Blood of War (42 page)

“I think I get the picture.”

Repressing a flash of annoyance, Jurel sighed and leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him. He had begun to understand something. He had come to find his past again, to find that idyllic time when he had been ignorant of the world, of Soldiers of God and Salosians, of himself. But things were not always what they seemed. Escaping the present is like trying to escape your own skin. Somewhere deep inside, it seemed there was a mutinous part of him, a part that operated under its own agenda. A part of him that wondered if perhaps it would be best to leave the past in the past. That would certainly have included wooing and marrying Erin. And that would explain, far more thoroughly than the reason he tried to convince himself with, why he was here at this farm again.

And it seemed that quiet, treacherous part of him was right. Here he was at the farm, here he was looking for his past but all he found were remains picked to a dry skeleton by the scavenger known as Time. Galbin was gone and so was Daved. With Valik in charge, the farm was a shambles. Erin was married, already lost to him, and all he could think of was Metana. Even when Erin was wrapped in his arms, even when he felt her warmth flowing through him, in his mind he saw raven black hair, spectacular eyes that changed color the way a sea does depending on the sky above, and a smile that always managed to stop his heart. He knew it was not possible. Not after what he had done. But he would not be satisfied with anyone else. He would rather live his life alone, in misery, than settle for second best. He shuddered. After what he had caused, after what he had become, living alone with his misery would still be best for everyone.

His past was gone. He had no choice but to admit it. What use to dwell on it? What use to pine for days long gone, days as ephemeral as yesterday's wind? Was that not the cause of so much bitterness? So much resentment? But then what did he have? Emptiness? Anger? Terror? A bunch of people who wanted him to be something that he fervently did not want to be, to do things that horrified and terrified him?

“Look Darren. There's nothing for you to fear. I didn't come to poach. I came to see if there was anything left here of my past. There isn't. Things are too different. There's no coming back for me. She's yours. Treat her right and in time she'll come to love you. Perhaps not as deeply as you love her but it could still be enough.”

Darren's gaze was sharp as he regarded his one-time friend. “What happened to you?”

“Oh gods. Not you too.”

“Seriously, you don't sound like the Jurel I remember. You barely even look like him.”

Jurel rose to his feet and clapped Darren on the shoulder. “Have a good life, my friend. Be happy and take care of her.”

Then he turned and trudged back up the slope, away from Darren, away from Erin, away from his past. Not once did he look back.

* * *

He was not entirely sure why he had agreed to stay the night. After dinner, a feast that would surely have made a king proud while beggaring his subjects—and was mostly thrown in the trash; the half dozen people at the table barely made a dent in the mound of food—after Valik had sauntered away like the cock of the walk, Ingirt and Erin had implored him and though he managed to decline the first few times, they kept at it until finally he conceded that he would not leave until the following morning.

He had spent the next two hours consoling a broken Ingirt. He should have kept news of his father to himself.

Sleep eluded him for his mind was too full, too buffeted by what he finally understood. He lay tossing and turning in the hastily prepared bed, in the dark staring at nothing, hoping dawn would soon break though he knew it was still hours away. Several times he tried to push away his thoughts, to clear his mind with a meditation exercise Metana had taught him but it did no good. The braces that his mind had created, the buffers it had put in place in an attempt to create a sort of subconscious safety-net were crumbling, tumbling away and it left him feeling raw, chafed, like being dragged across gravel behind a maddened horse.

In the midst of his thoughts there came the sound of his door opening.

A whisper, “Jurel?”

“Erin? What are you doing here?”

A faint snick as his door was gently shut and then light footsteps crossed the room to his bedside. His blanket lifted and he was shocked when she snuggled in beside him, pressing herself close. He was doubly shocked when the pale moonlight filtering in through the crack in the window drapes revealed that she wore only a thin shift and he could see every curve of her, every contour, every soft corner reflected like fresh milk. Her hands played across his chest, her lips brushed his neck as she nuzzled him, her breath tickled warmly.

If a beautiful, mostly naked woman crawls into a man's bed and makes her intentions perfectly clear, what is that man expected to do? Especially when that man has been searching for an outlet, a way to connect with something or someone from his past?

He felt himself tremble, heard a low growl escape his throat. He turned to her, pulled her close, drew her lips to his. She moaned as their lips connected, as she pressed herself closer. Her hands began exploring, tracing his muscles, running the length and breadth of him. She moaned as she gripped him, began to move her hand rhythmically. With her other hand, she lowered his trousers. He rolled on top of her and, between her thighs, he let himself be drawn forward by her guiding hand. Her heat enveloped him. He moaned, a low animal sound.

“Yes,” she moaned against his lips. “Yes. Oh I love you, Jurel.”

It was like a slap in the face. He froze, and opened his eyes to the woman under him. Her lips parted slightly, she smiled, her eyes like hot embers. He lurched backward, falling off the bed in a tangle of blankets and trousers.

“What's the matter?” she asked.

Panting, he closed his eyes. Waves of hot and cold chased each other up and down his limbs.

“We can't,” he groaned. “Gods help me,
I
can't.”

She sat up and pulled the blankets close as though for protection, like a shield, from a mortal attack. “I don't...”

“We can't Erin. We can't do this.”

“But I love you.” Her voice was small. “I thought you loved me too.”

“I did. I thought I did. There's been too much, Erin. Too much has happened to me. I can't.”

“I have thought of you every day for the past year and more. I have waited and hoped and prayed for your return. Every day, I longed for you. Every day, I went to bed disappointed and alone. When Valik was violating me, it was you I was thinking about. It was you who was my solace.”

“And now you're married. To a good man. To my friend. He'll treat you well, better than I could. And...” He paused. What he would say next would be that mortal attack; no blanket would shield her. All things considered, it would also be mostly a lie. Perhaps that would be all right. Perhaps it would be better this way. If it kept her safe, if it kept her comfortable and at peace, then it would be worth it.

Screwing up his courage for the inevitable outburst, he finished what he meant to say. “There's someone else. I love her and she loves me. I'm sorry.”

There was no outburst. There were no histrionics. There were not even any tears. There was only an eternity of silence compressed into one wounded moment before she hitched her breath, and before he could say anything else, she flew from his room, slamming the door shut behind her.

* * *

He tossed and turned, cursing Erin for putting them in that position, bitterly berating himself for letting it happen. He muttered curses as he tried to find a comfortable position but for some reason, no matter which way he turned, there was either some part of him stretched too far, or some unruly, ridge-like wrinkle in the linens pushing up into his flesh.

He struggled with images of Metana, the hurt look she had given him before he sent her away, the hurt look he imagined she would give him if she knew what he had done that night. He struggled with images of Erin, and a thousand others from his childhood, that floated up from the depths to haunt him like vengeful ghosts. He struggled for a long time before he finally succumbed to a fitful doze.

* * *

He did not know what awakened him. Not at first. His eyes flew open and he stared into the bruised gray darkness of predawn light that filtered through a crack between the curtains covering the window. He listened, his ears straining for whatever it was.

There was a creak, a floorboard protesting under load.

His instincts screamed.

He rolled from the bed and as he hit the floor on his hands and knees, there was a dull
thump
from above. He surged to his feet. For an instant, he could not understand what he was seeing. His rumpled bed had a knife hilt sticking out of the mattress right about where his heart would have been if he had not moved. He raised his eyes and standing across the bed from him were two shadows. One of them moved. The dim light caught rugged, ragged features and Merlit's beady little eyes.

The other began to circle the bed toward him with one hand extended. A very long, very sharp shadow stretched down from that hand.

It was too much. Oh but it was too much. Ever since Metana, nothing had gone right. Ever since his father, ever since Kurin, ever since...ever since...

Every person has a limit, a point, when reached, pure instinct takes over. A point when the part of the mind that is sane and rational steps back in disgust, says
“Screw this. I'm outta here,”
and the deepest most turbulent emotions boil to the surface unabated. Logic and thought breaks down, dissipates into a formless mist, and action becomes the order of the day. Jurel had reached that point.

“Merlit,” hissed the second man. “Look at his eyes.”

“What the-”

That was all Merlit was able to get out before Jurel leapt forward. He gripped the second man by his shirt and with all his strength, he threw him backwards. There was a bone-shaking crack, and a sickening wet crunch. The second man fell limply to the floor. Blood ran black down runnels created by the ruined plaster of the cracked wall.

Merlit's eyes widened and his hands came up in supplication. Flying over the bed, Jurel caught him and lifted him, let momentum carry him forward. Merlit struck the wall. More cracking, more rending of plaster and wood and suddenly Merlit was dropping from a ragged hole to the ground fifteen feet below. There was no scream as he fell; Merlit had died at the moment of impact with the wall when a tortured stud, sheared loose from its seating, drove through the back of his skull.

Staring through the hole in the wall to the ground below, Jurel panted like an overheated predator. Somewhere in the house, there came a call, a question, as the residents were roused from their slumber. He barely heard it. Or rather, he heard it but it was beneath his notice.

He spun on his heel, stormed through the room, through the thick oaken door that gave way like paper before him and showered the facing wall with splinters. He strode down the hall toward the master suite. The room that had once been Galbin's and Ingirt's, the room that now housed someone else. He knew who would be behind his attempted murder. Honestly, could there be any doubt?

The heads of maids and servants poked from opening doors, but when they saw him approaching, they gasped and retreated quickly behind slamming doors. Ingirt herself stepped out into the hallway and trembled when she saw him. Her hair whipped wildly in a wind that came from nowhere.

“Jurel? Is that you?”

“Step aside, Ingirt,” he grated and though he spoke quietly, his voice boomed, caused the rafters to shudder.

“But what is it? What's wrong?”

“I have no quarrel with you. Step aside.”

“Please, Jurel. Whatever it is, please tell me. I will help. Erin, tell him.”

Jurel turned. Behind him, no more than five paces away, stood Erin, her diaphanous shift peeking from the open front of her housecoat.

“Jurel? Why are your eyes glowing?” Erin whispered.

With a growl, Jurel turned back to Ingirt. Behind her, the door opened and Valik stepped out, his face a thundercloud.

“What is the meaning of all this racket?” he bellowed.

Then he saw. Squeaking, eyes saucer wide, he disappeared back into his room and slammed the door.

“Ingirt, I will tell you one last time. I have no quarrel with you but your son has been judged and sentenced. Step aside.”

It was no wonder Galbin had loved this woman so much. She had so much strength, so much will. When her world crumbled, she went on no matter what. A little repressed perhaps, and very tired, but she went on. Even in the face of death, she somehow managed to straighten herself, though she continued to tremble visibly. Her eyes flashed hot anger and defiance and fear but no hesitation.

“I will not. You will tell me what is happening.”

“Your son tried to have me murdered. Merlit is on your front lawn. A second man is in my room. A knife sticks from my mattress.”

And that was all the explanation he would afford her. He had already reached his judgment. Valik was a dead man. He just did not quite know it yet.

He reached forward. Gently, very gently, he lifted her by the arms and set her down behind him. He stepped past and shattered Valik's door with one swing of his fist. He scanned the room and there, in a corner, curled up in a ball, was Valik.

“Please don't hurt me,” Valik whimpered.

His pathetic plea had worked once in the past. Not again.

He dragged Valik kicking and screaming past the ornate canopied bed, past the dresser intricately carved from mahogany, past the shattered ruin of a door. He dragged him past horrified onlookers, down the flight of stairs. He smashed his way through the front door and out into the yard beyond the veranda.

He threw Valik to the ground so that he was only a few feet from Merlit's crumpled body.

“Did you send him?” Jurel rasped.

“What? I-no. I don't know anything,” the man cried.

Jurel kicked him in the ribs, heard a satisfying snap. Valik howled.