The Chosen Page 10

  But that was not the weirdness.

  The key to the gate was on the outside. Sitting upon the earthen floor like it had been placed there deliberately.

  Three of his brothers were standing around the thing like it might blow up on them, and everywhere else, people were talking over each other. All that chatter ended, however, as Wrath's presence registered on the group.

  "What the fuck!" someone said.

  "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Okay, that was Butch. "What the hell?"

  More brothers jumped on that bandwagon, but the King was having none of it. "What am I looking at! Someone fucking tell me what I'm looking at!"

  In the silence that followed, Tohr waited for one of the first responders, so to speak, to do the rundown.

  Except no one seemed to want to man up.

  Fine, fuck it, Tohr thought. "Qhuinn's conscious, bleeding, and locked inside the Tomb. The key"--Tohr shook his head at the gate--"is on our side of the lock. Qhuinn, is Xcor in there with you or not?"

  Even though that trail of blood out through the forest provided answer enough.

  Qhuinn dropped his head and rubbed at his dark hair, his palm making slow circles in what was already matted. "He escaped."

  Okaaaaaaaaaaaaaay, you want to talk about f-bombs? It was like each and every one of the Brotherhood had had a piano dropped on his fricking foot and was using the word "fuck" as an analgesic.

  A sense of urgency made Tohr unplug from all that. Turning away, he took out his cell phone, initiated the flashlight, and swept the beam around. Tracking those messy prints in the loose sand and dirt was easy and he followed them back out to the mouth of the cave. Xcor had been shuffling, rather than walking, his ambulation compromised clearly both by the month he'd spent on his back as well as by whatever had gone down when he and Qhuinn had done their rounds.

  As Tohr reemerged in the thick of the forest, he crouched down, and swung the little light in a circle. Behind him, a huge argument was rolling out between Wrath and the Brotherhood, those deep voices echoing around courtesy of the rock walls, but he let them have at it. Walking forward, he shut the beam off and put his cell phone back into his ass pocket. He hadn't taken a coat or anything with him as he'd left the mansion, but the twenty-five-degree night didn't bother him.

  He was too busy making like a bloodhound, sniffing the air.

  Xcor had gone to the west.

  Tohr fell into a jog, but he couldn't go too fast. With the wind coming and going in different directions, it was hard to keep the trail.

  And then it just ended.

  Circling around, Tohr back-tracked so he could reconnect with the blood path...and then yup, lost it once more.

  "Oh, you fucking bastard," he hissed into the night.

  How in the fuck that weak, wounded piece of shit had managed to dematerialize, Tohr was never going to comprehend. But you couldn't disagree with the facts: The only possible explanation for the trail getting cut off so abruptly was that the bastard had somehow found the strength and will to ghost out.

  If Tohr hadn't hated the motherfucker with such a passion...he'd have almost respected the sonofabitch.

  --

  As Xcor resumed his corporeal form, it was naked in a heap on some snow-covered brush, deep within a forest that was no longer of pine, but of maple and oak. Gasping, he forced his eyes to get to work, and when the landscape abruptly appeared clear and in focus, he knew he'd made it off the Brotherhood's property. The mhis, that protective blurring of the landscape that marked their territory, was gone, and his sense of direction was returned unto him.

  Not that he had any clue of his whereabouts.

  Over the course of his escape, he had managed to dematerialize three times. Once from about fifty yards outside of the cave; the second, some distance away from that, mayhap a mile down the mountain; and then to here, to this flat portion of parkland, which suggested he was well away from the mountain where he had been held.

  Rolling onto his back, he pumped his lungs and prayed for strength.

  The immediate threat to his life having passed, an insurmountable weakness came upon him, as deadly as any other kind of foe. And then there was the cold that further compounded the energy deficit, slowing his already poor reflexes as well as his heart rate. But none of that was his biggest concern.

  Turning his head, he looked to the east.

  The horizon was going to start warming from dawn's imminent arrival within the hour. Even in his state, he could feel the shimmers of warning across his naked skin.

  Forcing his head off the ground, he searched for shelter, a cave, perhaps, or a collection of boulders...an overturned, rotting trunk that offered a hollow place in which he could hide himself. All he saw were trees, standing arm in arm, their bare boughs forming a canopy that was not going to provide nearly enough protection from the dawn.

  He was going to be up in flames as soon as the sun rose fully.

  At least then he would be warm, however. And at least then, it would all be over.

  Certainly, whatever horrors immolation held for him, they were nothing in comparison to what tortures the Brotherhood would have no doubt put him through--tortures that would have been for naught, assuming information on his Band of Bastards was what they would be after.

  For one, his soldiers would have followed protocol and decamped to another locale following his disappearance. After all, death or capture were the only two explanations for any absence of his, and there was no logical rationale to gamble on which one it might be.

  For the second, he wouldn't have given up his fighters even if he were in the process of being disemboweled.

  The Bloodletter hadn't been able to break him. No one else would.

  But again, all of that was moot, the now.

  Curling onto his side, he drew his legs up to his chest, wrapped his arms around himself, and shivered. The leaves under him were no soft bed, their frozen, curled edges cutting into his skin. And as wind crisscrossed the landscape, a tormentor in search of victims, it seemed to pay particular attention to him, pushing forest debris into his nooks and crannies, stealing ever more of his dwindling body heat.

  Closing his eyes, he found a part of the past coming back to him...

  --

  It was December of his ninth year, and he was in front of the ramshackle, thatch-roofed cottage in which he and his nursemaid stayed. Indeed, as soon as night fell each evening, he was cast out here and chained in place by the neck, tolerated upon the interior once more only when the sun was threatening in the east and the humans would be out. For most of the lonely, cold hours, especially during this, the winter season, he huddled against the outer wall of his home, moving on his tether only to stay in the lee of the wind.

  His stomach was empty, and going to stay that way. No one of the race in their tiny village would e'er approach him to offer him food in his starvation, and his nursemaid certainly would not feed him until she had to--and then it would be scraps after dawn of the meals she ate herself.

  Putting his dirty fingers to his mouth, he felt the distortion that ran between his upper lip and the base of his nose. The defect had always been thus, and because of it, his mahmen had sent him out of the birthing room, casting him into the hands of his nursemaid. With no one else to care for him, he tried to do right by the female, tried to make her happy, but nothing he did e'er pleased her--and she seemed to relish telling him, o'er and o'er again, how his birth mahmen had banished him from her sight, how he had been a curse unto an otherwise high-bred female of worth.

  His best course was to get out of the nursemaid's way, out of her sight, out of her home. And yet she would not let him run away. He had tried that sometime back and gotten as far as the rim of fields that surrounded their hamlet. As soon as his absence had registered, however, she had come for him and beaten him so badly that he had cowered and cried in the midst of her blows, begging her for forgiveness, for what, he did not know.

  That was how he came to be chained
.

  The metal links ran from the rough collar around his throat to the iron horse hitch at the corner of the cottage. No more wandering for him, and no more shifting position unless he had to relieve himself or keep sheltered. The coarse leather about his neck had worn raw spots in his skin, and as it was never removed, there was no healing of the sores to be had. But he had long learned to endure.

  His life, such that he was aware of it, was about enduring.

  Bending his knees up to his meager chest, he linked his arms around the bones of his legs and shivered. His vestments were limited to one of his nursemaid's threadbare wool capes and a set of male's pants that were so large that he could secure them under his armpits with a rope. His feet were bare, but if he kept them under the cloak, they did not freeze.

  As the wind gusted through bare trees, the sound it made was like the howl of a wolf, and his eyes widened as he searched the shifting darkness, in the event that what he heard was indeed of lupine nature. He was terrified of wolves. If one, or a pack, came after him, he would be eaten, he was quite sure, as his chain meant he could not seek escape into or up any of the trees, nor could he reach the door to the cottage.

  And he did not believe his nursemaid would save him. Sometimes he quite believed she chained him in the hopes he would be consumed, his death from elements or the wild freeing her whilst, if it occurred thusly, not being her exact fault.

  To whom she was accountable, though, he did not know. If his mahmen had disowned him, who paid for his keep? His sire? The male had never been identified unto him and had certainly never shown up--

  As an eerie howling sound wove through the night, he cringed.

  It was the wind. It had to be...merely the wind.

  Seeking something to calm his mind, he stared at the pool of warm yellow light that emanated from the cottage's single window. The flickering illumination played upon the twisted tentacles of the dead raspberry patch that surrounded the cottage, making the thorned bushes move as if they were alive--and he tried not to find anything sinister in the constant shifting. No, instead, he fixed his eyes upon the glow and tried to picture himself before the hearth inside, warming his hands and his feet, his weak muscles uncoiling from their turgor-ous self-protection against the chill.

  In his idle dreaming, he imagined his nursemaid smiling at him and holding her arms out, encouraging him to nestle into safety against her. He fantasized of her stroking his hair and not caring that it was filthy, and offering him food that was unspoiled and whole. He would bathe afterward, cleaning his skin and removing the collar from his throat. Ointment would soothe that which pained him, and then she would tell him that she cared not that he was imperfect.

  She would forgive him for his existence, and whisper that his mahmen actually loved him and would come for him soon.

  And then he would finally sleep soundly, the suffering over--

  Another howl interrupted his musings, and he rushed back to full awareness, searching once more the brush and the stands of skeletal trees.

  It was always thus, this back and forth betwixt him feeling the need to be aware of his surroundings in the event of attack...and him seeking shelter in his mind to avoid that from which he could do naught to save himself.

  Tucking his head into his shoulder, he squeezed his eyes shut once more.

  There was another fantasy he entertained, although not as often. He pretended that his sire, about whom his nursemaid had ne'er spoken, but whom Xcor imagined was a fierce fighter for the race, came upon a steed of war and rescued him away. He imagined the great fighter calling out to him, summoning him forth and putting him high upon the saddle, calling him "son" with pride. Upon a powerful gallop they would set, the mane lashing Xcor's face as they went in search of adventure and glory.

  In truth, that was just as unlikely to happen as him being welcomed into the cottage's interior--

  Off in the distance, the pounding of horse hooves signaled an approach, and for a moment, his heart leapt. Had he conjured up his mahmen? His sire? Had the impossible finally occurred--

  No, not horseback. It was an incredible stagecoach, a proper regal one with a gold gilded body and a matched pair of white horses. There were even footmales in back and a uniformed coachman as driver.

  It was a member of the glymera, an aristocrat.

  And yes, as a footmale jumped down and attended the exit of a gowned and ermine'd female, Xcor had ne'er seen someone as beautiful or scented anything even half as fragrant.

  Shifting his position such that he could see around the shack's corner, he winced as the rough leather cut anew into his collarbone.

  The grand female did not bother knocking, but had the footmale open wide the creaking door. "Hharm mated her upon the birth of the male. It is done. You are free--he shall not hold you unto this any longer."

  His nursemaid frowned. "What say you?"

  " 'Tis true. Father helped with the sizable dowry that he demanded. Our cousin in now his proper shellan and you are free."

  "Nae, this cannae be..."

  As the two females backed into the cottage and shut the footmale out, Xcor struggled to his feet, and peered into the window. Through the thick, bubble-filled glass, he watched as his nursemaid continued to react with shock and disbelief. The other female, however, must have assuaged her contradiction, for there was a pause...and then a great transformation presented itself.

  Indeed, a joy so pervasive suffused his nursemaid internally that she was like a cold hearth rekindled, no longer the worn wraith of ugliness he was used to, but something else entirely.

  Resplendent she became, even in her tattered garb.

  Her mouth moved, and even though he could not hear her voice, he understood exactly what she spoke: I am free...I am free!

  Through the wavy glass, he watched her look around as if in search of sundries of significance.

  She was leaving him, he thought with panic.

  As if she read his thoughts, his nursemaid paused and looked over at him through the glass, the firelight playing across her flushed and excited face. With their eyes locked, he put his hand to the dirty pane in entreaty.

  "Take me with you," he whispered. "Do not leave me thus..."

  The other female glanced in his direction and her wince suggested the sight of him turned her stomach. She said something to his nursemaid, and the one who had cared for him for his life thus far didnae immediately respond. But then her face hardened and she straightened as if bracing herself against an inclement gale.

  He began to bang on the glass. "Do not leave me! Please!"

  The two females turned from him and hustled out, and he ran forth to catch them a'fore they mounted the coach.

  "Take me with you!"

  As he rushed forth, he reached the end of his chain and was jerked off his feet by his neck, landing hard, the breath knocked from him.

  The female in the fine garments paid no mind as she gathered her skirts and ducked her head to enter the coach's interior. And his nursemaid hurried in behind, putting a hand up to her temple to shield her eyes from him.

  "Help me!" He clawed at the rope, scraping his flesh. "What shall become of me!"

  One of the footmales closed the gilded hatch. And the doggen hesitated before returning to his post atop the rear.

  "There is an orphanage not far from here," he said roughly. "Break yourself free and proceed fifty lochens unto the north. There you shall find others."

  "Help me!" Xcor screamed as the driver cracked the reins and the horses leapt off, the coach rambling down the dirt lane.

  He continued to yell as he was left behind, the noises of the departure growing more faint in the distance...until they were no more.

  As the wind blew upon him, the tracks of the tears on his face turned icy and his heart thundered in his ears, making it impossible to hear aught. From the flush of his anxiety, he grew so hot from his agitation that he cast aside the cloak, and blood seeped from around his throat, coating his bare chest an
d those huge pants.

  Fifty lochens? An orphanage?

  Get himself free?

  Such simple words, coming forth from a guilty conscience. But of no aid to him a'tall.

  No, he thought. He had but himself to rely upon the now.

  Even as he wanted to curl into a ball and cry in fear and sorrow, he knew he must shore himself up, for shelter was dearly required. And with that in foremind, he gathered his emotions and gripped the chain with both his hands. Leaning back, he pulled with all his might, trying to get it free of the tether, its links hissing at the movement.

  Whilst he strained, he had some notion that the coach could not be that far off. He might still catch them if he could just get free and run...

  He further told himself that that was not his mahmen who had just departed, having lied to him all along. No, that was merely a nursemaid of some uncommon station.

  It was unbearable to think of her otherwise.

  TWELVE

  It seemed appropriate that Qhuinn had to stare through iron bars to see his brothers--not that he wanted to look at them. But, yeah, a separation between him and those other living-and-breath'ings, marked by an ancient, impenetrable gate, seemed like the best course of inaction.

  He was not fit for any kind of company.

  And clearly, they were not happy with him, either.

  As he sat with his ass on the bare stone floor of the cave and his back against a section of the shelves of jars that was still intact, he watched the Brotherhood prowl and snarl on the far side of all that iron, pacing back and forth and running into each other as they yelled at him. The good news--and it was only marginally "good," he supposed--was that the sound on the whole drama had been turned way down, some trick of the universe, or maybe his failing blood pressure, going dimmer-switch on the world around him.

  Just as well. He was already an expert in fuck-onomics. There was nothing that even their most creative use of the f-word could teach him about cursing anyone out.

  Besides, considering he was the noun in all those sentences? Who needed that right now. He was doing plenty of rounds of self-immolation in his brain already, thank you very much.