Dream

by Carole Cummings

  He yanked his arm out of Brayden’s grip, leaning in until Brayden’s gaze fixed and focused on Wil’s face. “We have to go.” Wil only just kept from snarling it. “Get up. We don’t have time for this.”

  But Brayden just grabbed hold of Wil again, this time clenching a fist to the collar of Wil’s coat. “Go.” A breathless grunt, urgent and fierce. “Run!”

  “I’m trying to, damn it, would you—”

  Wil stopped short. He hadn’t noticed the look in Brayden’s eyes until just this moment, hadn’t seen the stress, the pain, the urgent command. The way he dragged his oddly hazy gaze away from Wil and pointed it over Wil’s shoulder, the clench of his jaw and the flare of determined anger. Hadn’t noticed that Brayden had dropped both his guns to the dirt.

  Brayden was never without his guns.

  There was a prickle at the back of Wil’s neck, a bulky shadow falling over Brayden’s face and stretching out behind him. Wil turned slowly, pulling his reluctant glance up even while his stomach began a queasy descent to the ground.

  He knew right away why Brayden had told him to run, knew right away this was some very serious shit and more than enough reason for retreat. There was no confusion when Wil saw the ragged scar roping over the man’s cheek, no naïve guessing at what might have caused it. Instead there was a sick sort of awe, a sinking curl of dread that leached into the marrow and turned his limbs to water.

  How wicked do you have to be, some small, lost-little-boy part of his mind wanted to know, before they take your Marks away? What offense could be so desperately base?

  Brayden growled again, shoving at Wil, and nearly sent him sprawling to his arse in the dirt. Wil kept his balance, staggering up and then backing to the side and slightly behind Brayden. The rifle’s stock was resting against Wil’s hip, his finger reflexively sliding over the safety to make sure it was disengaged. He brought the gun up to rest in the cradle of his shoulder when the man raised a big hand.

  “Is this how your Guardian guards you?” The man’s voice was gruff and graveled, harsh, and the smile in his eyes made something inside Wil go loose and cold.

  Brayden was trying to get up, to stand between Wil and the man. He planted one booted foot solid to the dirt, then had to pause to lean over his knee and catch his breath. It took a moment for the hilt of the knife jutting from Brayden’s lower back, the growing stain of blood on his coat, to jumble into sense in Wil’s head.

  Oh. So that’s what he’s doing down there.

  Wil clenched his jaw, a low tremor wanting to take control of him, but he wouldn’t let it. Fuckfuckfuck, what the hell was he supposed to do now?

  “For the Mother’s sake,” Brayden wheezed through his teeth, turning a quick snarl on Wil over his shoulder, “will you just go?”

  He turned quickly back to the man who stood calmly in front of him, trying again to get to his feet, but it looked like his left leg didn’t want to cooperate.

  “Exile,” Brayden growled.

  “Watcher.” The man dipped his head, mouth turning up at one corner in a smirk that sent a shiver down Wil’s spine. The hard blue eyes dismissed Brayden and turned to Wil. The man turned his hands palms up. “You see I am not armed. I am no threat to you.”

  Run. He told you to go, he said it, absolution, you owe him nothing, so just go!

  “What do you want?” Wil was relieved his voice was steady and not as reedy as he’d feared.

  “Ah, we all want so badly.” The woman giggled and smoothed her torn, ragged skirts about her ankles. “Give them what they think they want to keep them from taking what they don’t know you have.” Her birdlike hands fluttered in the air in front of her face, and she laughed again.

  A small shock went through Wil. He frowned at the filthy woman, a grimy little oracle leaking portents like pus from a wound. How many times had he told himself that same thing? How many times had he used it as an excuse for deeds he didn’t want to remember?

  “We never give ’em anything that matters.” She mumbled it to her fingers, then flashed her ruined grin at the man Brayden had called Exile. “Keep it so well, it hides even from our own.” She giggled.

  The man ignored it all entirely and let his smile spread a little wider. “Does he take you to the Cradle, lad?”

  Wil jolted—he couldn’t help it.

  “Ah, but you’re no lad, are you, then?” The man nodded sagely, tilted his head. “Did you think they’d just let you walk right in?” His voice had dipped down, conspiratory and filled with mock concern. “Did it never occur to you that there were others who seek?”

  He took a step forward, but Brayden let loose a rumbling growl and drew his short sword from its sheath. It shook as he held it up, not much of a threat, but the man stopped, eyes narrowed.

  There was something wrong about him, something… off. He gave off threat like it breathed from his pores—he knew what they were, both of them—and yet there was circumspection in his mien, as though he was looking for more.

  And why was Wil not running? What the fuck was wrong with him?

  The woman staggered to her feet and threw herself at the big man, taking him in a bony embrace. “Exile.” She buried her face in the sleeve of his coat. “Ye’ve waited so very long to take Her children in hand.” She looked up at him, pleading. “Will She take my hand, then?”

  The man’s smile turned shrewd. He slipped his arm around the woman but kept peering down at Wil, cunning. “D’you want what she has, then? I see the look in your eye. I see the need.” He tightened his grip around the woman. She laid her head to his chest, and he let her. “Look at her, lad. She doesn’t hurt. She’s not afraid. How long has it been since you felt so still?”

  Wil shook his head and backed an involuntary step, caught off guard by how quickly and deeply the want overwhelmed him.

  He wanted to shoot the dirty little woman so he wouldn’t have to look at her anymore. Wouldn’t have to wonder how close the resemblance might have been. Wouldn’t have to remember the serene drift and tranquility that went hand in hand with the pain. Wouldn’t have to know he still wanted it so badly he’d consider killing for it and then killing himself if he managed to get it.

  “Wil,” Brayden wheezed, “if you don’t move right now, I swear I’ll shoot you myself.”

  A small flick of the man’s hand, and Brayden flinched. He was too obviously trying to hold back a gasp, but it burst from his chest in a labored hiss. He almost toppled to the side. His sword flew from his hand as he clutched at the ground. It landed next to the gun he’d dropped, less than a few inches from his splayed fingers, but he didn’t snatch it up—Wil wasn’t even sure he’d seen it. Brayden’s head was bowed, chest expanding and contracting too quickly, trying to breathe through the pain.

  It did something inside Wil, something cold and strangely possessive, a yammering little interior mineminemine snapping through him as he watched this strange pretender’s little gesture, watched Brayden react to it like the man had just reached out and twisted the knife. Watched Brayden try to hold back a cry of pain and still attempt to keep himself between this man and Wil.

  It was absurd, it made no sense whatsoever, it was a thought worthy of the six-year-old Locke had named him. But damn it, the Guardian was his—his gift, Millard had said so—and Wil was bloody tired of people taking what was his and making free with it.

  “I’m going,” he told Brayden, low and even, “but you’re coming with me.”

  He needed his good hand for the gun, so he stooped down and slipped his right shoulder under Brayden’s left. As carefully as he could, Wil wrangled Brayden’s thick arm over his shoulder. It was very telling that Brayden couldn’t seem to shrug him off.

  Instead, Brayden wrapped his arm around Wil’s neck and dragged him in. “Don’t be an idiot—I’ll catch up if I can, but this is not apples and potatoes. You’ve nothing to prove. Look at him—don’t you know what he is? They took his Marks.”

  And yet had left him alive, knowing what
he apparently knew, setting him loose in a world they hadn’t trusted for thousands of years, to do with the knowledge what he would.

  It didn’t make sense. A clan that didn’t even tell its own people what it was about, allowing their secret to slip through their borders in the form of a disgraced Old One?

  Wil looked the man over thoroughly, noting the calm, calculated challenge, the lack of malice in the measuring stare. The way he kept peering at Brayden with a badly hidden look of muted urgency. The too-obvious lack of any sort of assault on Wil himself, his mind or his person, despite the small show of power against Brayden.

  The scars that were too young and pink against his tanned, leathery cheek.

  Wil shifted his glance down to his own wrist, then back up at the man. Wil gently disengaged from Brayden and stood. “No, they didn’t take his Marks. He did it himself. Or maybe had another do it for him.” He tilted his head. “He can’t hurt me. He hasn’t got the power.”

  “How nice for you, because he’s been mucking with my head since we got here.”

  It made sense. Unless something had gone very wrong with Brayden’s reflexes, no one could have ordinarily got behind him, let alone stuck a knife in him. He’d been acting odd for hours, twitchy and unlike his usual confident self. And now that he thought about it, Wil himself had managed to sneak up behind Brayden earlier, and he hadn’t even been trying. Combined with the way one small gesture from the man had seemed to rip right through Brayden, Wil thought it wouldn’t do at all to assume anything or underestimate this man. There was a sinister air about him, but in the same way a hurricane was sinister, a flood—a force of nature, the sole purpose of which was to move from Point A to Point B, and if you couldn’t survive the onslaught… well, it wasn’t personal.

  “He hasn’t done anything you can’t fight or do back ten times harder.” Wil scowled when the man’s smile curled sardonically. “He’s a test.”

  “In case the obvious has escaped you yet again,” Brayden ground out, “magic is slightly beyond my skills.”

  Wil almost pitied him. Brayden probably would have lived his whole life very happily believing what he’d just said.

  The far-off shrill of a whistle broke in Wil’s ears, a renewed sense of urgency drumming a choppy rat-a-tat on his nerves. People from the hostel and the building next to it were peering down at them through dirty windows—Wil could feel their stares like buzzing insects over his nape.

  They needed to go—should already be gone—but a risk was one thing, blind stupidity entirely another.

  Wary, keeping a close eye on the man, Wil crouched behind Brayden and reached for the hilt of the knife jutting from Brayden’s back—

  “Ah-ah. Don’t do that.” The man’s tone was mild, but there was alarm threaded through there somewhere. It was enough to make Wil pause. “It’s the only thing keeping him from bleeding out. Best to let a healer take care of that.” When Wil only set his jaw, the man shrugged. “Unless that’s what you want. But somehow I don’t think it is.”

  Wil gave him a scowl and turned to Brayden. “Is that true?”

  “Close enough, I guess.” Brayden winced and pulled in a sharp breath. “Though it’s not seeming such a bad alternative just now.”

  “Don’t be such a big baby. It’s just a scratch.” It came out far too jagged and worried for the levity—or even wishful thinking—Wil was going for.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be running?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be trying not to die?”

  Wil stood and regarded the man with narrowed eyes. “Did you know this would happen?” He jerked his chin sharply in Brayden’s direction, indicating the fight, the wound… everything.

  The man shrugged. “I was not as careful in my seeking as I might have been.”

  “Then you can fix your mistake.” It was terse and angry. “I assume you’re as skilled at healing as you are at… other things. Shaman.” Wil nodded toward Brayden. “Help him up.” He caught Brayden’s expression of anger and dismay. “Do I look like I don’t know what I’m doing?”

  Brayden was sucking air in through his teeth now, sweating, face twisted in a perplexed grimace of pain. “Yeah.” He gave a slight jerky nod. “Yeah, you sorta do.”

  Wil almost twitched a smile. “Shut up. Trust me.”

  The man pushed the woman away from him gently, murmuring something to her that turned her vacant smile nearly beatific. She glided back to her little alcove, crouched down in its corner, and daintily adjusted her skirts. Happy as a child, she waved at Wil.

  Wil raised his eyebrows a bit but didn’t wave back, just kept an eye on the man, who knelt, guided Brayden’s arm over his shoulders, and levered them both up from the dirt. Once Brayden was up and the swaying had subsided, Wil darted out to retrieve Brayden’s guns and sword. The guns Wil jammed into his own coat pockets, but the sword he slid carefully back into its sheath on Brayden’s hip.

  “Where?”

  “The Temple.” The man adjusted his grip on Brayden. “I’ll lead, you cover.”

  Wil raised the gun again, gripping the forend, and gave it a rough jerk to cock it. He slipped it back beneath his arm. The shot he’d fired from the hip had hit its mark pretty well the last time, so he stuck with it. And that one-handed cocking thing was very much coming in handy. He let his face set harsh.

  “Don’t fuck with me.”

  The man’s expression was annoyingly skeptical. “You would kill me now?” He seemed more curious than surprised.

  Brayden whiffled a hoarse little snort and creased a pained smile at Wil. “Well, he’s only just met you.”

  Wil only smirked and shot his glance to one dead body, then the other. He let the situation speak for him. He turned his gaze hard upon the man. “What is your name?”

  “Calder,” the man told him. “Barret Calder.”

  Brayden shot Wil a keen, startled glance.

  Wil only sighed, wondering why he wasn’t the least bit surprised.

  “The Temple, then. Hurry.”

  THEY DIDN’T venture out into the street but hobbled along some of the same alleys and pathways Wil had traveled with Brayden mere moments ago, taking twists and turns that wound toward the more prosperous residences, to the business district, and on through the slums again. Several times they had to duck behind stray bushes or into a shadowed alcove to avoid a passerby, but by and large the way was fairly clear, the majority of the city’s residents attending to their market business. Wil tried to keep track of their path, tried to remember where they’d zigged then zagged, but it only took a few minutes before he was completely lost and dependent upon the strange man who’d turned out to be surprisingly gentle as he dragged Brayden through the underbelly of Chester.

  Wil watched their backs, turning frequently and scanning behind them. He even went so far as to scrutinize the ground itself, scuffing out with the heel of his boot the occasional drops of blood that leaked slowly from Brayden’s wound. All the twists and turns in the world wouldn’t help them if they left a trail as clear as that behind them.

  As he’d watched Brayden do on many occasions, Wil scudded his glance to all points—even up to the roofs of the buildings they passed—examining every shape and shadow for threat. Shouts and whistles still reached them, but they were far off, still concentrating the search on where they’d been rather than where they might be now.

  Brayden had gone notably silent—absorbed, Wil guessed, with keeping his feet moving and breathing through what was likely some terrifically acute pain. He lurched more clumsily than he’d done before, losing more blood the longer they wended about. Wil noted with dismay the spreading blotch darkening the back of Brayden’s coat around the knife’s hilt, and it was only likely to get worse once they got where they were going. Wil was still doubtful about not pulling that dagger out—it seemed so counterintuitive—but he wasn’t sure enough of himself to go against it.

  It took perhaps ten minutes. It felt like forever.

  T
he Temple was smaller than the one Wil had seen in Putnam, though its architecture was otherwise identical in its plain, unadorned stateliness. The man—Calder, Wil made himself acknowledge—led them past several doors around back, helping Brayden carefully down a small stone stairway hidden beneath a tangle of dead vine and bracken and winding down below the level of the alley to a damp, moldy landing in a recess so dark and deep it was almost like stepping into night. A thick, squat wooden door slouched at the bottom, small enough that Wil wondered how they were going to manage to squeeze Brayden through it. Wil kept alert, sweaty fingers twitching nervously around the trigger of the gun. If betrayal was imminent, it would come quickly and from the other side of that door.

  The cloying scent of incense was the first thing to hit Wil when the door creaked open. The suspicious look of the narrow man on the other side of it was the second. Wil almost smiled—now this was what he’d imagined a shaman should look like.

  The lean form was backlit by a low torch sconced in the damp stone wall behind him. His hair was brown and longish but combed back from his severe face and tied at the nape with a small length of plain leather. A very basic brown robe was worn open and slung over simple woven tunic and trousers. The only things remarkable about the man were the warmth that bloomed beneath the hard suspicion when he recognized his guest, and then the genuine concern he aimed directly and immediately at Brayden.

  “Oh, save me, what’ve ye brought me this time?” he chided by way of welcome. He swung the door open wide and gestured them anxiously through.

  “Brother Shaw,” Calder greeted the shaman, “I’ve brought you trouble as I’ve never done before.” He angled Brayden through the door first, then gestured over his shoulder for Wil to follow. “It would do us all well if no one learned of our presence. You’d best get your kit.”