“Were you listening to me, boy?”
“Yes,” he quickly lied. He searched his memory briefly, then recited, “You were saying as I grow older, my character will be tested more than other men, and it will be the bonds of friendship I share which will allow me to overcome those challenges and strengthen my humanity.” He then took a deep breath and flashed a small smile across the room.
She rolled her eyes and released a small sigh. She knew he had not been listening, but his recitation proved he had heard her at least one time before. She also knew he had no idea of her words’ meaning. Not yet. He wasn’t old enough to be told everything. Soon, though, very soon he would be. She only hoped they would both be ready.
“Fine then,” she shrugged. “Off with you. Go and do your chores, then you may go and cause trouble with Samuel.” Braughton was out the door before she had even finished the first sentence.
She watched from the window as he ran through the small brook in front of the hut, then across the field away from the village. He was, no doubt, headed for the crossroads. She had forgotten to remind him he was not allowed to go there, and he was eager to forget her warnings. Let him discover on his own the dangers lurking there, she thought. It seemed to be the only way he learned anything anyway.
She thought again upon his recital of her speech, and smiled to herself. “You have much to learn, child. I never said the bonds you share will be those of friendship. No, I think you will find these to be much stronger, and harder to bear.”
Braughton was indeed headed for the crossroads, or more specifically, the gallows. He was supposed to have met Samuel over half an hour ago, and he raced there, hoping Samuel had not given up on him. Admittedly, it was not very likely. The boys spent nearly every day together, and were shunned by every other child in the village. Braughton because of his grandmother, the witch, and Samuel because of his father, the branded.
Braughton had no idea if Grandmother was an actual witch, but he did know nearly every person in the village had visited their isolated hut in the dead of night at one time or another. How many times had he heard hushed voices, then creeped from his room to watch Grandmother pick some bottle or talisman from a shelf, and hand it to the anxiously waiting patron? Which was followed by the exchange of money, a hurried thanks, and then they disappeared into the night.
During the day, though, it was a different story. Children were warned to stay away from their home, and the threat of being sold to the witch was used on misbehaving children. Did they think him a particularly naughty child who had been sold to the witch? Braughton shrugged. The other children had avoided him his whole life. He knew no other way. For Samuel though, things were harder.
Samuel’s family had moved to the village three years before, settling on to an abandoned farm. They knew nothing of the man who ruled these lands - the Baron and his Overseers. Samuel’s father paid for his ignorance with a hand carved reminder on his chest, given to him by an Overseer when he refused to pay the last tenant’s unpaid taxes to the Baron. It was accompanied by a promise to return and mark the rest of his family should he need be reminded of the Baron’s power.
Fearing a similar fate, the rest of the villagers kept their distance from Samuel’s father, and his family. The two boys had little other choice than to become friends. Becoming best friends though, that was inevitable.
Reaching the far end of the open field, Braughton stepped onto the road, and looked towards the gallows. The raised wooden platform was empty except for the lone pole with its slightly swaying noose. There hadn’t been a hanging in some time, and the few crows resting nearby made their disappointment known with angry caws.
Other than the crows, the crossroads appeared deserted. Had Samuel left him after all? Taking another look he noticed a shape resting against one of the supports on the far side of the platform. Careful to avoid the cool shadow of the gallows, which could make him shiver on even the hottest of days, Braughton circled around and found it was Samuel. His back against the pole, hands folded across his chest, and a wide-brimmed hat covering his face, Braughton assumed his friend must be napping. Perfect.
Braughton moved slowly, careful not to step on anything that might give him away. Samuel’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, further convincing Braughton his friend was sleeping. Closer and closer he drew, then held his breath, and reached out his hand, ready to grab Samuel’s shoulder.
“You’re late,” came a matter of fact voice from under the hat. Braughton froze, his hand mere inches from Samuel, and exhaled the breath he had been saving for a loud roar.
“How’d you know it was me?”
“They gave you away,” Samuel answered with a nod towards the crows. “They’ve been quiet all morning, until you showed up. Seems like they don’t care much for your company.”
“Well, the feeling is mutual,” countered Braughton.
Samuel pushed the hat up off his face and gave Braughton an easy smile. “You ready?” he asked.
“Waiting on you,” Braughton answered with a smile of his own.
Samuel jumped to his feet, scaring the crows from the field, and headed for the nearby trees. The road would have certainly been faster, but better they not see anyone during this adventure.
Braughton could barely contain his excitement. They were finally going to find out if the old soldier’s story was true. Was there really a secret tunnel into the Baron’s castle dungeons? Before this trip was over, they would know for certain.
Samuel was also keeping something contained – his father’s hunting knife. He stroked its hilt, the cold metal giving him reassurance and false courage. This, for him, was much more than just another of their adventures. This is how he would repay the injury done to his family.
Chapter Four
The road ahead of him was empty, and he twisted the throttle further, pushing the already straining bike even faster. Was he chasing someone, or trying to outrun something? It was an odd thought, but it wasn’t the first one in the past two days, and they seemed to be coming more frequently.
Malock. He was chasing Malock, of course. The sedative had definitely given Malock a head start, but he was closing in. He could feel it. Couldn’t he?
No, this was a different feeling. The itch. It was there, just below the surface, begging to be indulged. It wasn’t demanding attention yet, so he still had time.
It had been so long he had almost forgotten what it felt like. When was the last time? How long had he been able to ignore it? It must have been just before he found Garrett. Or had it been Garrett who found him?
His mind wandered from the road, thinking back before Garrett. Anything to distract him from the itch. There had been others like Garrett, and he could recall each of them clearly. It was the time between them that was strange. Gaps of blackness interspersed with flashes of intense violence, but there was no emotion. It was as if he were remembering someone else’s life.
Memories with Garrett though, they were clear. Thoughts, actions, decisions, regrets - everything. His last memory of Garrett surfaced. He had awoken on the crimson carpet of that secret study, staring into Garrett’s dead eyes. They still held that same peace he couldn’t understand. All he could feel was shame and guilt. And anger.
From the corner of Garrett’s mouth, a thin trail of blood had run down and mixed with the red carpet. Just beyond his body, lying in a pool of drying blood, was the decapitated remains of the beast that had slain him. How much blood had been spilled onto that carpet? That blood red carpet. So much blood.
Blood.
Itch.
Damn.
* * *
The small “Ding!” announced Braughton’s presence in the eerily quiet diner. The bright sunlight outside rendered him blind inside the dark room for a moment. Not that he needed to see. The smell of fear and excitement mixed with pounding heartbeats blanketing the entire room told him all he needed to know. The steady thump, thump, thump kept him cal
m, even though he was completely out of control.
His eyes adjusted quickly, revealing a small group of customers huddled in their booths. In the back corner, an intimate couple were having lunch, but she didn’t look comfortable, and his hand squeezed her arm tight enough to leave an imprint. Tough love, maybe.
At the counter, a large man had his eyes on the kitchen staff, and his hand hidden in his jacket. Against the side wall, a jukebox played some worn out pop song, while a man stood in front, browsing through the selections. His left arm was hidden on the opposite side of the jukebox, and he actually seemed more interested in Braughton than the music catalog. His arm twitched nervously, but it remained hidden from view. Again, Braughton didn’t need to see it to know what he held tightly gripped in his hand.
Braughton gave Jukebox Hero a nod, then walked to the counter, and sat down one seat away from the Kitchen Monitor. The waitress stood there, silent, hands clasped together. She licked her lips then looked nervously at the other man, before moving towards Braughton with a painted on smile.
“What can I get for you, hon?” A line she had said a million times, a reflex practically. Likewise, the stance she now held, dutifully holding pad and pencil, poised to take his order, but her eyes kept cutting back to the man seated next to Braughton.
“Just a cup of coffee, please,” he replied. She grabbed a cup from the counter behind her, placed it in front of him, and then reached for the coffee pot all as another reflex action. Braughton was impressed with her steady hand, considering the situation.
“He’s gonna want that coffee to go,” the Kitchen Monitor instructed, without looking at either of them. The waitress jerked the coffee pot back, nearly spilling it everywhere. She pulled a paper cup from under the counter, sat it down in front of Braughton, and filled it with coffee. For the first time since he had sat down, she looked directly into his eyes and pleaded with him to just take it and leave. Now what kind of fun would that be?
He gave her an easy smile, though careful not to show his teeth, and said, “I think I’ll just sit right here.” A slight pause, then, “I like it in here. So cozy and quiet.” Coffee pot frozen in hand, the waitress slowly stepped away from the counter, her eyes quickly shifting from one man to the other.
Kitchen Monitor slid from the stool, and moved behind Braughton. At the same time, Loverboy lost interest in his girlfriend, and also moved towards the counter, while Jukebox Hero seemed anxious to reveal what he had in that hidden hand.
Braughton raised the cup to his lips, took a small sip, and shook his head. “No, I’m afraid that’s just not going to do it.” He spun around to face them with the same smile he had flashed the waitress. “Any of you ever had an itch you just can’t seem to scratch?”
“Say what?” Kitchen Monitor almost had his hand free from his jacket, but the question surprised him.
“You know, an itch you just can’t reach, and no matter how much you scratch, it’s just not satisfied.” Silence. “That’s why I came in here – to satisfy an itch.” He glanced back at the counter. “But that coffee just isn’t going to do it.”
“Well, you’re in luck,” Kitchen Monitor replied with his own smile. “I hear they have pitchforks in Hell.” He pulled a pistol free from his jacket, and pointed it at Braughton’s head. “So why don’t you just ask the devil for a scratch.”
He squeezed the trigger, and sent the gun’s lead payload on its lethal trajectory. It sailed through the empty space where Braughton’s head had been only moments before. Instead, it struck the coffee pot, spraying glass and hot coffee into the air, before it finally came to rest, lodged in the back wall of the diner. The waitress disappeared behind the counter with a small scream, while many of the customers dove under tables. The gunman could only stare blankly at the empty stool in front of him.
“It’s not that kind of an itch.” Braughton’s voice was in his ear. Behind him, he realized too late. Braughton grabbed the arm holding the gun, and spun him around to face the diner, but remained behind him. He twisted Kitchen Monitor’s arm, and pulled on it until the gun barrel pressed into the back of his own head. He looked helplessly at his partners who wore expressions of surprise he could only assume closely mirrored his own.
“Who in the hell are you?” he managed to ask through gritted teeth.
“Why don’t you ask them when you get there,” suggested Braughton, then reached up and pulled the trigger of the gun, blowing off the top of Kitchen Monitor’s head. Blood sprayed into the air, and Braughton licked at some small drops that landed on his lips. He threw the body up on the counter, spilling more blood. It pooled and ran over the edge, forming a stream in front of the cowering waitress. Braughton smiled, exposing his pointed teeth, and asked, “Would you mind grabbing me a cup of that to go?”
From behind, Braughton heard the unmistakable click of a shotgun shell being loaded into the chamber. His smile never faltered as he turned and saw the hidden hand finally revealed, nor was he surprised to find it held a sawed off shotgun. What did surprise him was the speed with which Jukebox Hero decided to fire the gun. No screams, no threats, no questions – just the almost imperceptible muscle movement of a flexing index finger. He nearly missed it, and he paid for it by catching some of the spray in his hand and legs.
Most of the blast hit the counter where Braughton had been standing, but he was already behind Jukebox Hero before he realized it. Braughton reached around, grabbed the gun with one hand, and wrapped his other arm around his neck.
“I shot you, man! I know I hit you!” he blurted out, struggling against Braughton’s grip.
Braughton looked at his hand and noticed the hole. “Nice shootin’ there, Tex. But don’t worry.” He held his hand up in front of his captive’s face. “It’s only a flesh wound.” He could see his partner’s face through the hole in Braughton’s hand, staring back in disbelief as the wound grew smaller, healing before their eyes.
As Loverboy’s face began to disappear, Braughton said, “Now, say goodbye to him.” The shotgun’s blast again filled the diner, and the look on Loverboy’s face changed from surprise to pain. He slipped from view as the hole closed, leaving Jukebox Hero staring at Braughton’s completely healed hand. “See, all better now,” Braughton said, flexing his fingers.
Jukebox Hero let out a small shriek and tried bolting for the door, but Braughton’s hand found its way back to his neck. The grip was tight, and Braughton loosened it only when his captive started to go limp.
“P-p-please don’t hurt me,” he blurted out after regaining his breath. Tears began to roll down his red cheeks, and his mouth opened and closed soundlessly, his brain unable to form the pleas for his life. Braughton grinned, and leaned down to whisper in his ear.
“Is this really how you want to act in front of all these people?” Braughton hissed. “It couldn’t have been more than just a few minutes ago that you were yelling orders and scaring people, could it? You were in charge. You pointed your gun, told them to do something, and then, dammit, they did it. They did it ‘or else’ you said, didn’t you? Now look at you, crying and begging for your life. It’s quite a change in such a short amount of time, isn’t it?”
The last of the would-be robbers turned his head, straining to get a look at his captor, question ready now on his once silent lips. He met Braughton’s black eyes, blood-stained lips, and sharp pointed teeth, and all he could manage was, “Why are you doing this?”
“Weren’t you listening?” Braughton asked, pulling the man’s head to one side, exposing his neck. “I needed to scratch an itch.” The man barely even flinched as Braughton plunged his teeth into the soft flesh, and was dead before Braughton could even swallow a mouthful of blood.
The blood left a burning trail as it poured down his throat and into his stomach, feeding a thirst that had demanded to be quenched. He clamped his jaw shut, and tore open his victim’s neck, then let out a sound some would later describe as a laugh, and others as a growl. He d
ropped the lifeless body to the floor, and looked for his next kill.
He saw only bodies huddled under tables, heard only whispers and crying, and, beyond the blood, smelled only fear in the room. He looked down at his blood-soaked shirt and stained hands, then to the large pool of red in which he stood. It reminded him of the carpet, but there was no other feeling, just the memory. He turned slowly, moved towards the door, and stepped back out into the blinding sun.
* * *
When his vision returned he was once again on his bike, following a winding road in front of him. He had no idea where he was, or how much time had passed, but that feeling, the itch, had passed. But for how long? And at what price?
He slowed down gently, easing the bike onto the soft shoulder of the highway. Without the noise of the engine and wind, Grandmother’s voice threatened to interject again. He already knew the lecture, and no doubt it would play back in glowing, punishing detail later, but not right now. He brushed the memory aside before it could distract him. He needed a few minutes to figure out where he was and how far away Malock had slipped during his detour. How could he have been so reckless?
It was the sound of an approaching siren that drew his attention away from Malock. It would be on him in mere minutes, which made him smile. It was a broad grin of relief, revealing normal, even teeth. Whatever else the siren might bring with it, Braughton was certain of one thing: a new bond would be made soon.
Chapter Five
The day began like most every other had since her father died – trying to find a reason to get out of bed. Most days it was the job. Serve and protect. She turned and looked at the service pistol on her nightstand, the same kind her father had used to kill himself. No, today the job just wasn’t going to be enough.
She picked up the gun and laid it on her chest, its weight somehow soothing, and stared into the dark opening of the barrel. If she pulled the trigger, would she see the bullet before it hit her between the eyes? It was a strange thought, and she wondered what thoughts must have gone through her father’s head before he decided to pull the trigger? What would be her last thought?
Shackles of Sunlight Page 3