by Megan Derr
"What?" Deacon asked.
"Fresh meat."
Deacon's stomach churned. "I thought they froze everything."
"Probably not all of it. Aren't there always places who demand fresh only? Goblins can't be that different. Probably local stuff, and the frozen is shipped out."
"If I hadn't already been put off meat by my first encounter with goblins, this would do it," Deacon said. "Come on." They returned to the stairs and hiked steadily up to the seventh floor.
"Lights," he said softly, pointing at the sliver of it peeking out from under a door that definitely was not up to code. He pressed an ear to it, listening intently, but all he heard was his own pounding heart. He looked to Pentacle, who gave a soft click that all was clear. Deacon slowly pushed the door open, bring his gun up and sweeping the room as he stepped inside.
But it was deserted. This stairwell opened by some restrooms at one end of a half-circle that overlooked a food court below. A glance around showed what had once been fancy boutiques.
Pentacle growled, low and mean, and prowled to where fresh blood was smeared across the cracked, broken tiles. Wyatt joined him, crouching down and dipping his gloved fingers in the blood. Then, to Deacon's complete and utter horror, he licked the barest bit of it.
"What do you think you're doing?" he hissed. "That's exactly the kind of stupid thing I told you not to do!"
"Blood can't hurt me, unless it's got some really good poisons in it, and diseases don't count," Wyatt said dismissively. "This is human blood."
Deacon stared at him. "How could you possibly know that?"
Wyatt didn't reply, just wiped the blood off on his jeans and kept moving.
That was getting discussed later, though if it was true normal blood-borne illnesses weren't a problem for Wyatt, that only strengthened the theory that he had dragon potential. It was only one of the circumstantial markers for dragon potential, however, as dragon weren't the only ones with immunity to the illnesses suffered by normals.
"Looks like they broke camp," Deacon said. "Though it's troubling they were able to move out so quickly. But I guess anything is possible, especially when facing certain death."
Wyatt didn't reply, just kept looking around, eyes moving, nostrils flaring, a weird look in his eyes. "Something isn't right. I think we should go."
Deacon nodded. "I've seen enough anyway." They heel-turned and headed back for the stairs, but when Deacon grabbed the handle, it wouldn't give. "We're locked in."
"Like hell we are." Wyatt nudged him out of the way, withdrew a small, cheap spray bottle, and covered the handle and door around it with whatever substance was in it. Then he pulled out chalk and drew quickly, but deftly, all around the handle.
It broke away to nothing a moment later as he spoke the activating words, and Wyatt yanked the door open—only to be met by a fist to the face that sent him crashing into Deacon, whose gun went skittering away across the tiles.
Pentacle roared, and Deacon turned to see that goblins were pouring out of the various shops. How had Pentacle not smelled them? But that probably had something to do with the talismans they wore.
In seconds, the goblins had them surrounded.
"Pentacle, kill."
Roaring loud enough to shake the walls, Pentacle barreled into the crowd, spewing fire as he went, tail swinging with deadly precision and force, claws raking. Deacon slammed a weighted fist into the face of the nearest goblin, then turned to help Wyatt—but he was already on his feet and lobbing strange little orbs at goblins, sending them reeling back in flashes of fire and noxious smoke.
Someone grabbed Deacon around the throat from behind. He slammed his head back, drove his elbow into their gut, then turned and broke their nose, shoving them into another pair coming toward him.
Pentacle bellowed as he took out three more, leaving them bleeding out and scorched on the floor.
But they just kept coming. Why so many? Even with a dragon, they could only handle so much. This was overkill.
Deacon fought to get to his gun, but there were just too many. Pentacle snarled and took out two more—but then another fired a weird looking gun right at him. "Pen!" Deacon screamed, and it was all the distraction three of them needed to pin him to the ground. He watched helplessly as two more got hold of Wyatt, and Pentacle went down in a tangle of netting that seemed made of metal and reinforced with some sort of paralyzing magic.
"I was promised more of a fight," said the biggest, meanest looking of them. He had charcoal gray skin, long, sharp teeth meant for holding on to prey, and claws meant for eviscerating.
Wyatt jerked and twisted in the arms of the goblins holding him—who actually struggled to hold on to him. "I'll show you a fight."
"You're the one our alchemist is scared of. I don't see why." The big goblin backhanded him. "Stun him, just to be safe."
Wyatt tried to reply, but one of the goblins pressed something to his neck, and Wyatt screamed in agony, twitching and jerking in their hold—and then went slack.
The goblin turned to face Deacon, motioning to the men who held him. "Let's get this done."
Deacon almost asked what, but the question was answered for him as two more appeared carrying a meat saw and medical equipment "No! Stop! Why—" Someone clapped a wet rag over his mouth, and the world went heavy and dull.
He could hear Wyatt, but his voice was shaky and thready and seemed to come from far away.
They strapped Deacon down, talking in low, guttural voices, the words incomprehensible. They clapped the rag over his mouth again, and a few minutes later—or maybe an eternity—came the pain. The grinding, sawing sensation. It was all far away and right there at the same time. Deacon screamed, but his sounds were muffled by the heavy cloth, the firm hand holding it in place.
One agonizing grind of the blade at a time, they sawed most of his right arm away. He was dizzy from the fumes of whatever they were drugging him with, out of his mind from the horror of it, but that wasn't enough to block sensation entirely: the slicing of muscle and tendon, the ripping of ligaments, the grinding through bone, the blood loss and severed flesh. He didn't know if he wanted to scream, throw up, or simply die. All he could do was silently recite prayers he hadn't bothered with for a long time.
Finally the agony stopped, but in its place was a horrific drop in weight as the arm came free and was carried away. He got a glimpse of it before it was out of sight, and then everything simply became too much.
He must have only blacked out a couple of minutes, though, because when he came to, not much had changed.
"I'll kill you," Wyatt said, and though the world was still heavy and dull, it seemed to Deacon that he was recovering from whatever they'd stunned him with. "I'll kill all of you, right here, right now."
The big goblin laughed, a mean, ugly sound that made Deacon want to throw up. "You? I was warned you were dangerous, but all I see is a child in over his head. You thought you could fight predators and lost exactly as expected."
Wyatt laughed then, a sound that made everyone stop and spiked the terror that Deacon thought had abated. He'd never heard a laugh that was really, truly chilling before. "You honestly think you're the only predators in this room? I held back before, and I have to live with that mistake, but I'm not holding back anymore. I'll show you predator."
He abruptly went limp, the sudden shift in weight causing his captors to nearly drop him.
What happened next, Deacon couldn't follow, but two goblins lay dead, their innards spilling out over the already-bloody floor. Black-red goblin blood was spattered and smeared across Wyatt's face, and his beautiful eyes were almost completely black. He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of one hand, in which he held a long, wicked-looking knife. It was like some combination of an old-fashioned carving knife and a hunting knife, with a gleaming handle that Deacon thought might be bone.
The big goblin stared at his dead men, then at Wyatt. "What the—"
The words ended in a wet, sucking so
und as Wyatt drove the knife into his gut. "You hunt for food. I kill for the simple delight of it, when the opportunity presents," Wyatt said, a dark, hungry thrill in his voice that left Deacon shivering. "I feed on the pain twisting your face, the shock in your eyes, the hot blood spilling over my hands, and the way your guts will soon splatter across the floor. Maybe I'll step on them, just to enjoy the way they'll squish." He yanked, and the goblin's viscera spilled out onto the floor as promised. He dropped to his knees, and Wyatt kicked him the rest of the way over and then ground one booted foot into what might have been a kidney. The other goblins stared—then some fled and others decided to attack.
Wyatt cut down two of them, stabbing the throat of the first one, then tackling the other and driving the knife into his right eye. Rolling off the body, he went and cut Pentacle free, and together the two of them faced the remaining goblins.
Deacon closed his eyes, unable to take anymore between the pain, the drugging, and the unfathomable violence in front of him. But Wyatt's chilling laughter and the goblin's dying screams chased him, leaving him unable to escape, trapped yet again in a nightmare he'd never fully escape.
The goblins who'd been holding him let him fall to the ground like so much garbage. Deacon screamed at the impact against his bandaged arm, barely quelling an urge to vomit. He lay on the floor, crying and praying desperately for any sort of respite.
Then someone was gently lifting him up, cradling him close. Deacon dragged his eyes open, though it felt like trying to lift two hundred pounds of lead, and stared into Wyatt's blue eyes, roamed over his blood-spattered face.
On his other side, Pentacle whined and rumbled, nosing him gently and offering what comfort he could through their bond.
"I'm sorry," Wyatt said, tears running down his cheeks, smearing the tacky blood. "I should have just done this to begin with, instead of holding back because I didn't—it doesn't matter. I'm sorry. I've called for help. But they ran off with your arm."
"It's not your fault," Deacon managed, and then passed out again.
Thankfully, this time he stayed that way.
*~*~*
Deacon woke in an unfamiliar room, large and handsome, with soft light glowing on either nightstand, easy on his eyes. Pentacle was stretched out beside him, taking up most of the spacious bed.
He groaned, tried to sit up—and fell right back down when his arm wasn't where he expected it to be. Tears stung Deacon's eyes as everything that'd happened came rushing back. The ambush. His arm. Wyatt… He drew a shuddery breath. No wonder Wyatt never seemed afraid of anything, if that was what he was capable of. Every strange thing he'd ever said came rushing back. There's worse than goblins out there.
Deacon swallowed. How in the world had he wound up infatuated with—kissing—a man infinitely worse than any goblin? He drew a deep breath and let it out on a shuddering sigh. The violence Wyatt had meted out, the way he'd laughed… but Deacon couldn't forget that kiss, the shy smiles, how happy Wyatt could be over something as simple as a sugary coffee or someone chatting with him.
He pushed the roiling thoughts away to deal with later. This time using his left arm, Deacon sat up in bed. Pentacle rumbled—then jerked awake, tail lashing across the blankets and tangling them hopelessly. He whined and cried as he rested his head in Deacon's lap, radiating remorse, shame, and sorrow.
"Oh, Pen, it's not your fault. We walked right into a trap. If anyone is to blame here, it's me. I should have just called for backup. I love you, silly dragon, and right now I need you, so stop blaming yourself."
"You could stand to take your own advice," Amr said quietly from the doorway. "That ambush wasn't your fault either."
Deacon swallowed the stupid rock that didn't seem to want to leave his throat. "I thought it would be easy: check the building, ascertain it was the base of operations for the goblins, and leave. I've done it a hundred times." He covered his eyes with his hand, trying to will away the tears that escaped anyway. All he could see was blood. His arm being carried away. Wyatt grinning and laughing as he sliced and diced the goblins, treated them like toys and seemed not to care he was covered head to foot in their blood.
So much for not thinking about it. But as tumultuous as his thoughts were, there was no denying he also felt like more of him was missing than just an arm, however crazy that thought felt.
He wiped his face and cleared his throat. "Where's Wyatt? What's—"
Amr held up a hand. "Wyatt is… being taken care of. He's fine, physically, but racked with guilt about 'letting' this happen to you. Jackie is tending him. The rest can wait. You need to recover. This wasn't just a mission gone wrong—this is trauma. You need rest, not work. I am sorry you've suffered so much."
"It's part of the job," Deacon said, though his hand trembled, and he wanted to scream for no good reason at all. He wanted to see Wyatt, but clearly that was going to have to wait. "Where's my family?"
"I made them go get some rest. They came the moment I called and wouldn't leave your side. Your sister was praying practically nonstop."
Warmth filled Deacon's chest. He and his sister didn't see each other often, as they were both so busy, but they were always there for each other.
The bed shifted as Amr sat beside him, curling an arm across his shoulders. "Deacon, I'm sorry. We'll get you an arm. I'll commission the best alchemist I can find."
"Wyatt is the best alchemist you'll ever find," Deacon replied, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead in an effort to banish the memories of blood and violence and gleeful laughter. And yet, the way he'd cried after it was over, when he'd held Deacon close, filled with remorse and shame… "I'm not sure…"
Amr tilted his head, worry etching lines in his face, but his expression calm, accepting. "Not sure of…?"
Deacon laughed shakily. "Anything, really. He's never what I expect, and definitely the fight in the mall took me by surprise. But I kissed him, and I don't want to take that back. Though if he's holed up and hasn't been to see me, maybe it doesn't matter. After what my mistakes forced him to do to get us out of there alive, I can't really blame him for not wanting to see me."
Shock filled Amr's face. "Not wanting to see you? Deacon, we could barely get him away from you. Only Jackie could manage it, and it took him well over an hour. Wyatt is in pieces over you. Like I said, he blames himself. I don't know what the hell happened in that old mall, but it clearly traumatized all three of you. I'll notify your family and Wyatt that you're awake. We've kept you asleep for a few days to let the healing spells work unhindered, but the spell lapsed last night, so we were expecting you to wake today."
Deacon just nodded, too discombobulated to comment. His mind was fractured, and the pieces refused to come together. All he could see was the nightmare. All he could feel was the empty place where his arm should be.
When Amr was gone, he drew a ragged breath and let it out slowly. Did it a few more times before he was finally able to drag his eyes to his… wound? Injury? Loss.
They'd severed it a few inches above the elbow. Would Wyatt say it was a good piece of work? Deacon laughed, but after a moment it cracked and turned into sobbing.
Pentacle growled and rose to wrap around him, long neck and tail holding him securely. He rumbled steadily, like a giant, scaly purring cat.
Part of Deacon felt stupid for crying over a situation that could have been a thousand times worse. Over sobbing like some child. Part of him realized this was a reasonable and healthy response to a horrific situation, no different than when he'd found his mother's body, and when he'd finally killed her murderer. Most of him just wanted his arm back.
He smelled his sister's cooking and heard her voice well before his family spilled into his borrowed room. Pentacle barely moved out of the way in time before Sadia was wrapped around him, asking questions, yelling at him, praying for him, and comforting him all at once.
Nearby, his father and brother-in-law looked on in their quiet, somber way.
Drawing back, Sa
dia wiped her eyes and said, "Is there anything we can do, Asim?"
"I wouldn't mind some of that food I smelled."
Sadia hugged him, kissed his cheek, and bolted off to get it.
"If she's too much right now, I can go tell her to stop," Kashif, his brother-in-law, said.
Deacon shook his head. "No, it's fine."
"I am sorry this happened to you," Samir, his father, said. Unlike the rest of them, he had skin light enough in tone that he was often mistaken for white, with black hair and pale hazel eyes. "If there were any of them left, I'd kill them myself."
Deacon shared a smile with them because his father was capable of much, but he couldn't kill so much as a housefly without feeling terrible about it for days. The entire clan had been shocked his fierce warrior mother had chosen the village bookworm for her husband. They'd been shocked all over again when it was the son, not the daughter, who followed in her footsteps. But his sister had always been happiest making a house a home and adored her three children more than anything else in the world.
Sadia came bustling back in carrying a tray loaded with enough food for twelve.
"Beloved, there is no way—"
"Hush," Sadia said, and Kashif obeyed with a huff and smile.
Ken and Amr came in with some chairs and departed as silently as they'd come.
Surrounded by his family, the goblin attack far away and unable to reach him for the moment, Deacon was warm and safe. It wouldn't last, but for now, it was enough.
*~*~*
It was the better part of a week before they let him wander around Amr's flat, and he was starting to think it'd be a hundred years before they let him leave it, nevermind the building.
"I'm fine," he said for what felt like the thousandth time. "I'm not going to heal or recover or whatever by being cooped up all the time. Can't I at least return to my own place?"
Amr ignored him, save for a warning look about bringing this subject up yet again.
Deacon sighed and went back to staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined one side of Amr's penthouse, watching the snow-covered city far below. A few days wasn't enough time to get used to his lack of arm, or for the nightmares to cease, he wasn't going to argue that. But being caged here was just making him antsier.