Unmasked (Rise of the Masks Book 1)

by Kaplan, EM

  Then, he shifted.

  Chapter 64

  Mel came back to consciousness when a hand gripped her bare shoulder. She hoped it was Ott waking her for breakfast. Why did it feel like days since she'd last seen him or felt him? Her mind struggled to anchor itself. She remembered the Keep. The attack on the Keep. Then, she thought it was blue-eyed Jenks with his warm hand on her shoulder when he'd retrieved her at Port Navio in the midst of the swirling crowd. Back before she'd learned that he was her father. She wondered foggily if any of them had made it out of the mineshaft alive. But as her mind sharpened and came back into focus, she shut down any more thoughts along those lines. She shook her head. She was in the frozen north. Trog attack.

  The hand on her shoulder was small and strong. It was lean and smooth and made her think of the desert.

  "I'd like to see the desert someday," Mel said without opening her eyes. The hand on her shoulder squeezed tighter, perhaps involuntarily. Mel tested her body gingerly by moving a foot, then an arm. "Why am I all wet, Rav?"

  "Here, put this on," Rav said draping a blanket over Mel’s bare back and drawing her off the strange wet platform she was lying on. She sat up, clutching the scratchy cloth to her naked shoulders and looked down. Soggy shredded clothing. Black, oily liquid. Bad smell. Drenched bed. Liquefied trog innards.

  "I need a bath," Mel said, her teeth suddenly starting to chatter though the room was not cold. With Rav's help, she slid off the bed and the ruins of the corpse she had obliterated. "I need more than a bath," she amended. She wished she had a hundred brushes and a tub full of hot water and scrubbing herbs. She would never be able to get this stench off.

  "Come away from this with me," Rav said gently guiding Mel out of the death-filled chamber and down a passageway. Mel shook so badly that her steps were jerky, thighs quivering, muscles variously clenching out of control.

  They were back in Rav's room, and Mel hissed and drew back at the sight of the trog slumped on the floor.

  "He won't hurt you. He's incapacitated," Rav said. She handed Mel a tunic to wear. The tone of her voice made Mel look again at the trog, and she recognized him as Rav's keeper, not Mel's attacker. She recognized him by the clothes he wore, a leather shirt, and also by the way Rav looked at him without fear and without shielding her body. He sat on the floor propped against the wall, his eyes rolled back in his head, arms hanging limp at his sides so the palms of his hands faced up. The skin of his palms in the exact center of each was a shockingly delicate and vulnerable-looking pink area the size of a coin.

  "Is he dead? What did you do to him?" Mel asked, casting aside the scratchy blanket she held to herself and slipping the tunic on. It fell to her mid-thigh and was not as coarse as the blanket. It was far different from the last costume she had worn with Rav at the Keep, she thought with a sob. She fought between wanting to lie down on the bed and struggling to keep as far away from the creature as possible. She had the fleeting memory of the trog who had tried to take her looming over her, pinning her down, the thick hide of his neck stretched wide and dark above her face. Nausea swept over her when she remembered what she'd done to him. She had disassembled him to his most basic elements. She had liquefied him. Then full-body exhaustion won out and she sank down, grimy, on the sickbed that Rav had so recently occupied when she had lain bloated and sick with agamite.

  "It was you, not me. I did not do a thing. I was sitting across the room when he fell to the floor. He fell like the mountain crumbling. You did this," Rav said, watching her carefully. "Whatever you did to that other one in there to turn him into water, you did this also."

  Mel closed her eyes and kept her astonishment to herself. "Did you feel anything when it happened, Rav?"

  "No, but you have already cleansed me. I don't have any of the green stone inside me anymore."

  Mel suspected this was true, but she was surprised to hear Rav drawing the same conclusions and speaking them out loud. She remembered drawing the flecks of green toward her, inward, and changing them. Moving them. Stirring them up to do her bidding. She just hadn't realized the magnitude of it. Fear and desperation had motivated her to be as powerful as she could. And maybe she'd gone a little too far.

  "Stop looking at me like that," she said to Rav. "Whatever you're thinking, I'm not her." It was that Great Mother mythos that Rav had talked about earlier. The Great Mother coming to cleanse them all. Whatever that meant. Though Mel felt greatly soiled herself at the moment.

  Rav gave a noncommittal shrug with her thin, brown shoulders. "You don’t have to believe it for it to be true."

  Mel sighed in frustration. Convincing Rav of anything different was going to be a difficult task. She'd just have to wait for time to prove her right. "Fine," she said. "And as soon as I can stand up, we're getting out of this place. You need to be aboveground where you can’t be poisoned again." She left the thought unspoken. Mel didn't know how long the trogs were going to be in their weakened state, but they needed to move quickly. Otherwise, they'd be trapped again.

  "Mel," Rav said and hesitated. "I want to take him with us." She gestured at the trog.

  What? Mel looked at her, but said nothing, certain that her face was transparent anyway. The woman was clearly crazy. She frowned to herself. Rav was treating him like a human. More or less. Mel didn't know what to make of it. Maybe it was the only way Rav could allow herself to deal with her kidnapping and imprisonment. Or maybe she wanted revenge? Mel studied her. She didn’t seem irrational. She didn’t seem angry.

  "How are we going to move him?" Mel said. Rav was kneeling by the trog, speaking to him calmly and quietly. He had opened his eyes, blinking rapidly. When Rav saw that he was able to see her, she switched to their hand signals. He gave a curt nod, and then Rav stood back.

  "Don't try to help him," Rav said. "He's as big as a bull. If he falls, we will all go down." She observed him with an odd mixture of familiarity and distance. Mel watched her friend watch the trog. Take him above ground? In what world could this idea possibly have a good outcome? The creature took a few heaving breaths, increasing the loudness of the air passing in and out of his nostrils and open mouth. His gray lips hung open showing the pink insides of them. By insisting that he come with them, Rav was what . . . showing her loyalty to him? Bringing him as a hostage? He braced his arm against the cave wall and hauled himself upward with great effort, breathing hard and unsteadily. His eyes went in and out of focus. What in the world had she done to him with her blast of anger?

  "This is not a good idea," Mel said under her breath, but she followed them into the passageway. After all, what choice did she have? They needed his help navigating out of the tunnels. And if they needed help getting past other trogs, he might be willing to assist them. However, she left as much room between them as she could. Judging by how the large creature was still weaving on his feet, he could go down at any moment.

  They passed through branch after branch of tunnels, and Mel gave up trying to memorize them. Normally, she was good at direction and drawing mental maps, but down here with no sunlight and with the feeling they were at times climbing and at others descending, she had no idea if they had crossed over or under tunnels that they'd already taken. After a while, she wondered if she was even certain which direction was up. It all looked the same with the embedded flecks of agamite.

  More than once, she thought she heard human voices. Women’s voices, and more than one. Prisoners? she wondered sickly. Women who had been raped or impregnated? It made her ill to think she could not help them. She paused at one opening to a side tunnel and listened, but Rav's trog saw her and gestured rapidly to Rav.

  "He says not to stop. Don't stop," Rav translated.

  "How can we leave them?" Mel demanded, trying to keep from shouting. "They deserve to be saved."

  Rav nodded. "Yes, they do. And they will be saved, as soon as we get out of here and get help. We cannot do this by ourselves," she said. Mel clenched her teeth, but forced herself to continue onward when th
e trog gestured once more and then walked on expecting them to follow. At least her friend wasn't expecting her to stop and cleanse them all as the embodiment of the Great Mother, she thought with a wry shake of her head.

  A few junctions and criss-crossings of the tunnels later, Mel heard another human voice. There was a prolonged groan, distinctly human and male. Then the savory aroma hit her, and her heart threatened to pound out of her chest.

  Chapter 65

  Mel spun on her heel, stifling a yelp. The smell in the passageway was pure Ott. Essence of Ott. The scent of him filled her nose and trilled straight into her mind. She ignored Rav's shouts not to go after the voice and ran, stumbling blindly down the tunnels toward what she couldn't ignore. The savory smell that was forever imprinted in Mel’s mind, in her heart. She had to go even if it meant she was condemned to a life below ground. Or a death below ground. Because without Ott, there was no life for her anywhere.

  When she saw where the tunnel opened up ahead, she ran at full speed over the hard cave floor, her bare feet pounding on the dirt floor. His voice spurred her on. She stretched her pace until her body hurt, and her tunic chafed the tops of her thighs. She would not be too late for him; she would not allow it. She ran down the earthen tunnel until she burst out into a cavern full of trogs.

  "What . . . what is this?" she shouted, outraged and confused, before she could stop herself. She was ready to act, to aid, to rescue, but was stymied by her incomprehension. It looked as though she'd stumbled into a gymnasium or training room. A dozen trogs were in a pile in the center of the room, wrestling and boxing, hand-to-hand combat without weapons. Their harsh grunts sounded when they struck blows, their fists contacting with flesh. What she had thought was a wrestling mat was moisture-darkened dirt. Sweat. Blood. She wasn't sure which. Another trog body rolled off to the side of the pile of wrestlers. Then she heard the voice again and realized it was coming from the bottom of the pile. Ott was being killed under there. Mel panicked, and then reached out, seeking a grip on the agamite to control the trogs.

  Puppets, just like the other one. Should be easy, right? OK, then.

  She reached out in her mind for the nearest trog, the one on the top of the pile. She waved her hand at him, trying to focus her efforts. With her mind, she gave the trog a small shove. Or rather, she gave the agamite inside of him a gust of repulsion to get him off the heap of bodies. With a shriek, he rose up in agony, his back twisting backward as his heavy hands and arms reached up to clutch at his head. His eyes were open and wet, glistening darkly. He fell back toward the side of the room where the other remains of bodies lay, and then he slumped down with them.

  Easy, right?

  Mel shuddered in revulsion, but she had no choice. Physically she was nothing to them, even with enhanced strength. She could only stand back and peel them off the pile one by one. Too slow. It was going too slowly. She snarled in frustration. Ott groaned again as a solid fist hit him.

  "Too slow!" she said again aloud, irritated. Exhaling on a gust of air, she made a fist and then abruptly flicked her fingers outward, mimicking an explosion. Very carefully, she tried to take off just the top layer of writhing bodies; she was alarmed when the trogs burst off the pile as if they were leaves blowing in the wind. Several of them hit the walls of the cavern. A body flew directly toward her. She dropped to the floor but not in time to dodge the thick shoulder that collided with her forehead. She tried to shove the trog off her, so she could go to Ott, but she was pinned. After a struggle, she managed to drag herself out from under it, limb by limb, and then paused, panting and sweating. She rolled to her hands and knees and pulled herself up.

  Ott lay on the floor, curled up on his side. He was beaten and bloodied, barefooted, and shirtless. Older bruises on his skin were painted with fresh blood. She turned him onto his back, and he did a full-body wince.

  "Hello," she said as he opened his eyes and focused on her. He squinted at her, then slowly raised a finger and poked her twice on the cheekbone.

  "Real?" he said. It was a whispered, pained gasp.

  "Yes, I'm real," she said, unable to stop the corner of her mouth from lifting. His fingers traveled to the sore spot on her head where the airborne trog had just hit her.

  She put her hands on the sides of his face and fished around inside him for agamite. He had quite a lot of it in him still—not as much as a trog—but still a large amount, maybe from breathing dust in the mine. Very gently, as if using one finger, she warmed the agamite up inside him, circulated it within him, and coaxed it to help heal him. He gasped and arched his back on the dirt floor.

  "Ow," he said. But after a little while, he was able to sit up without help. He looked at her warmly while he was resting. She checked over his bruises gently, exploring tenderly with her fingertips.

  "How did you get here?" she asked. She was leaning close enough in that she felt his breath on her shoulder when he answered.

  "I came to rescue you," he said with badly faked nonchalance. She could feel his eyes on her and she smiled. Her body flushed, swamped with heat at his proximity. And she felt an honest surge of pleasure, something more than physical, something that took her entirely by surprise in this ghoulish setting. It was hard not to, seeing him safe. Well, relatively safe. Not being pummeled at least.

  "Well, thank you."

  "Who are they?" he asked, his green eyes suddenly locked on the passageway. She looked up.

  "That's my friend Rav from the Keep and her . . . companion," she said. Ott frowned, looking suddenly a million years old. He abruptly wrenched himself upward to get on his feet. He pulled her up after him, eyeing Rav’s trog as if it were going to jump him. Understandably.

  "Is he important?" Ott said, suddenly focused, and Mel understood. Ott wanted to know if the trog could be used as leverage getting out of here and aboveground. If Rav's trog were high up in their warrior ranks, he'd be worth something in trade. At best, they might be able to exchange him for their own freedom. At worst, he could help them fight their way out. They were going to need all the muscle they could get.

  Rav stared at them. Then she turned to the trog and gestured briefly. The trog said something back, and Rav translated. "He says he's a . . . " Rav frowned and turned back to the trog questioningly. He repeated the hand gestures that he'd done before. He widened his eyes at her and nodded back at them, goading her to relay what he had said.

  "Are you sure?" she said aloud.

  He chuffed and gestured again for her to tell them.

  Rav said, "He says he's a . . . librarian."

  Chapter 66

  By shifting his shape back and forth from man to trog directly in front of the creatures, Guyse planned to sow more than the seeds of his survival. He depended on the hope that some of these creatures lived in envy of men aboveground. Because he didn't have trog attire and didn't speak their language, he’d had to wait until he was in front of them to shift. He needed the full impact with as little misunderstanding as possible. And if they saw how easy the transformation was for him, perhaps they could be tricked . . . persuaded into coming out into the open and seeing for themselves. At the very least, he just wanted to retrieve his daughter without causing a war. Though he didn’t have much hope.

  In an audience of fifty-odd trogs in various states of incapacity, he saw shock and envy on maybe a fifth of them. Ten. Of fifty. Damn him for not having a better plan. How on earth was he going to find Mel? As he stood in the middle of the room, a large hide-covered hand snaked out across the floor and shackled his ankle. His shoulders slumped in anticipation of the fight he had ahead of him. Then, he shifted once more—back into a trog—and stripped off his shirt, crouching for whatever attack came next.

  But none came.

  The hand around his ankle loosened its grip. Large, square-tipped fingers tugged the hem of his pants. Gently. A finger beckoned him to lower himself down to the floor to the trog's level. Maybe they were too fatigued or injured to take him on. Fine, he could get down on
his hands and knees. But how was he going to communicate with them?

  Use your senses, you fool. Do what you were trained to do. A voice in Guyse's mind told him what to do. It was a cranky voice that sounded suspiciously like his dead older brother. Guyse knew it couldn’t possibly be his brother—he knew it was just himself—but it was damned good advice, so he listened to it. He was Mask-trained for godsake. Having chosen not to use the lessons he'd been taught as a young boy and as a young man, didn't mean that he hadn't learned them. And learned them well.

  He slowly lowered himself to the floor and found himself face-to-face with a trog. He'd never been this close to one before. Close enough to see the fine wrinkles in the parched thick hide. He studied the wide, upturned nostrils, the clear eyes with startling thick lashes, and heavy brows.

  This is what I look like right now.

  He watched the trog's hands as they came together in a series of signals. It was a sequence of five, no six signs that the trog repeated over and over. After awhile, the gist of it came to Guyse. You. Me. Go. Together. Aboveground. As soon as he got it, Guyse nodded his assent and clasped the big man's hand in a sturdy grip. Two hands met. Bluish gray thick skin that matched and held together. Now he had eleven on his side. He stood.

  "OK. Who else?" he tried to say, but his trog's vocal chords were damaged or simply malformed. No sounds came out that were recognizable as human speech, which explained the hand language. Well, what words could he use? He now knew one phrase. So, that was the one he used over and over as he stood in the center of this room of men from another race. Were they not men after all? Were they not at least as human as that snake Col Rob?