Abithica (12 page)

TWO!

Oh, right, the old count-to-ten routine.

THREE!

And when they got to ten, then what? The feeling of hatred had just gotten stronger, if it really was that. Rage might have been a better guess. Fury? Either way, they wouldn’t have been counting unless there was something ugly waiting at the end… like maybe a permanent underground location, marked with a goat’s head?

SEVEN!

What the hell had happened to four, five and six? Seven was too close to the end, and now he had to get up… or die. Shit, the air was thickening up again.

EIGHT!

Okay, okay, I’m getting up. See?
He managed to get one foot free of his robe and lurched up in a single but wobbly effort. No sooner had he straightened than the air cleared once more. The counting stopped, but for some strange reason he couldn’t lift his head all the way. Something was blocking it, but nothing he could feel. His neck muscles were locked up, same as if he was bench pressing. At any rate he was standing, and that’s what they’d wanted, right?

Oh, no! One of his trademark giggles was on its way to the surface. All those smart asses dealing with his ADHD had never cured that curse. If anything they’d actually made it happen at the worst possible times, like now.
Look away from them. Don’t let them see your stupid leer.
He managed to shift his gaze to the circle of disciples—stopping when he saw Theresa. Her hood had slipped back and her face was a mask of terror, making her look like a bleached skull. The rest of her shouted the word she must have been thinking—IDIOT!

That did it, thank God! The giggles evaporated. He cranked his silly smirk back into an acceptably sour sneer as he turned back. Time to play the game their way, acting real scared. That’s probably what they wanted. There were three of them, all in black robes with peaked hoods, sitting on elevated benches made from old stone steps. Each one had armrests, but nothing matched.

The one in the middle lifted an arm and pointed to a spot maybe ten feet in front of his stone throne. “APPROACH!”

This one’s voice was different, higher pitched. Apparently, these guys weren’t real big talkers. Probably had their chicksicles tucked safely behind bars, not roaming free like they ought to be. That would explain a lot of the roaring and anger.

“Explain,” another one barked. He seemed as angry as the first guy.
Why are they so mad? What am I supposed to explain?
Sure, Theresa had stressed his not speaking unless spoken to, but how could he find out what he was supposed to explain if he couldn’t ask? Maybe it was another of those gray areas that had been the story of his life. No help from her now… she was probably back there bawling over her idiot brother. Maybe the thing to do was just try to look respectful and not “mock authority”—another of his traits the experts and their pills had failed to squash. Mocking the other direction seemed okay as long as the experts were the mockers and he was the mocked. He wasn’t supposed to notice those rolled eyes and exasperated gestures, the whispers and groans when he said something out of turn or embarrassed someone.

The barker’s hood tipped back as if he, too, was exasperated. No semblance of a face or rolled eyes inside, just inky blackness. The angry bark turned icy cold and part of a hand showed at the end of his sleeve. That
was
a hand, wasn’t it? More like a shiny, black claw.

“We are waiting… for
you
… to finish approaching us and answer our question. If your mind wasn’t so intriguing, your impertinence and delay would already have cost you your life. Others before you have been far less… lucky.”

“I didn’t understand your question, sir.” The air was so thick and oppressive that moving in it was like dragging twenty pound weights tied to his feet.

“This word of yours… chicksicle. Explain.” The “hand” appeared to beckon him forward. Another step, and then another. They were reading his thoughts! What were these… these
things?
The speaker’s laugh was demonic, conjuring up images of murder and torture and rotting flesh.

“Sir, I was wondering if… I mean…” He took as deep a breath as possible. The answer had seemed so clear just seconds before, but now his mind was a complete blank. “I… I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to wear my underwear, sir, so I was wondering if you had yours on.”

By then, he was standing directly below them. He hadn’t answered the chicksicle question, and now they’d really be mad. He inadvertently glanced up, then immediately staggered backward, falling on his rump. There were no eyes inside those hoods, only undulating blackness that somehow looked alive, like hundreds of inky black snakes all intertwined and moving about!

I’m happy to serve. I’m happy to serve. I’m happy to serve…

The original Legnas speaker took over once more, as though he might be the leader.

“What are you willing to offer us in return for your life, Eliam Blackwood? Your sister has offered us your soul in exchange for hers.”

* * *

Samyaza breathed in deeply, savoring the odious but pleasurable smell of the pathetic skin-and-bone creature groveling before him. It had been awhile since he’d encountered a soul of this caliber, strong and vital, worth ten of the usual humans they fed upon. Oh, how he was tempted to snuff the life right out of it, vile as it was. Rats would be better—even snakes. They at least knew and accepted their place in the universe. But then, pleasures were often measured in the unusual, like dogs rolling in carrion.

This creature was a piece of work, however, well worth the extra care it would take to extract every iota of pleasure before termination. Crocell had already made his move to take ownership, but he’d yield. There’d be others to satisfy his appetite.

“
This
one belongs to
me, Crocell.
” The mental command offered no alternative. Crocell sat back while the sickening creature still groveled mere feet away, murmuring his silly mantra over and over.

What might he have seen when he looked up at me? What do any of them see? Does my mere presence instill terror?
“Get up, Eliam Blackwood. Let us hear how
much
you fear us.”

But the command to stand was ignored for a second time. First the delay in approaching, then the giggling, and now this? At least it was new and different. Crying, screaming, pleading—those were expected—but laughing?

There the creature lay in the fetal position. Probably consumed by panic. When his answer finally came, he stammered it while rolling onto his hands and knees. This time he did not look up.

“I’m not sure I actually do fear you, sir, but I’m happy to serve.”

“
Why
would you not fear us? Who do you think will help you? God? Do you think God loves you enough to save you from me? Save you from any of us? You, with all your faults and weaknesses? You are alone, Eliam. No one will save you.”

“Oh, I’m very aware I’m alone… sir… always have been and always will be… but I’m alive—all of us here are alive,” he nodded as if to take in the other disciples, “because we have something to offer you. I just need to figure out what that is and do it better than anybody else in this room.”

This human excites me. I must be the first to taste him. He has already set himself up for it. Look at the way he waits as I approach, not even flinching. But when I touch him… ah, there… he’s trembling, and yet he’s defiant. He’s careful not to look into my eyes a second time. He learns fast, or else was warned. His sister, maybe?

“Look at me, Eliam Blackwood.”

The command prompted the briefest of glances, but it was enough to permit a mind lock, and with that a pried-open channel to the boy’s soul. Now it was imperative to be cautious while drawing out a single minute, silver strand. Stopping at just one would be difficult, but worth the extra discipline, for if the body died the soul would leave, along with the nourishment it offered.

Careful…Wait for it… There, that’s enough.

The connection could be severed now. The sweep of an arm, and the boy tumbled away, thudding into the nearest wall with no more than a whimper. Surprisingly, that single taste had completely satisfied the craving that preceded it. How was that possible? Usually such a small amount only hinted at the bigger experience ahead, like a shadow imitating night, but this was no imitation. The sensation brought back those halcyon times prior to the creation of humans. Ah… such peace.

The sensation would pass quickly—it always did—but at least there’d be that delightful aftertaste, that feeling of having fed as opposed to the process of feeding, but it should have appeared by now! In its place was a massive void—a crying hunger, the need for more and his sudden willingness to give anything for another taste. Bad enough to rely on humans for sustenance, but to actually
need
them? How could he be emptier after feeding?

Had this impertinent underling somehow reversed the… No, that was impossible. However, it was time to break his spirit, time to show the disciples that this one was to be treated no differently than they. They need not know there was anything unusual about him. Especially the boy’s sister!

“You… pull the iron from the fire and bring it here.” He raised his robed arm, facing her, pointing.

Now he’d watch the boy’s face closely. Yes, that had been a tear trickling down as the command was given, but not a quiver when the sister returned. The branding iron glowed red hot, with the goat head brighter than the rest. It would cool quickly, returning to black while still hot enough to brand a dozen in a row, but it was the glowing red that converted all candidates into sobbing hysteria. At that point, two or more disciples were usually needed to hold them still.

It would happen when she got close enough, but the iron’s red tip was wobbling, shaking as she tried to hold the long tool steady. The boy stared at it, then up at her.

Ah, the agony to come. That delightful stench of burned flesh!
What?
What had the boy just whispered to her? I forgive you? Were those the words?
He was holding out his hand, peeking at her with one eye open, telling her she had no choice. He was actually telling her to
hurry up
! Where was the hysteria? The blubbering?

In any case, hurrying could not be allowed. This was the high point of the initiation, the act that all had looked forward to for so many days now. This boy wished it to be over quickly, but he would wait. He’d wait and suffer while he considered his fate. A shame that, just days earlier, another male human about his age had been destroyed in this very room. How elegant it would have been for Eliam Blackwood to observe true branding techniques, applied to many more sensitive locations than the mere back of a hand. How eager might he have been to hurry after that?

Now the girl was sobbing. Clearly she was unable to continue in the proper way, taking far too much time on the one hand, too little on the other. The goat’s head was nearly black, so much had it cooled. Although still serviceable, it was far less intimidating than one bright red—or orange—or even yellow. The boy needed time to think about his coming pain and the horror that accompanied it. The terror needed to sink in. It was time to intervene.

Samyaza raised one arm, draped at its end by the black folds. “Wait!” he commanded the girl. “Return the branding iron to its bed of coals.” When she turned away, he spun about, returning to his seat. Uvall and Crocell would certainly wonder what this sudden change might mean, but it was Crocell who was better at reading human minds. Young Blackwood might think he was about to be sacrificed.

“
What is the boy thinking, Crocell?”

“
He is a strange one. He is wondering if this is why he was told not to wear his undergarments. All his attention is focused on willing his buttocks to stay firm. He chants about not screaming like a girl… over and over.”

Uvall joined in. “
This one doesn’t give up easily. I say we use that trait to our advantage, Samyaza. Imagine the chaos he can spread on our behalf.”

“But what if he runs?”
Crocell interjected. “
What if he seeks help, Samyaza? We know nothing about him at this point, aside from what he has shown us in being obstinate. He could well run from here to the nearest authorities.”

“Who would believe him? He is innocent looking in a way, and without our mark, this child can help us reach the pious, who will never see it coming. They of all humans understand the goat head emblem and what it signifies. In the meantime, we will weaken him until he’s as pliable as modeling clay. Then all four of us will feed.

* * *

Dillard’s Department Store, Tucson

I delayed my return to the shoe department until just a few minutes before Faith’s quitting time. She didn’t see my less-than-graceful approach because at the time she was sitting on the world’s shortest stool, sliding a very expensive looking pair of black heels onto a meticulously manicured foot at the time. The good news was that I could walk all by myself. The bad news was… well… I was still a little shaky, physically and otherwise.