
The youth stepped forward, and acknowledged himself: she kissed him fervently, and they gazed with wonder at the change time had wrought in the appearance of each. Catherine had reached her full height; her figure was both plump and slender, elastic as steel, and her whole aspect sparkling with health and spirits. Linton's looks and movements were very languid, and his form extremely slight; but there was a grace in his manner that mitigated these defects, and rendered him not unpleasing. After exchanging numerous marks of fondness with him, his cousin went to Mr. Heathcliff, who lingered by the door, dividing his attention between the objects inside and those that lay without: pretending, that is, to observe the latter, and really noting the former alone.
"And you are my uncle, then!" she cried, reaching up to salute him. "I thought I liked you, though you were cross at first. Why don't you visit at the Grange with Linton? To live all these years such close neighbours, and never see us, is odd: what have you done so for?"
"I visited it once or twice too often before you were born," he answered. "There—damn it! If you have any kisses to spare, give them to Linton: they are thrown away on me."
"Naughty Ellen!" exclaimed Catherine, flying to attack me next with her lavish caresses. "Wicked Ellen! to try to hinder me from entering. But I'll take this walk every morning in future: may I, uncle? and sometimes bring papa. Won't you be glad to see us?"
"Of course," replied the uncle, with a hardly suppressed grimace, resulting from his deep aversion to both the proposed visitors. "But stay," he continued, turning towards the young lady. "Now I think of it, I'd better tell you. Mr. Linton has a prejudice against me: we quarrelled at one time of our lives, with unchristian ferocity; and, if you mention coming here to him, he'll put a veto on your visits altogether. Therefore, you must not mention it, unless you be careless of seeing your cousin hereafter: you may come, if you will, but you must not mention it."
"Why did you quarrel?" asked Catherine, considerably crestfallen.
"He thought me too poor to wed his sister," answered Heathcliff, "and was grieved that I got her: his pride was hurt, and he'll never forgive it."
"That's wrong!" said the young lady: "some time I'll tell him so. But Linton and I have no share in your quarrel. I'll not come here, then; he shall come to the Grange."
"It will be too far for me," murmured her cousin: "to walk four miles would kill me. No, come here, Miss Catherine, now and then: not every morning, but once or twice a week."
The father launched towards his son a glance of bitter contempt.
"I am afraid, Nelly, I shall lose my labour," he muttered to me. "Miss Catherine, as the ninny calls her, will discover his value, and send him to the devil. Now, if it had been Hareton!—Do you know that, twenty times a day, I covet Hareton, with all his degradation? I'd have loved the lad had he been some one else. But I think he's safe from her love. I'll pit him against that paltry creature, unless it bestir itself briskly. We calculate it will scarcely last till it is eighteen. Oh, confound the vapid thing! He's absorbed in drying his feet, and never looks at her.—Linton!"
"Yes, father," answered the boy.
"Have you nothing to show your cousin anywhere about, not even a rabbit or a weasel's nest? Take her into the garden, before you change your shoes; and into the stable to see your horse."
"Wouldn't you rather sit here?" asked Linton, addressing Cathy in a tone which expressed reluctance to move again.
"I don't know," she replied, casting a longing look to the door, and evidently eager to be active.
He kept his seat, and shrank closer to the fire. Heathcliff rose, and went into the kitchen, and from thence to the yard, calling out for Hareton. Hareton responded, and presently the two re–entered. The young man had been washing himself, as was visible by the glow on his cheeks and his wetted hair.
"Oh, I'll ask you, uncle," cried Miss Cathy, recollecting the housekeeper's assertion. "That is not my cousin, is he?"
"Yes," he, replied, "your mother's nephew. Don't you like him!"
Catherine looked queer.
"Is he not a handsome lad?" he continued.
The uncivil little thing stood on tiptoe, and whispered a sentence in Heathcliff's ear. He laughed; Hareton darkened: I perceived he was very sensitive to suspected slights, and had obviously a dim notion of his inferiority. But his master or guardian chased the frown by exclaiming—
"You'll be the favourite among us, Hareton! She says you are a—What was it? Well, something very flattering. Here! you go with her round the farm. And behave like a gentleman, mind! Don't use any bad words; and don't stare when the young lady is not looking at you, and be ready to hide your face when she is; and, when you speak, say your words slowly, and keep your hands out of your pockets. Be off, and entertain her as nicely as you can."
He watched the couple walking past the window. Earnshaw had his countenance completely averted from his companion. He seemed studying the familiar landscape with a stranger's and an artist's interest. Catherine took a sly look at him, expressing small admiration. She then turned her attention to seeking out objects of amusement for herself, and tripped merrily on, lilting a tune to supply the lack of conversation.
"I've tied his tongue," observed Heathcliff. "He'll not venture a single syllable all the time! Nelly, you recollect meat his age—nay, some years younger. Did I ever look so stupid: so "gaumless," as Joseph calls it?"
"Worse," I replied, "because more sullen with it."
"I've a pleasure in him," he continued, reflecting aloud. "He has satisfied my expectations. If he were a born fool I should not enjoy it half so much. But he's no fool; and I can sympathise with all his feelings, having felt them myself. I know what he suffers now, for instance, exactly: it is merely a beginning of what he shall suffer, though. And he'll never be able to emerge from his bathos of coarseness and ignorance. I've got him faster than his scoundrel of a father secured me, and lower; for he takes a pride in his brutishness. I've taught him to scorn everything extra–animal as silly and weak. Don't you think Hindley would be proud of his son, if he could see him? almost as proud as I am of mine. But there's this difference; one is gold put to the use of paving–stones, and the other is tin polished to ape a service of silver. Mine has nothing valuable about it; yet I shall have the merit of making it go as far as such poor stuff can go. His had first–rate qualities, and they are lost: rendered worse than unavailing. I have nothing to regret; he would have more than any but I are aware of. And the best of it is, Hareton is damnably fond of me! You'll own that I've outmatched Hindley there. If the dead villain could rise from his grave to abuse me for his offspring's wrongs, I should have the fun of seeing the said offspring fight him back again, indignant that he should dare to rail at the one friend he has in the world!"
Heathcliff chuckled a fiendish laugh at the idea. I made no reply, because I saw that he expected none. Meantime, our young companion, who sat too removed from us to hear what was said, began to evince symptoms of uneasiness, probably repenting that he had denied himself the treat of Catherine's society for fear of a little fatigue. His father remarked the restless glances wandering to the window, and the hand irresolutely extended towards his cap.
"Get up, you idle boy!" he exclaimed, with assumed heartiness.
"Away after them! they are just at the corner, by the stand of hives."
Linton gathered his energies, and left the hearth. The lattice was open, and, as he stepped out, I heard Cathy inquiring of her unsociable attendant what was that inscription over the door? Hareton stared up, and scratched his head like a true clown.
"It's some damnable writing," he answered. "I cannot read it."
"Can't read it?" cried Catherine; "I can read it: it's English. But I want to know why it is there."
Linton giggled: the first appearance of mirth he had exhibited.
"He does not know his letters," he said to his cousin. "Could you believe in the existence of such a colossal dunce?"
"Is he all as he should be?" asked Miss Cathy, seriously; "or is he simple: not right? I've questioned him twice now, and each time he looked so stupid I think he does not understand me. I can hardly understand him, I'm sure!"
Linton repeated his laugh, and glanced at Hareton tauntingly; who certainly did not seem quite clear of comprehension at that moment.
"There's nothing the matter but laziness; is there, Earnshaw?" he said. "My cousin fancies you are an idiot. There you experience the consequence of scorning "book–larning," as you would say. Have you noticed, Catherine, his frightful Yorkshire pronunciation?"
"Why, where the devil is the use on't?" growled Hareton, more ready in answering his daily companion. He was about to enlarge further, but the two youngsters broke into a noisy fit of merriment: my giddy miss being delighted to discover that she might turn his strange talk to matter of amusement.
"Where is the use of the devil in that sentence?" tittered Linton. "Papa told you not to say any bad words, and you can't open your mouth without one. Do try to behave like a gentleman, now do!"
"If thou weren't more a lass than a lad, I'd fell thee this minute, I would; pitiful lath of a crater!" retorted the angry boor, retreating, while his face burnt with mingled rage and mortification! for he was conscious of being insulted, and embarrassed how to resent it.
Mr. Heathcliff having overheard the conversation, as well as I, smiled when he saw him go; but immediately afterwards cast a look of singular aversion on the flippant pair, who remained chattering in the door–way: the boy finding animation enough while discussing Hareton's faults and deficiencies, and relating anecdotes of his goings on; and the girl relishing his pert and spiteful sayings, without considering the ill–nature they evinced. I began to dislike, more than to compassionate Linton, and to excuse his father in some measure for holding him cheap.
We stayed till afternoon: I could not tear Miss Cathy away sooner; but happily my master had not quitted his apartment, and remained ignorant of our prolonged absence. As we walked home, I would fain have enlightened my charge on the characters of the people we had quitted: but she got it into her head that I was prejudiced against them.
"Aha!" she cried, "you take papa's side, Ellen: you are partial I know; or else you wouldn't have cheated me so many years into the notion that Linton lived a long way from here. I'm really extremely angry; only I'm so pleased I can't show it! But you must hold your tongue about my uncle; he's my uncle, remember; and I'll scold papa for quarrelling with him."
And so she ran on, till I relinquished the endeavour to convince her of her mistake. She did not mention the visit that night, because she did not see Mr. Linton. Next day it all came out, sadly to my chagrin; and still I was not altogether sorry: I thought the burden of directing and warning would be more efficiently borne by him than me. But he was too timid in giving satisfactory reasons for his wish that she should shun connection with the household of the Heights, and Catherine liked good reasons for every restraint that harassed her petted will.
"Papa!" she exclaimed, after the morning's salutations, "guess whom I saw yesterday, in my walk on the moors. Ah, papa, you started! you've not done right, have you, now? I saw—but listen, and you shall hear how I found you out; and Ellen, who is in league with you, and yet pretended to pity me so, when I kept hoping, and was always disappointed about Linton's coming back!"
She gave a faithful account of her excursion and its consequences; and my master, though he cast more than one reproachful look at me, said nothing till she had concluded. Then he drew her to him, and asked if she knew why he had concealed Linton's near neighbourhood from her? Could she think it was to deny her a pleasure that she might harmlessly enjoy?
"It was because you disliked Mr. Heathcliff," she answered.
"Then you believe I care more for my own feelings than yours, Cathy?" he said. "No, it was not because I disliked Mr. Heathcliff, but because Mr. Heathcliff dislikes me; and is a most diabolical man, delighting to wrong and ruin those he hates, if they give him the slightest opportunity. I knew that you could not keep up an acquaintance with your cousin without being brought into contact with him; and I knew he would detest you on my account; so for your own good, and nothing else, I took precautions that you should not see Linton again. I meant to explain this some time as you grew older, and I'm sorry I delayed it."
"But Mr. Heathcliff was quite cordial, papa," observed Catherine, not at all convinced; "and he didn't object to our seeing each other: he said I might come to his house when I pleased; only I must not tell you, because you had quarrelled with him, and would not forgive him for marrying aunt Isabella. And you won't. You are the one to be blamed: he is willing to let us be friends, at least; Linton and I; and you are not."
My master, perceiving that she would not take his word for her uncle–in–law's evil disposition, gave a hasty sketch of his conduct to Isabella, and the manner in which Wuthering Heights became his property. He could not bear to discourse long upon the topic; for though he spoke little of it, he still felt the same horror and detestation of his ancient enemy that had occupied his heart ever since Mrs. Linton's death. "She might have been living yet, if it had not been for him!" was his constant bitter reflection; and, in his eyes, Heathcliff seemed a murderer. Miss Cathy—conversant with no bad deeds except her own slight acts of disobedience, injustice, and passion, arising from hot temper and thoughtlessness, and repented of on the day they were committed—was amazed at the blackness of spirit that could brood on and cover revenge for years, and deliberately prosecute its plans without a visitation of remorse. She appeared so deeply impressed and shocked at this new view of human nature—excluded from all her studies and all her ideas till now—that Mr. Edgar deemed it unnecessary to pursue the subject. He merely added: "You will know hereafter, darling, why I wish you to avoid his house and family; now return to your old employments and amusements, and think no more about them."
Catherine kissed her father, and sat down quietly to her lessons for a couple of hours, according to custom; then she accompanied him into the grounds, and the whole day passed as usual: but in the evening, when she had retired to her room, and I went to help her to undress, I found her crying, on her knees by the bedside.
"Oh, fie, silly child!" I exclaimed. "If you had any real griefs you'd be ashamed to waste a tear on this little contrariety. You never had one shadow of substantial sorrow, Miss Catherine. Suppose, for a minute, that master and I were dead, and you were by yourself in the world: how would you feel, then? Compare the present occasion with such an affliction as that, and be thankful for the friends you have, instead of coveting more."
"I'm not crying for myself, Ellen," she answered, "it's for him. He expected to see me again to–morrow, and there he'll be so disappointed: and he'll wait for me, and I sha'n't come!"
"Nonsense!" said I, "do you imagine he has thought as much of you as you have of him? Hasn't he Hareton for a companion? Not one in a hundred would weep at losing a relation they had just seen twice, for two afternoons. Linton will conjecture how it is, and trouble himself no further about you."
"But may I not write a note to tell him why I cannot come?" she asked, rising to her feet. "And just send those books I promised to lend him? His books are not as nice as mine, and he wanted to have them extremely, when I told him how interesting they were. May I not, Ellen?"
"No, indeed! no, indeed!" replied I with decision. "Then he would write to you, and there'd never be an end of it. No, Miss Catherine, the acquaintance must be dropped entirely: so papa expects, and I shall see that it is done."
"But how can one little note—?" she recommenced, putting on an imploring countenance.
"Silence!" I interrupted. "We'll not begin with your little notes. Get into bed."
She threw at me a very naughty look, so naughty that I would not kiss her good–night at first: I covered her up, and shut her door, in great displeasure; but, repenting half–way, I returned softly, and lo! there was Miss standing at the table with a bit of blank paper before her and a pencil in her hand, which she guiltily slipped out of sight on my entrance.
"You'll get nobody to take that, Catherine," I said, "if you write it; and at present I shall put out your candle."
I set the extinguisher on the flame, receiving as I did so a slap on my hand and a petulant "cross thing!" I then quitted her again, and she drew the bolt in one of her worst, most peevish humours. The letter was finished and forwarded to its destination by a milk–fetcher who came from the village; but that I didn't learn till some time afterwards. Weeks passed on, and Cathy recovered her temper; though she grew wondrous fond of stealing off to corners by herself and often, if I came near her suddenly while reading, she would start and bend over the book, evidently desirous to hide it; and I detected edges of loose paper sticking out beyond the leaves. She also got a trick of coming down early in the morning and lingering about the kitchen, as if she were expecting the arrival of something; and she had a small drawer in a cabinet in the library, which she would trifle over for hours, and whose key she took special care to remove when she left it.
One day, as she inspected this drawer, I observed that the playthings and trinkets which recently formed its contents were transmuted into bits of folded paper. My curiosity and suspicions were roused; I determined to take a peep at her mysterious treasures; so, at night, as soon as she and my master were safe upstairs, I searched, and readily found among my house keys one that would fit the lock. Having opened, I emptied the whole contents into my apron, and took them with me to examine at leisure in my own chamber. Though I could not but suspect, I was still surprised to discover that they were a mass of correspondence—daily almost, it must have been—from Linton Heathcliff: answers to documents forwarded by her. The earlier dated were embarrassed and short; gradually, however, they expanded into copious love–letters, foolish, as the age of the writer rendered natural, yet with touches here and there which I thought were borrowed from a more experienced source. Some of them struck me as singularly odd compounds of ardour and flatness; commencing in strong feeling, and concluding in the affected, wordy style that a schoolboy might use to a fancied, incorporeal sweetheart. Whether they satisfied Cathy I don't know; but they appeared very worthless trash to me. After turning over as many as I thought proper, I tied them in a handkerchief and set them aside, relocking the vacant drawer.
Following her habit, my young lady descended early, and visited the kitchen: I watched her go to the door, on the arrival of a certain little boy; and, while the dairymaid filled his can, she tucked something into his jacket pocket, and plucked something out. I went round by the garden, and laid wait for the messenger; who fought valorously to defend his trust, and we spilt the milk between us; but I succeeded in abstracting the epistle; and, threatening serious consequences if he did not look sharp home, I remained under the wall and perused Miss Cathy's affectionate composition. It was more simple and more eloquent than her cousin's: very pretty and very silly. I shook my head, and went meditating into the house. The day being wet, she could not divert herself with rambling about the park; so, at the conclusion of her morning studies, she resorted to the solace of the drawer. Her father sat reading at the table; and I, on purpose, had sought a bit of work in some unripped fringes of the window–curtain, keeping my eye steadily fixed on her proceedings. Never did any bird flying back to a plundered nest, which it had left brimful of chirping young ones, express more complete despair, in its anguished cries and flutterings, than she by her single "Oh!" and the change that transfigured her late happy countenance. Mr. Linton looked up.
"What is the matter, love? Have you hurt yourself?" he said.
His tone and look assured her he had not been the discoverer of the hoard.
"No, papa!" she gasped. "Ellen! Ellen! come up–stairs—I'm sick!"
I obeyed her summons, and accompanied her out.
"Oh, Ellen! you have got them," she commenced immediately, dropping on her knees, when we were enclosed alone. "Oh, give them to me, and I'll never, never do so again! Don't tell papa. You have not told papa, Ellen? say you have not? I've been exceedingly naughty, but I won't do it any more!"
With a grave severity in my manner I bade her stand up.
"So," I exclaimed, "Miss Catherine, you are tolerably far on, it seems: you may well be ashamed of them! A fine bundle of trash you study in your leisure hours, to be sure: why, it's good enough to be printed! And what do you suppose the master will think when I display it before him? I hav'n't shown it yet, but you needn't imagine I shall keep your ridiculous secrets. For shame! and you must have led the way in writing such absurdities: he would not have thought of beginning, I'm certain."
"I didn't! I didn't!" sobbed Cathy, fit to break her heart. "I didn't once think of loving him till—"
"Loving!" cried I, as scornfully as I could utter the word. "Loving! Did anybody ever hear the like! I might just as well talk of loving the miller who comes once a year to buy our corn. Pretty loving, indeed! and both times together you have seen Linton hardly four hours in your life! Now here is the babyish trash. I'm going with it to the library; and we'll see what your father says to such loving."
She sprang at her precious epistles, but I hold them above my head; and then she poured out further frantic entreaties that I would burn them—do anything rather than show them. And being really fully as much inclined to laugh as scold—for I esteemed it all girlish vanity—I at length relented in a measure, and asked,—"If I consent to burn them, will you promise faithfully neither to send nor receive a letter again, nor a book (for I perceive you have sent him books), nor locks of hair, nor rings, nor playthings?"
"We don't send playthings," cried Catherine, her pride overcoming her shame.
"Nor anything at all, then, my lady?" I said. "Unless you will, here I go."
"I promise, Ellen!" she cried, catching my dress. "Oh, put them in the fire, do, do!"
But when I proceeded to open a place with the poker the sacrifice was too painful to be borne. She earnestly supplicated that I would spare her one or two.
"One or two, Ellen, to keep for Linton's sake!"
I unknotted the handkerchief, and commenced dropping them in from an angle, and the flame curled up the chimney.
"I will have one, you cruel wretch!" she screamed, darting her hand into the fire, and drawing forth some half–consumed fragments, at the expense of her fingers.
"Very well—and I will have some to exhibit to papa!" I answered, shaking back the rest into the bundle, and turning anew to the door.
She emptied her blackened pieces into the flames, and motioned me to finish the immolation. It was done; I stirred up the ashes, and interred them under a shovelful of coals; and she mutely, and with a sense of intense injury, retired to her private apartment. I descended to tell my master that the young lady's qualm of sickness was almost gone, but I judged it best for her to lie down a while. She wouldn't dine; but she reappeared at tea, pale, and red about the eyes, and marvellously subdued in outward aspect. Next morning I answered the letter by a slip of paper, inscribed, "Master Heathcliff is requested to send no more notes to Miss Linton, as she will not receive them." And, henceforth, the little boy came with vacant pockets. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 27 | Summer drew to an end, and early autumn: it was past Michaelmas, but the harvest was late that year, and a few of our fields were still uncleared. Mr. Linton and his daughter would frequently walk out among the reapers; at the carrying of the last sheaves they stayed till dusk, and the evening happening to be chill and damp, my master caught a bad cold, that settled obstinately on his lungs, and confined him indoors throughout the whole of the winter, nearly without intermission.
Poor Cathy, frightened from her little romance, had been considerably sadder and duller since its abandonment; and her father insisted on her reading less, and taking more exercise. She had his companionship no longer; I esteemed it a duty to supply its lack, as much as possible, with mine: an inefficient substitute; for I could only spare two or three hours, from my numerous diurnal occupations, to follow her footsteps, and then my society was obviously less desirable than his.
On an afternoon in October, or the beginning of November—a fresh watery afternoon, when the turf and paths were rustling with moist, withered leaves, and the cold blue sky was half hidden by clouds—dark grey streamers, rapidly mounting from the west, and boding abundant rain—I requested my young lady to forego her ramble, because I was certain of showers. She refused; and I unwillingly donned a cloak, and took my umbrella to accompany her on a stroll to the bottom of the park: a formal walk which she generally affected if low–spirited—and that she invariably was when Mr. Edgar had been worse than ordinary, a thing never known from his confession, but guessed both by her and me from his increased silence and the melancholy of his countenance. She went sadly on: there was no running or bounding now, though the chill wind might well have tempted her to race. And often, from the side of my eye, I could detect her raising a hand, and brushing something off her cheek. I gazed round for a means of diverting her thoughts. On one side of the road rose a high, rough bank, where hazels and stunted oaks, with their roots half exposed, held uncertain tenure: the soil was too loose for the latter; and strong winds had blown some nearly horizontal. In summer Miss Catherine delighted to climb along these trunks, and sit in the branches, swinging twenty feet above the ground; and I, pleased with her agility and her light, childish heart, still considered it proper to scold every time I caught her at such an elevation, but so that she knew there was no necessity for descending. From dinner to tea she would lie in her breeze–rocked cradle, doing nothing except singing old songs—my nursery lore—to herself, or watching the birds, joint tenants, feed and entice their young ones to fly: or nestling with closed lids, half thinking, half dreaming, happier than words can express.
"Look, Miss!" I exclaimed, pointing to a nook under the roots of one twisted tree. "Winter is not here yet. There's a little flower up yonder, the last bud from the multitude of bluebells that clouded those turf steps in July with a lilac mist. Will you clamber up, and pluck it to show to papa?" Cathy stared a long time at the lonely blossom trembling in its earthy shelter, and replied, at length—"No, I'll not touch it: but it looks melancholy, does it not, Ellen?"
"Yes," I observed, "about as starved and suckless as you your cheeks are bloodless; let us take hold of hands and run. You're so low, I daresay I shall keep up with you."
"No," she repeated, and continued sauntering on, pausing at intervals to muse over a bit of moss, or a tuft of blanched grass, or a fungus spreading its bright orange among the heaps of brown foliage; and, ever and anon, her hand was lifted to her averted face.
"Catherine, why are you crying, love?" I asked, approaching and putting my arm over her shoulder. "You mustn't cry because papa has a cold; be thankful it is nothing worse."
She now put no further restraint on her tears; her breath was stifled by sobs.
"Oh, it will be something worse," she said. "And what shall I do when papa and you leave me, and I am by myself? I can't forget your words, Ellen; they are always in my ear. How life will be changed, how dreary the world will be, when papa and you are dead."
"None can tell whether you won't die before us," I replied. "It's wrong to anticipate evil. We'll hope there are years and years to come before any of us go: master is young, and I am strong, and hardly forty–five. My mother lived till eighty, a canty dame to the last. And suppose Mr. Linton I were spared till he saw sixty, that would be more years than you have counted, Miss. And would it not be foolish to mourn a calamity above twenty years beforehand?"
"But Aunt Isabella was younger than papa," she remarked, gazing up with timid hope to seek further consolation.
"Aunt Isabella had not you and me to nurse her," I replied. "She wasn't as happy as Master: she hadn't as much to live for. All you need do, is to wait well on your father, and cheer him by letting him see you cheerful; and avoid giving him anxiety on any subject: mind that, Cathy! I'll not disguise but you might kill him if you were wild and reckless, and cherished a foolish, fanciful affection for the son of a person who would be glad to have him in his grave; and allowed him to discover that you fretted over the separation he has judged it expedient to make."
"I fret about nothing on earth except papa's illness," answered my companion. "I care for nothing in comparison with papa. And I'll never—never—oh, never, while I have my senses, do an act or say a word to vex him. I love him better than myself, Ellen; and I know it by this: I pray every night that I may live after him; because I would rather be miserable than that he should be: that proves I love him better than myself."
"Good words," I replied. "But deeds must prove it also; and after he is well, remember you don't forget resolutions formed in the hour of fear."
As we talked, we neared a door that opened on the road; and my young lady, lightening into sunshine again, climbed up and seated herself on the top of the wall, reaching over to gather some hips that bloomed scarlet on the summit branches of the wild–rose trees shadowing the highway side: the lower fruit had disappeared, but only birds could touch the upper, except from Cathy's present station. In stretching to pull them, her hat fell off; and as the door was locked, she proposed scrambling down to recover it. I bid her be cautious lest she got a fall, and she nimbly disappeared. But the return was no such easy matter: the stones were smooth and neatly cemented, and the rose–bushes and black–berry stragglers could yield no assistance in re–ascending. I, like a fool, didn't recollect that, till I heard her laughing and exclaiming—"Ellen! you'll have to fetch the key, or else I must run round to the porter's lodge. I can't scale the ramparts on this side!"
"Stay where you are," I answered; "I have my bundle of keys in my pocket: perhaps I may manage to open it; if not, I'll go."
Catherine amused herself with dancing to and fro before the door, while I tried all the large keys in succession. I had applied the last, and found that none would do; so, repeating my desire that she would remain there, I was about to hurry home as fast as I could, when an approaching sound arrested me. It was the trot of a horse; Cathy's dance stopped also.
"Who is that?" I whispered.
"Ellen, I wish you could open the door," whispered back my companion, anxiously.
"Ho, Miss Linton!" cried a deep voice (the rider's), "I'm glad to meet you. Don't be in haste to enter, for I have an explanation to ask and obtain."
"I sha'n't speak to you, Mr. Heathcliff," answered Catherine. "Papa says you are a wicked man, and you hate both him and me; and Ellen says the same."
"That is nothing to the purpose," said Heathcliff. (He it was.) "I don't hate my son, I suppose; and it is concerning him that I demand your attention. Yes; you have cause to blush. Two or three months since, were you not in the habit of writing to Linton? making love in play, eh? You deserved, both of you, flogging for that! You especially, the elder; and less sensitive, as it turns out. I've got your letters, and if you give me any pertness I'll send them to your father. I presume you grew weary of the amusement and dropped it, didn't you? Well, you dropped Linton with it into a Slough of Despond. He was in earnest: in love, really. As true as I live, he's dying for you; breaking his heart at your fickleness: not figuratively, but actually. Though Hareton has made him a standing jest for six weeks, and I have used more serious measures, and attempted to frighten him out of his idiotcy, he gets worse daily; and he'll be under the sod before summer, unless you restore him!"
"How can you lie so glaringly to the poor child?" I called from the inside. "Pray ride on! How can you deliberately get up such paltry falsehoods? Miss Cathy, I'll knock the lock off with a stone: you won't believe that vile nonsense. You can feel in yourself it is impossible that a person should die for love of a stranger."
"I was not aware there were eavesdroppers," muttered the detected villain. "Worthy Mrs. Dean, I like you, but I don't like your double–dealing," he added aloud. "How could you lie so glaringly as to affirm I hated the "poor child"? and invent bugbear stories to terrify her from my door–stones? Catherine Linton (the very name warms me), my bonny lass, I shall be from home all this week; go and see if have not spoken truth: do, there's a darling! Just imagine your father in my place, and Linton in yours; then think how you would value your careless lover if he refused to stir a step to comfort you, when your father himself entreated him; and don't, from pure stupidity, fall into the same error. I swear, on my salvation, he's going to his grave, and none but you can save him!"
The lock gave way and I issued out.
"I swear Linton is dying," repeated Heathcliff, looking hard at me. "And grief and disappointment are hastening his death. Nelly, if you won't let her go, you can walk over yourself. But I shall not return till this time next week; and I think your master himself would scarcely object to her visiting her cousin."
"Come in," said I, taking Cathy by the arm and half forcing her to re–enter; for she lingered, viewing with troubled eyes the features of the speaker, too stern to express his inward deceit.
He pushed his horse close, and, bending down, observed—"Miss Catherine, I'll own to you that I have little patience with Linton; and Hareton and Joseph have less. I'll own that he's with a harsh set. He pines for kindness, as well as love; and a kind word from you would be his best medicine. Don't mind Mrs. Dean's cruel cautions; but be generous, and contrive to see him. He dreams of you day and night, and cannot be persuaded that you don't hate him, since you neither write nor call."
I closed the door, and rolled a stone to assist the loosened lock in holding it; and spreading my umbrella, I drew my charge underneath: for the rain began to drive through the moaning branches of the trees, and warned us to avoid delay. Our hurry prevented any comment on the encounter with Heathcliff, as we stretched towards home; but I divined instinctively that Catherine's heart was clouded now in double darkness. Her features were so sad, they did not seem hers: she evidently regarded what she had heard as every syllable true.
The master had retired to rest before we came in. Cathy stole to his room to inquire how he was; he had fallen asleep. She returned, and asked me to sit with her in the library. We took our tea together; and afterwards she lay down on the rug, and told me not to talk, for she was weary. I got a book, and pretended to read. As soon as she supposed me absorbed in my occupation, she recommenced her silent weeping: it appeared, at present, her favourite diversion. I suffered her to enjoy it a while; then I expostulated: deriding and ridiculing all Mr. Heathcliff's assertions about his son, as if I were certain she would coincide. Alas! I hadn't skill to counteract the effect his account had produced: it was just what he intended.
"You may be right, Ellen," she answered; "but I shall never feel at ease till I know. And I must tell Linton it is not my fault that I don't write, and convince him that I shall not change."
What use were anger and protestations against her silly credulity? We parted that night—hostile; but next day beheld me on the road to Wuthering Heights, by the side of my wilful young mistress's pony. I couldn't bear to witness her sorrow: to see her pale, dejected countenance, and heavy eyes: and I yielded, in the faint hope that Linton himself might prove, by his reception of us, how little of the tale was founded on fact. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 28 | The rainy night had ushered in a misty morning—half frost, half drizzle—and temporary brooks crossed our path—gurgling from the uplands. My feet were thoroughly wetted; I was cross and low; exactly the humour suited for making the most of these disagreeable things. We entered the farm–house by the kitchen way, to ascertain whether Mr. Heathcliff were really absent: because I put slight faith in his own affirmation.
Joseph seemed sitting in a sort of elysium alone, beside a roaring fire; a quart of ale on the table near him, bristling with large pieces of toasted oat–cake; and his black, short pipe in his mouth. Catherine ran to the hearth to warm herself. I asked if the master was in? My question remained so long unanswered, that I thought the old man had grown deaf, and repeated it louder.
"Na—ay!" he snarled, or rather screamed through his nose. "Na—ay! yah muh goa back whear yah coom frough."
"Joseph!" cried a peevish voice, simultaneously with me, from the inner room. "How often am I to call you? There are only a few red ashes now. Joseph! come this moment."
Vigorous puffs, and a resolute stare into the grate, declared he had no ear for this appeal. The housekeeper and Hareton were invisible; one gone on an errand, and the other at his work, probably. We knew Linton's tones, and entered.
"Oh, I hope you'll die in a garret, starved to death!" said the boy, mistaking our approach for that of his negligent attendant.
He stopped on observing his error: his cousin flew to him.
"Is that you, Miss Linton?" he said, raising his head from the arm of the great chair, in which he reclined. "No—don't kiss me: it takes my breath. Dear me! Papa said you would call," continued he, after recovering a little from Catherine's embrace; while she stood by looking very contrite. "Will you shut the door, if you please? you left it open; and those—those detestable creatures won't bring coals to the fire. It's so cold!"
I stirred up the cinders, and fetched a scuttleful myself. The invalid complained of being covered with ashes; but he had a tiresome cough, and looked feverish and ill, so I did not rebuke his temper.
"Well, Linton," murmured Catherine, when his corrugated brow relaxed, "are you glad to see me? Can I do you any good?"
"Why didn't you come before?" he asked. "You should have come, instead of writing. It tired me dreadfully writing those long letters. I'd far rather have talked to you. Now, I can neither bear to talk, nor anything else. I wonder where Zillah is! Will you" (looking at me) "step into the kitchen and see?"
I had received no thanks for my other service; and being unwilling to run to and fro at his behest, I replied—"Nobody is out there but Joseph."
"I want to drink," he exclaimed fretfully, turning away. "Zillah is constantly gadding off to Gimmerton since papa went: it's miserable! And I'm obliged to come down here—they resolved never to hear me up–stairs."
"Is your father attentive to you, Master Heathcliff?" I asked, perceiving Catherine to be checked in her friendly advances.
"Attentive? He makes them a little more attentive at least," he cried. "The wretches! Do you know, Miss Linton, that brute Hareton laughs at me! I hate him! indeed, I hate them all: they are odious beings."
Cathy began searching for some water; she lighted on a pitcher in the dresser, filled a tumbler, and brought it. He bid her add a spoonful of wine from a bottle on the table; and having swallowed a small portion, appeared more tranquil, and said she was very kind.
"And are you glad to see me?" asked she, reiterating her former question and pleased to detect the faint dawn of a smile.
"Yes, I am. It's something new to hear a voice like yours!" he replied. "But I have been vexed, because you wouldn't come. And papa swore it was owing to me: he called me a pitiful, shuffling, worthless thing; and said you despised me; and if he had been in my place, he would be more the master of the Grange than your father by this time. But you don't despise me, do you, Miss—?"
"I wish you would say Catherine, or Cathy," interrupted my young lady. "Despise you? No! Next to papa and Ellen, I love you better than anybody living. I don't love Mr. Heathcliff, though; and I dare not come when he returns: will he stay away many days?"
"Not many," answered Linton; "but he goes on to the moors frequently, since the shooting season commenced; and you might spend an hour or two with me in his absence. Do say you will. I think I should not be peevish with you: you'd not provoke me, and you'd always be ready to help me, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," said Catherine, stroking his long soft hair: "if I could only get papa's consent, I'd spend half my time with you. Pretty Linton! I wish you were my brother."
"And then you would like me as well as your father?" observed he, more cheerfully. "But papa says you would love me better than him and all the world, if you were my wife; so I'd rather you were that."
"No, I should never love anybody better than papa," she returned gravely. "And people hate their wives, sometimes; but not their sisters and brothers: and if you were the latter, you would live with us, and papa would be as fond of you as he is of me."
Linton denied that people ever hated their wives; but Cathy affirmed they did, and, in her wisdom, instanced his own father's aversion to her aunt. I endeavoured to stop her thoughtless tongue. I couldn't succeed till everything she knew was out. Master Heathcliff, much irritated, asserted her relation was false.
"Papa told me; and papa does not tell falsehoods," she answered pertly.
"My papa scorns yours!" cried Linton. "He calls him a sneaking fool."
"Yours is a wicked man," retorted Catherine; "and you are very naughty to dare to repeat what he says. He must be wicked to have made Aunt Isabella leave him as she did."
"She didn't leave him," said the boy; "you sha'n't contradict me."
"She did," cried my young lady.
"Well, I'll tell you something!" said Linton. "Your mother hated your father: now then."
"Oh!" exclaimed Catherine, too enraged to continue.
"And she loved mine," added he.
"You little liar! I hate you now!" she panted, and her face grew red with passion.
"She did! she did!" sang Linton, sinking into the recess of his chair, and leaning back his head to enjoy the agitation of the other disputant, who stood behind.
"Hush, Master Heathcliff!" I said; "that's your father's tale, too, I suppose."
"It isn't: you hold your tongue!" he answered. "She did, she did, Catherine! she did, she did!"
Cathy, beside herself, gave the chair a violent push, and caused him to fall against one arm. He was immediately seized by a suffocating cough that soon ended his triumph. It lasted so long that it frightened even me. As to his cousin, she wept with all her might, aghast at the mischief she had done: though she said nothing. I held him till the fit exhausted itself. Then he thrust me away, and leant his head down silently. Catherine quelled her lamentations also, took a seat opposite, and looked solemnly into the fire.
"How do you feel now, Master Heathcliff?" I inquired, after waiting ten minutes.
"I wish she felt as I do," he replied: "spiteful, cruel thing! Hareton never touches me: he never struck me in his life. And I was better to–day: and there—" his voice died in a whimper.
"I didn't strike you!" muttered Cathy, chewing her lip to prevent another burst of emotion.
He sighed and moaned like one under great suffering, and kept it up for a quarter of an hour; on purpose to distress his cousin apparently, for whenever he caught a stifled sob from her he put renewed pain and pathos into the inflexions of his voice.
"I'm sorry I hurt you, Linton," she said at length, racked beyond endurance. "But I couldn't have been hurt by that little push, and I had no idea that you could, either: you're not much, are you, Linton? Don't let me go home thinking I've done you harm. Answer! speak to me."
"I can't speak to you," he murmured; "you've hurt me so that I shall lie awake all night choking with this cough. If you had it you'd know what it was; but you'll be comfortably asleep while I'm in agony, and nobody near me. I wonder how you would like to pass those fearful nights!" And he began to wail aloud, for very pity of himself.
"Since you are in the habit of passing dreadful nights," I said, "it won't be Miss who spoils your ease: you'd be the same had she never come. However, she shall not disturb you again; and perhaps you'll get quieter when we leave you."
"Must I go?" asked Catherine dolefully, bending over him. "Do you want me to go, Linton?"
"You can't alter what you've done," he replied pettishly, shrinking from her, "unless you alter it for the worse by teasing me into a fever."
"Well, then, I must go?" she repeated.
"Let me alone, at least," said he; "I can't bear your talking."
She lingered, and resisted my persuasions to departure a tiresome while; but as he neither looked up nor spoke, she finally made a movement to the door, and I followed. We were recalled by a scream. Linton had slid from his seat on to the hearthstone, and lay writhing in the mere perverseness of an indulged plague of a child, determined to be as grievous and harassing as it can. I thoroughly gauged his disposition from his behaviour, and saw at once it would be folly to attempt humouring him. Not so my companion: she ran back in terror, knelt down, and cried, and soothed, and entreated, till he grew quiet from lack of breath: by no means from compunction at distressing her.
"I shall lift him on to the settle," I said, "and he may roll about as he pleases: we can't stop to watch him. I hope you are satisfied, Miss Cathy, that you are not the person to benefit him; and that his condition of health is not occasioned by attachment to you. Now, then, there he is! Come away: as soon as he knows there is nobody by to care for his nonsense, he'll be glad to lie still."
She placed a cushion under his head, and offered him some water; he rejected the latter, and tossed uneasily on the former, as if it were a stone or a block of wood. She tried to put it more comfortably.
"I can't do with that," he said; "it's not high enough."
Catherine brought another to lay above it.
"That's too high," murmured the provoking thing.
"How must I arrange it, then?" she asked despairingly.
He twined himself up to her, as she half knelt by the settle, and converted her shoulder into a support.
"No, that won't do," I said. "You'll be content with the cushion, Master Heathcliff. Miss has wasted too much time on you already: we cannot remain five minutes longer."
"Yes, yes, we can!" replied Cathy. "He's good and patient now. He's beginning to think I shall have far greater misery than he will to–night, if I believe he is the worse for my visit: and then I dare not come again. Tell the truth about it, Linton; for I musn't come, if I have hurt you."
"You must come, to cure me," he answered. "You ought to come, because you have hurt me: you know you have extremely! I was not as ill when you entered as I am at present—was I?"
"But you've made yourself ill by crying and being in a passion.—I didn't do it all," said his cousin. "However, we'll be friends now. And you want me: you would wish to see me sometimes, really?"
"I told you I did," he replied impatiently. "Sit on the settle and let me lean on your knee. That's as mamma used to do, whole afternoons together. Sit quite still and don't talk: but you may sing a song, if you can sing; or you may say a nice long interesting ballad—one of those you promised to teach me; or a story. I'd rather have a ballad, though: begin."
Catherine repeated the longest she could remember. The employment pleased both mightily. Linton would have another, and after that another, notwithstanding my strenuous objections; and so they went on until the clock struck twelve, and we heard Hareton in the court, returning for his dinner.
"And to–morrow, Catherine, will you be here to–morrow?" asked young Heathcliff, holding her frock as she rose reluctantly.
"No," I answered, "nor next day neither." She, however, gave a different response evidently, for his forehead cleared as she stooped and whispered in his ear.
"You won't go to–morrow, recollect, Miss!" I commenced, when we were out of the house. "You are not dreaming of it, are you?"
She smiled.
"Oh, I'll take good care," I continued: "I'll have that lock mended, and you can escape by no way else."
"I can get over the wall," she said laughing. "The Grange is not a prison, Ellen, and you are not my gaoler. And besides, I'm almost seventeen: I'm a woman. And I'm certain Linton would recover quickly if he had me to look after him. I'm older than he is, you know, and wiser: less childish, am I not? And he'll soon do as I direct him, with some slight coaxing. He's a pretty little darling when he's good. I'd make such a pet of him, if he were mine. We should, never quarrel, should we after we were used to each other? Don't you like him, Ellen?"
"Like him!" I exclaimed. "The worst–tempered bit of a sickly slip that ever struggled into its teens. Happily, as Mr. Heathcliff conjectured, he'll not win twenty. I doubt whether he'll see spring, indeed. And small loss to his family whenever he drops off. And lucky it is for us that his father took him: the kinder he was treated, the more tedious and selfish he'd be. I'm glad you have no chance of having him for a husband, Miss Catherine."
My companion waxed serious at hearing this speech. To speak of his death so regardlessly wounded her feelings.
"He's younger than I," she answered, after a protracted pause of meditation, "and he ought to live the longest: he will—he must live as long as I do. He's as strong now as when he first came into the north; I'm positive of that. It's only a cold that ails him, the same as papa has. You say papa will get better, and why shouldn't he?"
"Well, well," I cried, "after all, we needn't trouble ourselves; for listen, Miss,—and mind, I'll keep my word,—if you attempt going to Wuthering Heights again, with or without me, I shall inform Mr. Linton, and, unless he allow it, the intimacy with your cousin must not be revived."
"It has been revived," muttered Cathy, sulkily.
"Must not be continued, then," I said.
"We'll see," was her reply, and she set off at a gallop, leaving me to toil in the rear.
We both reached home before our dinner–time; my master supposed we had been wandering through the park, and therefore he demanded no explanation of our absence. As soon as I entered I hastened to change my soaked shoes and stockings; but sitting such awhile at the Heights had done the mischief. On the succeeding morning I was laid up, and during three weeks I remained incapacitated for attending to my duties: a calamity never experienced prior to that period, and never, I am thankful to say, since.
My little mistress behaved like an angel in coming to wait on me, and cheer my solitude; the confinement brought me exceedingly low. It is wearisome, to a stirring active body: but few have slighter reasons for complaint than I had. The moment Catherine left Mr. Linton's room she appeared at my bedside. Her day was divided between us; no amusement usurped a minute: she neglected her meals, her studies, and her play; and she was the fondest nurse that ever watched. She must have had a warm heart, when she loved her father so, to give so much to me. I said her days were divided between us; but the master retired early, and I generally needed nothing after six o'clock, thus the evening was her own. Poor thing! I never considered what she did with herself after tea. And though frequently, when she looked in to bid me good–night, I remarked a fresh colour in her cheeks and a pinkness over her slender fingers, instead of fancying the line borrowed from a cold ride across the moors, I laid it to the charge of a hot fire in the library. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 29 | At the close of three weeks I was able to quit my chamber and move about the house. And on the first occasion of my sitting up in the evening I asked Catherine to read to me, because my eyes were weak. We were in the library, the master having gone to bed: she consented, rather unwillingly, I fancied; and imagining my sort of books did not suit her, I bid her please herself in the choice of what she perused. She selected one of her own favourites, and got forward steadily about an hour; then came frequent questions.
"Ellen, are not you tired? Hadn't you better lie down now? You'll be sick, keeping up so long, Ellen."
"No, no, dear, I'm not tired," I returned, continually.
Perceiving me immovable, she essayed another method of showing her disrelish for her occupation. It changed to yawning, and stretching, and—
"Ellen, I'm tired."
"Give over then and talk," I answered.
That was worse: she fretted and sighed, and looked at her watch till eight, and finally went to her room, completely overdone with sleep; judging by her peevish, heavy look, and the constant rubbing she inflicted on her eyes. The following night she seemed more impatient still; and on the third from recovering my company she complained of a headache, and left me. I thought her conduct odd; and having remained alone a long while, I resolved on going and inquiring whether she were better, and asking her to come and lie on the sofa, instead of up–stairs in the dark. No Catherine could I discover up–stairs, and none below. The servants affirmed they had not seen her. I listened at Mr. Edgar's door; all was silence. I returned to her apartment, extinguished my candle, and seated myself in the window.
The moon shone bright; a sprinkling of snow covered the ground, and I reflected that she might, possibly, have taken it into her head to walk about the garden, for refreshment. I did detect a figure creeping along the inner fence of the park; but it was not my young mistress: on its emerging into the light, I recognised one of the grooms. He stood a considerable period, viewing the carriage–road through the grounds; then started off at a brisk pace, as if he had detected something, and reappeared presently, leading Miss's pony; and there she was, just dismounted, and walking by its side. The man took his charge stealthily across the grass towards the stable. Cathy entered by the casement–window of the drawing–room, and glided noiselessly up to where I awaited her. She put the door gently too, slipped off her snowy shoes, untied her hat, and was proceeding, unconscious of my espionage, to lay aside her mantle, when I suddenly rose and revealed myself. The surprise petrified her an instant: she uttered an inarticulate exclamation, and stood fixed.
"My dear Miss Catherine," I began, too vividly impressed by her recent kindness to break into a scold, "where have you been riding out at this hour? And why should you try to deceive me by telling a tale? Where have you been? Speak!"
"To the bottom of the park," she stammered. "I didn't tell a tale."
"And nowhere else?" I demanded.
"No," was the muttered reply.
"Oh, Catherine!" I cried, sorrowfully. "You know you have been doing wrong, or you wouldn't be driven to uttering an untruth to me. That does grieve me. I'd rather be three months ill, than hear you frame a deliberate lie."
She sprang forward, and bursting into tears, threw her arms round my neck.
"Well, Ellen, I'm so afraid of you being angry," she said. "Promise not to be angry, and you shall know the very truth: I hate to hide it."
We sat down in the window–seat; I assured her I would not scold, whatever her secret might be, and I guessed it, of course; so she commenced—
"I've been to Wuthering Heights, Ellen, and I've never missed going a day since you fell ill; except thrice before, and twice after you left your room. I gave Michael books and pictures to prepare Minny every evening, and to put her back in the stable: you mustn't scold him either, mind. I was at the Heights by half–past six, and generally stayed till half–past eight, and then galloped home. It was not to amuse myself that I went: I was often wretched all the time. Now and then I was happy: once in a week perhaps. At first, I expected there would be sad work persuading you to let me keep my word to Linton: for I had engaged to call again next day, when we quitted him; but, as you stayed up–stairs on the morrow, I escaped that trouble. While Michael was refastening the lock of the park door in the afternoon, I got possession of the key, and told him how my cousin wished me to visit him, because he was sick, and couldn't come to the Grange; and how papa would object to my going: and then I negotiated with him about the pony. He is fond of reading, and he thinks of leaving soon to get married; so he offered, if I would lend him books out of the library, to do what I wished: but I preferred giving him my own, and that satisfied him better."
"On my second visit Linton seemed in lively spirits; and Zillah (that is their housekeeper) made us a clean room and a good fire, and told us that, as Joseph was out at a prayer–meeting and Hareton Earnshaw was off with his dogs—robbing our woods of pheasants, as I heard afterwards—we might do what we liked. She brought me some warm wine and gingerbread, and appeared exceedingly good–natured, and Linton sat in the arm–chair, and I in the little rocking chair on the hearth–stone, and we laughed and talked so merrily, and found so much to say: we planned where we would go, and what we would do in summer. I needn't repeat that, because you would call it silly."
"One time, however, we were near quarrelling. He said the pleasantest manner of spending a hot July day was lying from morning till evening on a bank of heath in the middle of the moors, with the bees humming dreamily about among the bloom, and the larks singing high up overhead, and the blue sky and bright sun shining steadily and cloudlessly. That was his most perfect idea of heaven's happiness: mine was rocking in a rustling green tree, with a west wind blowing, and bright white clouds flitting rapidly above; and not only larks, but throstles, and blackbirds, and linnets, and cuckoos pouring out music on every side, and the moors seen at a distance, broken into cool dusky dells; but close by great swells of long grass undulating in waves to the breeze; and woods and sounding water, and the whole world awake and wild with joy. He wanted all to lie in an ecstasy of peace; I wanted all to sparkle and dance in a glorious jubilee. I said his heaven would be only half alive; and he said mine would be drunk: I said I should fall asleep in his; and he said he could not breathe in mine, and began to grow very snappish. At last, we agreed to try both, as soon as the right weather came; and then we kissed each other and were friends."
"After sitting still an hour, I looked at the great room with its smooth uncarpeted floor, and thought how nice it would be to play in, if we removed the table; and I asked Linton to call Zillah in to help us, and we'd have a game at blindman's–buff; she should try to catch us: you used to, you know, Ellen. He wouldn't: there was no pleasure in it, he said; but he consented to play at ball with me. We found two in a cupboard, among a heap of old toys, tops, and hoops, and battledores and shuttlecocks. One was marked C., and the other H.; I wished to have the C., because that stood for Catherine, and the H. might be for Heathcliff, his name; but the bran came out of H., and Linton didn't like it. I beat him constantly: and he got cross again, and coughed, and returned to his chair. That night, though, he easily recovered his good humour: he was charmed with two or three pretty songs—your songs, Ellen; and when I was obliged to go, he begged and entreated me to come the following evening; and I promised. Minny and I went flying home as light as air; and I dreamt of Wuthering Heights and my sweet, darling cousin, till morning."
"On the morrow I was sad; partly because you were poorly, and partly that I wished my father knew, and approved of my excursions: but it was beautiful moonlight after tea; and, as I rode on, the gloom cleared. I shall have another happy evening, I thought to myself; and what delights me more, my pretty Linton will. I trotted up their garden, and was turning round to the back, when that fellow Earnshaw met me, took my bridle, and bid me go in by the front entrance. He patted Minny's neck, and said she was a bonny beast, and appeared as if he wanted me to speak to him. I only told him to leave my horse alone, or else it would kick him. He answered in his vulgar accent, "It wouldn't do mitch hurt if it did;" and surveyed its legs with a smile. I was half inclined to make it try; however, he moved off to open the door, and, as he raised the latch, he looked up to the inscription above, and said, with a stupid mixture of awkwardness and elation: "Miss Catherine! I can read yon, now."
"Wonderful," I exclaimed. "Pray let us hear you—you are grown clever!"
"He spelt, and drawled over by syllables, the name—"Hareton Earnshaw."
"And the figures?" I cried, encouragingly, perceiving that he came to a dead halt."
"I cannot tell them yet," he answered."
"Oh, you dunce!" I said, laughing heartily at his failure."
"The fool stared, with a grin hovering about his lips, and a scowl gathering over his eyes, as if uncertain whether he might not join in my mirth: whether it were not pleasant familiarity, or what it really was, contempt. I settled his doubts, by suddenly retrieving my gravity and desiring him to walk away, for I came to see Linton, not him. He reddened—I saw that by the moonlight—dropped his hand from the latch, and skulked off, a picture of mortified vanity. He imagined himself to be as accomplished as Linton, I suppose, because he could spell his own name; and was marvellously discomfited that I didn't think the same."
"Stop, Miss Catherine, dear!"—I interrupted. "I shall not scold, but I don't like your conduct there. If you had remembered that Hareton was your cousin as much as Master Heathcliff, you would have felt how improper it was to behave in that way. At least, it was praiseworthy ambition for him to desire to be as accomplished as Linton; and probably he did not learn merely to show off: you had made him ashamed of his ignorance before, I have no doubt; and he wished to remedy it and please you. To sneer at his imperfect attempt was very bad breeding. Had you been brought up in his circumstances, would you be less rude? He was as quick and as intelligent a child as ever you were; and I'm hurt that he should be despised now, because that base Heathcliff has treated him so unjustly."
"Well, Ellen, you won't cry about it, will you?" she exclaimed, surprised at my earnestness. "But wait, and you shall hear if he conned his A B C to please me; and if it were worth while being civil to the brute. I entered; Linton was lying on the settle, and half got up to welcome me."
"I'm ill to–night, Catherine, love," he said; "and you must have all the talk, and let me listen. Come, and sit by me. I was sure you wouldn't break your word, and I'll make you promise again, before you go."
"I knew now that I mustn't tease him, as he was ill; and I spoke softly and put no questions, and avoided irritating him in any way. I had brought some of my nicest books for him: he asked me to read a little of one, and I was about to comply, when Earnshaw burst the door open: having gathered venom with reflection. He advanced direct to us, seized Linton by the arm, and swung him off the seat."
"Get to thy own room!" he said, in a voice almost inarticulate with passion; and his face looked swelled and furious. "Take her there if she comes to see thee: thou shalln't keep me out of this. Begone wi' ye both!"
"He swore at us, and left Linton no time to answer, nearly throwing him into the kitchen; and he clenched his fist as I followed, seemingly longing to knock me down. I was afraid for a moment, and I let one volume fall; he kicked it after me, and shut us out. I heard a malignant, crackly laugh by the fire, and turning, beheld that odious Joseph standing rubbing his bony hands, and quivering."
"I wer sure he'd sarve ye out! He's a grand lad! He's getten t' raight sperrit in him! He knaws—ay, he knaws, as weel as I do, who sud be t' maister yonder—Ech, ech, ech! He made ye skift properly! Ech, ech, ech!"
"Where must we go?" I asked of my cousin, disregarding the old wretch's mockery."
"Linton was white and trembling. He was not pretty then, Ellen: oh, no! he looked frightful; for his thin face and large eyes were wrought into an expression of frantic, powerless fury. He grasped the handle of the door, and shook it: it was fastened inside."
"If you don't let me in, I'll kill you!—If you don't let me in, I'll kill you!" he rather shrieked than said. "Devil! devil!—I'll kill you—I'll kill you!"
Joseph uttered his croaking laugh again.
"Thear, that's t" father!" he cried. "That's father! We've allas summut o' either side in us. Niver heed, Hareton, lad—dunnut be "feard—he cannot get at thee!"
"I took hold of Linton's hands, and tried to pull him away; but he shrieked so shockingly that I dared not proceed. At last his cries were choked by a dreadful fit of coughing; blood gushed from his mouth, and he fell on the ground. I ran into the yard, sick with terror; and called for Zillah, as loud as I could. She soon heard me: she was milking the cows in a shed behind the barn, and hurrying from her work, she inquired what there was to do? I hadn't breath to explain; dragging her in, I looked about for Linton. Earnshaw had come out to examine the mischief he had caused, and he was then conveying the poor thing up–stairs. Zillah and I ascended after him; but he stopped me at the top of the steps, and said I shouldn't go in: I must go home. I exclaimed that he had killed Linton, and I would enter. Joseph locked the door, and declared I should do "no sich stuff," and asked me whether I were "bahn to be as mad as him." I stood crying till the housekeeper reappeared. She affirmed he would be better in a bit, but he couldn't do with that shrieking and din; and she took me, and nearly carried me into the house."
"Ellen, I was ready to tear my hair off my head! I sobbed and wept so that my eyes were almost blind; and the ruffian you have such sympathy with stood opposite: presuming every now and then to bid me "wisht," and denying that it was his fault; and, finally, frightened by my assertions that I would tell papa, and that he should be put in prison and hanged, he commenced blubbering himself, and hurried out to hide his cowardly agitation. Still, I was not rid of him: when at length they compelled me to depart, and I had got some hundred yards off the premises, he suddenly issued from the shadow of the road–side, and checked Minny and took hold of me."
"Miss Catherine, I'm ill grieved," he began, "but it's rayther too bad—"
"I gave him a cut with my whip, thinking perhaps he would murder me. He let go, thundering one of his horrid curses, and I galloped home more than half out of my senses."
"I didn't bid you good–night that evening, and I didn't go to Wuthering Heights the next: I wished to go exceedingly; but I was strangely excited, and dreaded to hear that Linton was dead, sometimes; and sometimes shuddered at the thought of encountering Hareton. On the third day I took courage: at least, I couldn't bear longer suspense, and stole off once more. I went at five o'clock, and walked; fancying I might manage to creep into the house, and up to Linton's room, unobserved. However, the dogs gave notice of my approach. Zillah received me, and saying "the lad was mending nicely," showed me into a small, tidy, carpeted apartment, where, to my inexpressible joy, I beheld Linton laid on a little sofa, reading one of my books. But he would neither speak to me nor look at me, through a whole hour, Ellen: he has such an unhappy temper. And what quite confounded me, when he did open his mouth, it was to utter the falsehood that I had occasioned the uproar, and Hareton was not to blame! Unable to reply, except passionately, I got up and walked from the room. He sent after me a faint "Catherine!" He did not reckon on being answered so: but I wouldn't turn back; and the morrow was the second day on which I stayed at home, nearly determined to visit him no more. But it was so miserable going to bed and getting up, and never hearing anything about him, that my resolution melted into air before it was properly formed. It had appeared wrong to take the journey once; now it seemed wrong to refrain. Michael came to ask if he must saddle Minny; I said "Yes," and considered myself doing a duty as she bore me over the hills. I was forced to pass the front windows to get to the court: it was no use trying to conceal my presence."
"Young master is in the house," said Zillah, as she saw me making for the parlour. I went in; Earnshaw was there also, but he quitted the room directly. Linton sat in the great arm–chair half asleep; walking up to the fire, I began in a serious tone, partly meaning it to be true—"
"As you don't like me, Linton, and as you think I come on purpose to hurt you, and pretend that I do so every time, this is our last meeting: let us say good–bye; and tell Mr. Heathcliff that you have no wish to see me, and that he mustn't invent any more falsehoods on the subject."
"Sit down and take your hat off, Catherine," he answered. "You are so much happier than I am, you ought to be better. Papa talks enough of my defects, and shows enough scorn of me, to make it natural I should doubt myself. I doubt whether I am not altogether as worthless as he calls me, frequently; and then I feel so cross and bitter, I hate everybody! I am worthless, and bad in temper, and bad in spirit, almost always; and, if you choose, you may say good–bye: you'll get rid of an annoyance. Only, Catherine, do me this justice: believe that if I might be as sweet, and as kind, and as good as you are, I would be; as willingly, and more so, than as happy and as healthy. And believe that your kindness has made me love you deeper than if I deserved your love: and though I couldn't, and cannot help showing my nature to you, I regret it and repent it; and shall regret and repent it till I die!"
"I felt he spoke the truth; and I felt I must forgive him: and, though we should quarrel the next moment, I must forgive him again. We were reconciled; but we cried, both of us, the whole time I stayed: not entirely for sorrow; yet I was sorry Linton had that distorted nature. He'll never let his friends be at ease, and he'll never be at ease himself! I have always gone to his little parlour, since that night; because his father returned the day after."
"About three times, I think, we have been merry and hopeful, as we were the first evening; the rest of my visits were dreary and troubled: now with his selfishness and spite, and now with his sufferings: but I've learned to endure the former with nearly as little resentment as the latter. Mr. Heathcliff purposely avoids me: I have hardly seen him at all. Last Sunday, indeed, coming earlier than usual, I heard him abusing poor Linton cruelly for his conduct of the night before. I can't tell how he knew of it, unless he listened. Linton had certainly behaved provokingly: however, it was the business of nobody but me, and I interrupted Mr. Heathcliff's lecture by entering and telling him so. He burst into a laugh, and went away, saying he was glad I took that view of the matter. Since then, I've told Linton he must whisper his bitter things. Now, Ellen, you have heard all. I can't be prevented from going to Wuthering Heights, except by inflicting misery on two people; whereas, if you'll only not tell papa, my going need disturb the tranquillity of none. You'll not tell, will you? It will be very heartless, if you do."
"I'll make up my mind on that point by to–morrow, Miss Catherine," I replied. "It requires some study; and so I'll leave you to your rest, and go think it over."
I thought it over aloud, in my master's presence; walking straight from her room to his, and relating the whole story: with the exception of her conversations with her cousin, and any mention of Hareton. Mr. Linton was alarmed and distressed, more than he would acknowledge to me. In the morning, Catherine learnt my betrayal of her confidence, and she learnt also that her secret visits were to end. In vain she wept and writhed against the interdict, and implored her father to have pity on Linton: all she got to comfort her was a promise that he would write and give him leave to come to the Grange when he pleased; but explaining that he must no longer expect to see Catherine at Wuthering Heights. Perhaps, had he been aware of his nephew's disposition and state of health, he would have seen fit to withhold even that slight consolation. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 30 | "These things happened last winter, sir," said Mrs. Dean; "hardly more than a year ago. Last winter, I did not think, at another twelve months" end, I should be amusing a stranger to the family with relating them! Yet, who knows how long you'll be a stranger? You're too young to rest always contented, living by yourself; and I some way fancy no one could see Catherine Linton and not love her. You smile; but why do you look so lively and interested when I talk about her? and why have you asked me to hang her picture over your fireplace? and why—?'
"Stop, my good friend!" I cried. "It may be very possible that I should love her; but would she love me? I doubt it too much to venture my tranquillity by running into temptation: and then my home is not here. I'm of the busy world, and to its arms I must return. Go on. Was Catherine obedient to her father's commands?"
"She was," continued the housekeeper. "Her affection for him was still the chief sentiment in her heart; and he spoke without anger: he spoke in the deep tenderness of one about to leave his treasure amid perils and foes, where his remembered words would be the only aid that he could bequeath to guide her. He said to me, a few days afterwards, "I wish my nephew would write, Ellen, or call. Tell me, sincerely, what you think of him: is he changed for the better, or is there a prospect of improvement, as he grows a man?"
"He's very delicate, sir," I replied; "and scarcely likely to reach manhood: but this I can say, he does not resemble his father; and if Miss Catherine had the misfortune to marry him, he would not be beyond her control: unless she were extremely and foolishly indulgent. However, master, you'll have plenty of time to get acquainted with him and see whether he would suit her: it wants four years and more to his being of age."
Edgar sighed; and, walking to the window, looked out towards Gimmerton Kirk. It was a misty afternoon, but the February sun shone dimly, and we could just distinguish the two fir–trees in the yard, and the sparely–scattered gravestones.
"I've prayed often," he half soliloquised, "for the approach of what is coming; and now I begin to shrink, and fear it. I thought the memory of the hour I came down that glen a bridegroom would be less sweet than the anticipation that I was soon, in a few months, or, possibly, weeks, to be carried up, and laid in its lonely hollow! Ellen, I've been very happy with my little Cathy: through winter nights and summer days she was a living hope at my side. But I've been as happy musing by myself among those stones, under that old church: lying, through the long June evenings, on the green mound of her mother's grave, and wishing—yearning for the time when I might lie beneath it. What can I do for Cathy? How must I quit her? I'd not care one moment for Linton being Heathcliff's son; nor for his taking her from me, if he could console her for my loss. I'd not care that Heathcliff gained his ends, and triumphed in robbing me of my last blessing! But should Linton be unworthy—only a feeble tool to his father—I cannot abandon her to him! And, hard though it be to crush her buoyant spirit, I must persevere in making her sad while I live, and leaving her solitary when I die. Darling! I'd rather resign her to God, and lay her in the earth before me."
"Resign her to God as it is, sir," I answered, "and if we should lose you—which may He forbid—under His providence, I'll stand her friend and counsellor to the last. Miss Catherine is a good girl: I don't fear that she will go wilfully wrong; and people who do their duty are always finally rewarded."
Spring advanced; yet my master gathered no real strength, though he resumed his walks in the grounds with his daughter. To her inexperienced notions, this itself was a sign of convalescence; and then his cheek was often flushed, and his eyes were bright; she felt sure of his recovering. On her seventeenth birthday, he did not visit the churchyard: it was raining, and I observed—"You'll surely not go out to–night, sir?"
He answered,—"No, I'll defer it this year a little longer." He wrote again to Linton, expressing his great desire to see him; and, had the invalid been presentable, I've no doubt his father would have permitted him to come. As it was, being instructed, he returned an answer, intimating that Mr. Heathcliff objected to his calling at the Grange; but his uncle's kind remembrance delighted him, and he hoped to meet him sometimes in his rambles, and personally to petition that his cousin and he might not remain long so utterly divided.
That part of his letter was simple, and probably his own. Heathcliff knew he could plead eloquently for Catherine's company, then.
"I do not ask," he said, "that she may visit here; but am I never to see her, because my father forbids me to go to her home, and you forbid her to come to mine? Do, now and then, ride with her towards the Heights; and let us exchange a few words, in your presence! We have done nothing to deserve this separation; and you are not angry with me: you have no reason to dislike me, you allow, yourself. Dear uncle! send me a kind note to–morrow, and leave to join you anywhere you please, except at Thrushcross Grange. I believe an interview would convince you that my father's character is not mine: he affirms I am more your nephew than his son; and though I have faults which render me unworthy of Catherine, she has excused them, and for her sake, you should also. You inquire after my health—it is better; but while I remain cut off from all hope, and doomed to solitude, or the society of those who never did and never will like me, how can I be cheerful and well?"
Edgar, though he felt for the boy, could not consent to grant his request; because he could not accompany Catherine. He said, in summer, perhaps, they might meet: meantime, he wished him to continue writing at intervals, and engaged to give him what advice and comfort he was able by letter; being well aware of his hard position in his family. Linton complied; and had he been unrestrained, would probably have spoiled all by filling his epistles with complaints and lamentations: but his father kept a sharp watch over him; and, of course, insisted on every line that my master sent being shown; so, instead of penning his peculiar personal sufferings and distresses, the themes constantly uppermost in his thoughts, he harped on the cruel obligation of being held asunder from his friend and love; and gently intimated that Mr. Linton must allow an interview soon, or he should fear he was purposely deceiving him with empty promises.
Cathy was a powerful ally at home; and between them they at length persuaded my master to acquiesce in their having a ride or a walk together about once a week, under my guardianship, and on the moors nearest the Grange: for June found him still declining. Though he had set aside yearly a portion of his income for my young lady's fortune, he had a natural desire that she might retain—or at least return in a short time to—the house of her ancestors; and he considered her only prospect of doing that was by a union with his heir; he had no idea that the latter was failing almost as fast as himself; nor had any one, I believe: no doctor visited the Heights, and no one saw Master Heathcliff to make report of his condition among us. I, for my part, began to fancy my forebodings were false, and that he must be actually rallying, when he mentioned riding and walking on the moors, and seemed so earnest in pursuing his object. I could not picture a father treating a dying child as tyrannically and wickedly as I afterwards learned Heathcliff had treated him, to compel this apparent eagerness: his efforts redoubling the more imminently his avaricious and unfeeling plans were threatened with defeat by death. |
Wuthering Height | Emily Bronte | [
"romance",
"gothic"
] | [] | Chapter 31 | Summer was already past its prime, when Edgar reluctantly yielded his assent to their entreaties, and Catherine and I set out on our first ride to join her cousin. It was a close, sultry day: devoid of sunshine, but with a sky too dappled and hazy to threaten rain: and our place of meeting had been fixed at the guide–stone, by the cross–roads. On arriving there, however, a little herd–boy, despatched as a messenger, told us that,—"Maister Linton wer just o" this side th' Heights: and he'd be mitch obleeged to us to gang on a bit further.'
"Then Master Linton has forgot the first injunction of his uncle," I observed: "he bid us keep on the Grange land, and here we are off at once."
"Well, we'll turn our horses" heads round when we reach him,' answered my companion; "our excursion shall lie towards home."
But when we reached him, and that was scarcely a quarter of a mile from his own door, we found he had no horse; and we were forced to dismount, and leave ours to graze. He lay on the heath, awaiting our approach, and did not rise till we came within a few yards. Then he walked so feebly, and looked so pale, that I immediately exclaimed,—"Why, Master Heathcliff, you are not fit for enjoying a ramble this morning. How ill you do look!"
Catherine surveyed him with grief and astonishment: she changed the ejaculation of joy on her lips to one of alarm; and the congratulation on their long–postponed meeting to an anxious inquiry, whether he were worse than usual?
"No—better—better!" he panted, trembling, and retaining her hand as if he needed its support, while his large blue eyes wandered timidly over her; the hollowness round them transforming to haggard wildness the languid expression they once possessed.
"But you have been worse," persisted his cousin; "worse than when I saw you last; you are thinner, and—"
"I'm tired," he interrupted, hurriedly. "It is too hot for walking, let us rest here. And, in the morning, I often feel sick—papa says I grow so fast."
Badly satisfied, Cathy sat down, and he reclined beside her.
"This is something like your paradise," said she, making an effort at cheerfulness. "You recollect the two days we agreed to spend in the place and way each thought pleasantest? This is nearly yours, only there are clouds; but then they are so soft and mellow: it is nicer than sunshine. Next week, if you can, we'll ride down to the Grange Park, and try mine."
Linton did not appear to remember what she talked of and he had evidently great difficulty in sustaining any kind of conversation. His lack of interest in the subjects she started, and his equal incapacity to contribute to her entertainment, were so obvious that she could not conceal her disappointment. An indefinite alteration had come over his whole person and manner. The pettishness that might be caressed into fondness, had yielded to a listless apathy; there was less of the peevish temper of a child which frets and teases on purpose to be soothed, and more of the self–absorbed moroseness of a confirmed invalid, repelling consolation, and ready to regard the good–humoured mirth of others as an insult. Catherine perceived, as well as I did, that he held it rather a punishment, than a gratification, to endure our company; and she made no scruple of proposing, presently, to depart. That proposal, unexpectedly, roused Linton from his lethargy, and threw him into a strange state of agitation. He glanced fearfully towards the Heights, begging she would remain another half–hour, at least.
"But I think," said Cathy, "you'd be more comfortable at home than sitting here; and I cannot amuse you to–day, I see, by my tales, and songs, and chatter: you have grown wiser than I, in these six months; you have little taste for my diversions now: or else, if I could amuse you, I'd willingly stay."
"Stay to rest yourself," he replied. "And, Catherine, don't think or say that I'm very unwell: it is the heavy weather and heat that make me dull; and I walked about, before you came, a great deal for me. Tell uncle I'm in tolerable health, will you?"
"I'll tell him that you say so, Linton. I couldn't affirm that you are," observed my young lady, wondering at his pertinacious assertion of what was evidently an untruth.
"And be here again next Thursday," continued he, shunning her puzzled gaze. "And give him my thanks for permitting you to come—my best thanks, Catherine. And—and, if you did meet my father, and he asked you about me, don't lead him to suppose that I've been extremely silent and stupid: don't look sad and downcast, as you are doing—he'll be angry."
"I care nothing for his anger," exclaimed Cathy, imagining she would be its object.
"But I do," said her cousin, shuddering. "Don't provoke him against me, Catherine, for he is very hard."
"Is he severe to you, Master Heathcliff?" I inquired. "Has he grown weary of indulgence, and passed from passive to active hatred?"
Linton looked at me, but did not answer; and, after keeping her seat by his side another ten minutes, during which his head fell drowsily on his breast, and he uttered nothing except suppressed moans of exhaustion or pain, Cathy began to seek solace in looking for bilberries, and sharing the produce of her researches with me: she did not offer them to him, for she saw further notice would only weary and annoy.
"Is it half–an–hour now, Ellen?" she whispered in my ear, at last. "I can't tell why we should stay. He's asleep, and papa will be wanting us back."
"Well, we must not leave him asleep," I answered; "wait till lie wakes, and be patient. You were mighty eager to set off, but your longing to see poor Linton has soon evaporated!"
"Why did he wish to see me?" returned Catherine. "In his crossest humours, formerly, I liked him better than I do in his present curious mood. It's just as if it were a task he was compelled to perform—this interview—for fear his father should scold him. But I'm hardly going to come to give Mr. Heathcliff pleasure; whatever reason he may have for ordering Linton to undergo this penance. And, though I'm glad he's better in health, I'm sorry he's so much less pleasant, and so much less affectionate to me."
"You think he is better in health, then?" I said.
"Yes," she answered; "because he always made such a great deal of his sufferings, you know. He is not tolerably well, as he told me to tell papa; but he's better, very likely."
"There you differ with me, Miss Cathy," I remarked; "I should conjecture him to be far worse."
Linton here started from his slumber in bewildered terror, and asked if any one had called his name.
"No," said Catherine; "unless in dreams. I cannot conceive how you manage to doze out of doors, in the morning."
"I thought I heard my father," he gasped, glancing up to the frowning nab above us. "You are sure nobody spoke?"
"Quite sure," replied his cousin. "Only Ellen and I were disputing concerning your health. Are you truly stronger, Linton, than when we separated in winter? If you be, I'm certain one thing is not stronger—your regard for me: speak,—are you?"
The tears gushed from Linton's eyes as he answered, "Yes, yes, I am!" And, still under the spell of the imaginary voice, his gaze wandered up and down to detect its owner.
Cathy rose. "For to–day we must part," she said. "And I won't conceal that I have been sadly disappointed with our meeting; though I'll mention it to nobody but you: not that I stand in awe of Mr. Heathcliff."
"Hush," murmured Linton; "for God's sake, hush! He's coming." And he clung to Catherine's arm, striving to detain her; but at that announcement she hastily disengaged herself, and whistled to Minny, who obeyed her like a dog.
"I'll be here next Thursday," she cried, springing to the saddle. "Good–bye. Quick, Ellen!"
And so we left him, scarcely conscious of our departure, so absorbed was he in anticipating his father's approach.
Before we reached home, Catherine's displeasure softened into a perplexed sensation of pity and regret, largely blended with vague, uneasy doubts about Linton's actual circumstances, physical and social: in which I partook, though I counselled her not to say much; for a second journey would make us better judges. My master requested an account of our ongoings. His nephew's offering of thanks was duly delivered, Miss Cathy gently touching on the rest: I also threw little light on his inquiries, for I hardly knew what to hide and what to reveal. |
Subsets and Splits