Outcaste

by Fletcher DeLancey

  Now he wanted it from her.

  Had she not already held her stave grip, she would have had no chance. Had she not trained with it for so long that it required no thought, only muscle memory, she would have failed before she began.

  But she didn’t have to think. Pure instinct drove her to activate the stave, and she was swinging even as it extended.

  It smashed against the side of his face. The claws were ripped out of her mind with devastating force, sending her to her knees in agony. But she could move again. She had control of her body.

  She would have that control only as long as he was incapacitated. If she gave him even a moment’s respite, he would take over her mind and destroy her. She could not rest.

  Terror pushed her upright and through the pain. Terror gave her the strength to swing again and again. She swung until her arms ached, and kept on until her muscles gave out and she could not lift the stave even one more time.

  Only then did her vision clear enough to see what she had done.

  She let the stave fall to the dirty, threadbare carpet and backed away. Upon hitting the wall, she slid down and dropped her head to her knees, gasping for air.

  The body that lay on the floor was only recognizable as Alsean from the neck down. Above the neck was a glistening, shapeless red mass. Blood and brain matter were spattered all over the carpet, the walls, even the ceiling.

  Whoever that man was, he would be identifiable only through a genetic scan. His skull was crushed, his face beaten to a pulp, his eyeballs popped and his teeth scattered all over the room.

  He could not hurt her again.

  He could not hurt her. She was safe.

  She crumpled to the floor and cried, but the fetid carpet and the horror of the rapist’s head was more than her stomach could handle. Clenching her teeth, she scrambled up and raced into the bathroom just in time to eject the contents of her stomach. She kept retching until nothing came up but clear fluid and then collapsed again, her chest heaving as she fought for breath.

  The stench in the bathroom was worse than in the main room, impelling her upright to flush the mess down the toilet hole. She didn’t know why City Guards weren’t already breaking through the door. Surely someone had heard a murder taking place?

  But Mouse had been empathically raped here, and no one had done a thing.

  No one had done a Fahla-damned thing.

  She wanted to burn this place down to the water.

  Her logical mind reasserted itself, telling her she needed to move. She returned to the main room and studiously avoided looking at the body while picking up her stave and bringing it back to the bathroom. This time, without the urgency of her first entrance, she saw the bloody towel on the floor.

  The empathic rapist had shown no signs of injury. That was Mouse’s blood.

  Her stomach tried one more time to vomit, but there was nothing left to bring up.

  It seemed as if she were outside her body, watching herself turn on the shower and calmly rinse the blood, hair, and brain tissue off her stave. A quick search located a clean towel, and she wiped the stave dry. When it had been properly cared for, she retracted it and slipped it back into its holster. Next she wiped down the shower lever, the toilet pad, and the outside door lever. Letting the door fall shut from the inside, she closed her eyes and concentrated. Had she left genetic evidence anywhere else? What had she touched?

  Only what she had already wiped clean. She should be safe.

  A slightly hysterical laugh escaped. She was taking unnecessary precautions. This was Robber’s Rest. Its owners would probably toss the body into the bay and never report it. The last thing they wanted was to have the City Guards combing through their rooms and records.

  Even so, she did not want to go back through that lobby. It was almost certainly not equipped with security vidcams, but high empath warriors were not the sort of people who could vanish without repercussions. Someone was bound to ask questions at some point. She had flown through the lobby at such speed on her entrance that the desk clerk would never be able to give a description. She didn’t have it in her to make a repeat performance, and the tavern was full of revelers.

  There were too many witnesses. She could not go out the way she had come in. That left one exit.

  With the towel still wrapped around her hand, she stepped over the bloody body and opened the window beside the bed.

  It was four stories down to the dock level and the equivalent of another floor to the water. Last cycle, she had survived an uncontrolled fall from fourteen decks above the bay. A controlled dive from five floors up was nothing compared to that.

  She returned to the bathroom for the last clean towel and laid it over the windowsill. Then she took off her rain cloak, rolled it lengthwise, and tied the ends together. This went around her neck.

  With a slight grunt, she hoisted herself onto the windowsill and maneuvered into a crouch. Most of her body was now outside, prevented from falling only by her towel-protected grip on the upper frame.

  Wildwind Bay surged far below, dark and ominous in the night.

  She tossed down the rain cloak and watched it fall what seemed like an impossible distance. It landed soundlessly.

  May Fahla guide and protect me, she thought. Then she took three deep breaths, each larger than the last, and sprang off the sill in a dive.

  The shock of impact seemed no less this time, despite the much shorter drop. She didn’t even have the strength to kick, instead letting natural buoyancy bring her back up.

  Breaking the surface was like puncturing the membrane between one world and the next, between the waking nightmare of that horrible room and the familiar reality of the bay’s cold water. Though she was freezing and exhausted, this was infinitely better.

  Her rain cloak was not far away, still mostly above water. She grabbed it and swam beneath the pier where no one could see, then slowly worked along its length back to the shore. She would have wept when her feet touched the rocky bottom, but there were no tears left.

  Dragging herself from the water sapped her remaining strength. She crawled onto a large boulder beneath the pier and collapsed.

  Safe. She was out and safe. What next?

  It took an unreasonable amount of time to come up with the answer: she had to find Mouse.

  He was injured, judging by that bloody towel. He had been empathically raped, put through Fahla only knew what kind of agony, forced to call her for help, and then discarded like a used napkin.

  And through it all, some part of him would have been aware. He knew exactly what was happening even while struggling to stop it. However unwillingly, he had betrayed her—and that knowledge would hurt as much as the rape. He would be like one of those decorative bird eggs, sucked clean of any interior substance, a thin shell that looked whole but would break at the slightest touch.

  She had to show him that she was all right. But her com unit was useless; it had been in salt water for at least a tentick.

  The hard way, then.

  She pulled herself upright and clambered over the boulders that protected the seawall, then laboriously climbed the wall itself.

  The bayfront road looked just the same as when she had run down it a lifetime ago. It was probably the very same people laughing and talking as they strolled down the walkways, drinks in hand. They lived in a different world, the one she had lived in before entering that room.

  Running was out of the question now. Even walking was difficult. It took an eternity to make it back home.

  Mouse was not there.

  She sagged against the door of his room and wept, overcome with the enormity of finding him in this city and in her condition.

  Time was of the essence, yet she could not go back out before taking care of herself. Still wrenched by an occasional sob, she stripped off her wet clothing and stepped into the shower. The hot water brought life back to her muscles, and she began to think more clearly.

  Clean and redressed in dry clothes, she
tore into a salterin while reattaching her belt and stave. The saturated rain cloak had to stay behind. She hung it off the shower shelf and hoped the rains would not begin again until the next day.

  Upon reaching the bayfront road, she ducked into the first tavern to use its public vidcom.

  The call did not connect. Mouse had shut himself away from her.

  In her tired state, it took nearly thirty ticks to walk to Dock One. But she managed to jog the last hundred strides to its entrance, her heart beating faster in anticipation of seeing a small figure sitting at the end.

  The dock was empty.

  She walked its lonely length and stared out over the bay, the weight of failure bowing her shoulders.

  This had been her best chance. This was where they had spent so many warm summer days, as well as their birth anniversaries and other celebrations. This was the meeting place. If Mouse didn’t want to go home and didn’t want to meet her here, she did not know where he would go.

  But she had to keep trying.

  The sounds of celebration ebbed and flowed as she roamed the bayfront. Mouse would never have boarded a magtran in his condition, so wherever he was, it had to be here. She went to Dock Thirty-One, just in case he had sought out Jacon’s food cart, but the little cart was boarded up for the night and Mouse was not there. She went to the grocery shop bins they had raided back in their days of poverty, and he wasn’t there. She even went to the warehouse where her daggers had been hidden. Every step of the way, she scanned the crowds, looking for his distinctive shape. She looked in every doorway and every alley.

  At last she returned home, hoping against hope.

  Their rooms were dark and empty, silent but for the occasional drop of water still sliding off her rain cloak.

  She could not stay. The idea of spending the remainder of this night alone, with the yawning abyss of terror hovering just out of reach, was enough to make her run back to the nearest tavern. For the second time that night, she pushed through the drunken crowds to the public vidcom in the back.

  Her mother had told her to call Deme Isanelle if she needed immediate help. But Deme Isanelle had not known Mouse. Only one person had.

  The clerk at the pleasure house informed her that Sharro was gone for the night and offered to make an appointment for her later in the nineday.

  “No!” she cried. “Please, just give me her personal com code. I have to talk to her.”

  “We never give out personal com codes. I can take a message if you wish.”

  “Yes, yes, tell her to call—” She stopped and looked for the vidcom’s code, then rattled it off. “Tell her it’s Rahel. Please, you have to give her this message right away. It’s an emergency.”

  “I’ll pass on the message. I can’t guarantee a response.”

  She sat on the floor to wait, her back against the wall. Twice she was approached by people wanting to use the vidcom. Both times, she warned them off with a snarl that must have been truly maniacal, judging by their swift retreats.

  When the vidcom finally lit up with an incoming call, she sprang upright to answer.

  Sharro looked sleepy and very concerned. “Rahel. Are you safe?”

  She stared at that beloved face and did not know how to respond. This was a face from a former life.

  “Rahel, talk to me! Where are you?”

  Sharro was always calm. The shock of seeing fear in her expression unlocked Rahel’s brain. In a shaking voice, she explained where she was.

  “I’ll be there in ten ticks. Go out front and wait for me. I’ll be in a green two-seater skimmer.”

  She nodded, closed the call, and walked back through the tavern to the entrance. The benches on either side of the door were full, so she stood at the edge of the walkway, peering into the road.

  At some point during the wait, her brain shut down. She didn’t realize Sharro had arrived until the familiar floral scent hit her nose and gentle hands settled on her shoulders.

  “Rahel!”

  By the tone of her voice, she had already called Rahel’s name several times.

  “Sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”

  “Great Mother, what happened? No, don’t answer that. Just get in the skimmer.” Sharro guided her into the passenger seat, snapped the harness around her, and closed the door.

  Rahel sat in sudden silence, wondering where all the noise had gone, when the driver’s side door opened and the sounds of the bayfront poured in. It lasted for only a moment before Sharro slid into her seat and shut them back into their silent cocoon.

  “I’m taking you home,” she said as she started the engine. The skimmer rose onto its cushion of air and accelerated down the street.

  “No,” Rahel protested. “I can’t go back there. He’s not there.”

  Sharro glanced over with a frown before focusing on the street. “Not to your home. To mine.”

  “Oh. Thank you, that’s . . . that’s good. Sharro?”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Who is gone?”

  “Mouse. He’s dead.”

  She thought the skimmer should crash, or perhaps lightning should split the sky. Something, anything, to mark the awful reality of the words she knew to be true.

  The skimmer hummed along, unaffected, and the sky remained dark.

  “Shekking Mother, I was afraid of this. What happened?”

  “I killed him.”

  “You killed Mouse?”

  “No! I killed . . . him. The warrior.”

  “Who is the warrior?”

  “I don’t know. He was in the room. He empathically raped Mouse and made him call me for help. I went to the room and Mouse wasn’t there, but he was. He tried . . . he tried . . .”

  She lost herself in the nightmare then, gasping with the fear of those claws tearing into her mind. Only gradually did she become aware of a voice calling from outside, while warm concern flowed through her skin.

  “Rahel, you’re safe. It’s not real. You’re not there.”

  She looked around, realizing that they were parked on the side of the road and Sharro was holding both of her hands. The concern and affection she had felt was coming from her touch.

  “You’re safe, Rahel.”

  When she squeezed the hands holding hers, Sharro exhaled and returned the pressure.

  “Oh, thank Fahla. Listen to me. I’m taking you to my home. Nothing can reach you there. It’s a safe place. Do you understand? It’s over. You’re safe with me.”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  “All right. I’m letting go of your hands now. Stay with me. We’re only five ticks away.”

  By the time they arrived at Sharro’s home, up in the hills overlooking the bay, Rahel had recovered enough of her faculties to be embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to call. Mother is too far away and—”

  “You did exactly the right thing,” Sharro interrupted. “I’m glad you called. Now let’s get you settled.”

  She followed Sharro into the house, getting an impression of airy elegance, of rooms with open spaces and comfortable furniture. The faint scent of a well-used but unlit cinnoralis burner made her feel less of a stranger. But she took in almost no detail before she was gently pushed onto a soft couch.

  “Stay here. I’m going to make us rajalta. I will be right there in the kitchen. I’m in sight of you and I can hear you. You’re not alone.”

  Rahel nodded, then realized that Sharro was waiting for a verbal response. “I’m fine. Rajalta sounds . . . that sounds nice.”

  The couch faced a large window with a spectacular view of Wildwind Bay. It was an inky blackness surrounded by cheery lights, and Mouse was in it. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she did not question her certainty.

  From the kitchen came the familiar whoosh of a shannel dispenser, then the clink of a spoon against pottery. Sharro returned with two steaming cups, offering one as she sat close by.

  “Thank you.” Rahel clo
sed her eyes and inhaled the rich, slightly bitter aroma of the toasted seeds that turned straight shannel into rajalta. She kept her eyes closed for the first sip. It was hot and comforting, sliding down her throat like an old friend.

  The second sip revealed a new flavor. “What did you add?”

  “A little touch of Whitesun Rise. A very nice grain spirit. It will help you relax.” Sharro sipped her own drink, then set it in the small wooden holder that Rahel only now realized was built into each arm of the couch.

  “Relax.” Rahel let out a huff of air that might have been a laugh, or it might have been half of a sob. “I don’t think I can ever do that.”

  “Just drink. Drink and look at the view. You don’t need to say anything.”

  Having the burden of speaking removed made it easier. She stared at Wildwind Bay, sipping rajalta and absorbing the comfort that Sharro offered simply by being there. When her cup was half-empty, she asked, “Have you ever brought another client home?”

  “You’re not a client any longer. I’ve never brought one home. I brought home a friend.”

  “Oh.” She took a sip and thought about that. It seemed as if she should have more of a reaction to such a momentous statement, but her emotions were locked down somewhere. “I’m glad,” she said at last. “To be your friend. I need another one, because . . .”

  The cup shook in her hand, and she carefully put it into the wooden holder.

  “Because I lost Mouse tonight,” she whispered.

  Sharro set aside her own cup and pulled a small pillow onto her lap. The invitation was silent but clear.

  Rahel kicked off her shoes and went down without a word.

  This was better. She could say it now, with her head in Sharro’s lap and her gaze on the black waters of Wildwind Bay.

  “I think he killed himself. He’s in the bay.”

  Sharro ran gentle fingers through her hair. “Did you check the healing center?”

  “No. I don’t need to. He’s not there.”

  “Do you mind if I do it?”

  “I don’t want you to leave.”