Tallas (The Tallas Series Book 1)

by Cathrina Constantine

  Ennis nodded while feeling his bruised jaw.

  “You should have that looked at, my friend,” Doogan said civilly.

  Ennis managed an awkward grin. Disregarding Clive’s recommendation to see Basta, he turned and went into the Infirmary.

  “I’m in charge of Doogan tonight.” Paniess shot Clive a patronizing smile. “He’s going up to the Mansion. He won’t need a guard.”

  “Sorry, Miss Addler,” Clive said, appearing embarrassed. “I have specific orders for tonight. I’m not to let him out of my sight.”

  “Why, that’s ridiculous,” she huffed. “There’s a Mediator always on duty at the Mansion. Isn’t that good enough?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Well—” Her manner was demeaning. “—my father will hear of this.”

  With a balled fist, Clive covered his mouth, clearing his throat. “It was Pomfrey Addler’s specific orders, miss.”

  Stunned, a huff wafted from her nostrils. “We’ll see about that.”

  “Miss.” Clive held out his hand for the keys. “I’ll drive.”

  Rifling in her pocket, she threw the keys at his chest. They bounced off his pecs onto the ground. Thoroughly riled, she then towed Doogan into the back seat. She flicked her eyelashes in Doogan’s direction. “Can you tell I’m pissed?”

  He suppressed a smirk, Paniess hadn’t changed that much since his days at the Mansion. Still hardheaded and spoiled.

  The sedan was in pristine shape compared to the car he’d worked on for months. Clive steered onto the main roadway, past the front of the Infirmary, then turned left. The windows were rolled down, letting in the summertime. Paniess’s auburn hair lifted in the wind, licking tauntingly at his cheek. Brushing the tickling strands his hand, he hedged away from the feel of her hips.

  The sedan handled the bumpy road, and sailed by the orchard adorned with blossoming apples, pears, and peaches. On the western side of the road stood single-family dwellings. The village people called it Executive Row. Beyond Executive Row, the fields swelled with ripe strawberries and other seasonal vegetables like tomatoes, potatoes, corn, and zucchini. Past the Mansion, beyond the Basin, was the Vale, the temperate climate producing a crop of grapes in the vineyard.

  A mile from the village loomed the gabled mansion. As a youngster, he recalled the desolate area. The gabled-brick edifice had been riddled with mortar, blown-apart chunks with a massive hole. One of the five chimneys had been destroyed and several panes of glass were shattered. Though, the bones of the mansion were in fairly decent condition.

  The sedan rolled to a stop. A Mediator, guarding a fenced gateway, strode to the driver’s side window and peered in. “Hey, Clive.” And then he looked in the rear seat. “Good evening, Miss Addler, nice to see you.”

  “Can you open up, Stark?” Paniess asked the Mediator.

  He tipped his head and walked to the gate, swinging it wide.

  “When did this go up?” Doogan swerved on the seat for a better view of the elevated fence bordering the Mansion.

  “Actually, it became functional today,” Paniess said, and noticed Clive staring at her in the rearview mirror. “I don’t like it.” She tore her gaze from the mirror to look at Doogan. “It cuts us off completely from the rest of the village.”

  “Everyone’s been watching the production,” Doogan said. “It’s good if it’ll save lives, especially after today. On the other hand, word is spreading about being held captive or something to that effect.”

  The sedan drove beneath the verdant oak trees lining the drive. They’d certainly had a growth spurt since he’d been a boy. Now, the twisted branches arching over the road created a splendid view. Through the leafy limbs, a person could see the four front gables of the Mansion. There were also two side gables and three in the rear. Over the years of being called to the Mansion to attend to one of the Elites, the monstrosity always floored him.

  Clive drove under a newly constructed portico and parked the car. Doogan let himself out, with Paniess scooching over the seat after him.

  Light spilled into the foyer from an overly large circular window. Admirable beveled casements, which had weathered well over time, and dual six-paneled doors staggered along the walls. Oversized, gilded-framed paintings were on display and lining the floors was restored marble veined in vermillion.

  An extensive staircase filed up and around the second level. The right wing housed Zent Oglebene, while the left wing, Cletus Stiglet. Pomfrey resided on the first level with his wife and Paniess. Where Doogan had once lived as a boy was on the right, however, the Elites had refurbished the quarters for general meetings and a room for entertaining.

  Before going any farther, Paniess shoved off the boots, and wedged her feet back into the heels. “This way.” The clicking of her shoes bounced off the walls as she led him past the staircase to a hallway.

  Walking to a doorway, she turned into a room. Dr. Rooney Riggley and Pomfrey stood by Gwin Addler’s bedside. Gwin appeared conscious, though, colorless. IV’s and IV poles, and monitoring machines made the extravagant bedroom smaller.

  “Doogan,” Gwin said, her voice a mangled thread. She jerkily lifted her arm. “Come.”

  Pomfrey took a step back for Doogan to grasp her thin hand. “Hello, Mrs. Addler. You’re looking better than the last time I saw you,” he said with a genuine smile.

  “Thank you for a second chance.” Her breath came in pithy wisps. “You were always such a —rascal when you lived—here.”

  “Yes, I was, but you were quick to put me in my place. ‘No shenanigans,’ you’d say.”

  Peering through heavy-lidded eyes, the rim of her mouth quirked. Automatically, Doogan checked her pulse. It had slowed considerably and he glanced at Rooney.

  “Just administered a pain med. She’ll sleep for a while,” Rooney said. “Hailla Crinsdale should be here any minute. She’s one of our best nurses.”

  “That won’t do.” Pomfrey sounded impervious. “I want you here.”

  A bit taken aback, Rooney said, “Mr. Addler, your wife’s out of danger at the moment, and I have critical patients at the Infirmary. I hated being away this long.”

  Feeling in limbo, Doogan also wished he was at the Infirmary.

  “There are capable interns there,” Pomfrey said.

  “How about I send over one of our capable interns, then? Pratt Biberly, he’s conscientious and knowledgeable—”

  “Doogan can bunk down in one of our extra rooms,” Paniess interfered, standing at the foot of her mom’s bed, her eyes fixed on her father. “He can watch over Mom.”

  Dr. Riggley showed his agreement with a hopeful nod, while Pomfrey angled his head to gaze at Doogan.

  “The prideful Dr. McTullan.” Pomfrey inspected Doogan from his shoes up to his face. “Yes, he’ll more than do.” Then he looked at his daughter. “We’re having a celebratory banquet with the Elites and some of the Executives tonight.”

  “A celebratory banquet?” she asked, not fully understanding the significance.

  “A week ago we thought your mother was going to die, and now…” His arm swept to Gwin. “She lives. And after the tragedies of the day, I feel the need to boost people’s spirits.”

  ***

  Paniess couldn’t think of a shoddier day to celebrate, though, she’d been trained never to rebuke her father. Her fingers circled her wrist where a chain link bracelet hid a pale scar. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Her voice seemed to warble. “I mean—with Mom needing rest and quiet?”

  “Have Dagmar set another place for Doctor McTullan,” he said in an uncompromising pitch. His awry eyebrow was his maneuver of disciplining her. How dare she question him in front of people.

  She looked to Dr. Riggley for support, but his gaze hit the floor. He also knew it was inadvisable to critique her father.

  “Go, now,” Pomfrey ordered crisply. Dismissing his daughter, he returned to his wife’s bedside.

  Prior to clacking from the room, she u
nleashed a malicious snarl at her father’s backside.

  Staying at the Mansion wasn’t part of Doogan’s plan. His services were required at the Infirmary, not only to assist those in critical condition, but also to keep an eye on the doctors residing in the dungeon. He had to get Knox out of there. He looked to the Mediator framing the door. He had to get rid of him, but how?

  Rooney collected his instruments. “Mr. Addler, do you have a car to drive me back to the Infirmary?”

  “Clive will drive you back.”

  “Sir,” Clive said, “what about Dr. McTullan?”

  “I think I can handle him till you get back,” Pomfrey boasted.

  “Right.”

  As Dr. Riggley passed the threshold, he shot a backward glance at Doogan, his eyes wide in wonder at the circumstances.

  He shrugged.

  “I owe you a debt of gratitude,” Pomfrey said. “Each day Gwin gains more strength. Soon she’ll be up and around and driving me nuts, like always.” He actually gave him an authentic smile. “Now, what can I do for you in return?”

  He had a long list of demands. What would Pomfrey be most likely to approve? Would he free the boy in the dungeon? Would he allow Knox and Doogan to venture into the wilderness to find Fabal? Would he release Fabal from his mole assignment? Would he stop the atrocious slaughter of Knox’s people?

  Pomfrey observed the physician’s predicament. “Maybe I can be of some help. You had said you wished for Fabal to be reassigned from mole duty, correct?”

  Doogan didn’t budge, waiting for what he was going to say next.

  “What if—Fabal starts his instruction at the Infirmary? Be a doctor like his ol’ man?”

  It was a great offer. Only Fabal wasn’t here. And then there was Knox. Doogan took a leap of faith. “Perhaps you’d assent to my request, and release the boy being detained on the lower level. He knows where Fabal is. He could lead me to my son.”

  Pomfrey gripped his chin, considering the request. “If I assign two Mediators for the quest—will you guarantee to bring Fulvio back to stand trial for his offenses?”

  Pomfrey’s comeback knocked him for a loop. Knox had admitted that Fabal was with Fulvio. Could he capture his own father? Citizens would be made to understand that even the Elites were held accountable for treasonous acts, and Fulvio would be hanged as an example.

  Pomfrey adjusted his hands into his pants pockets. Touting a coldhearted grin, he said, “Should I rescind my offer?”

  “Will you give me time to think it over?” he said, striving for a level tone.

  “What’s to think over?”

  Gwin stirred with a soft moan. Pomfrey’s gaze shifted to her. Fluttering her eyelids, she grimaced in her delirium.

  “I detest feeling indebted to someone,” he mumbled. “For Gwin’s sake, I give you one day to make a choice.”

  Chapter 25

  In the area that once served as the McTullan’s living quarters, a dining table was garnished with candelabras and bouquets of spring flowers in crystal vases. Vehemently miffed was putting it mildly as Doogan gaped at a plethora of aromatic platters deposited on the table, enough food to feed at least half the village. Roasted chicken and gravy, succulent sliced ham, mashed potatoes, carrots, and bowls of plump strawberries and grapes. Fresh water and wine poured freely into crystal goblets.

  Pomfrey conversed with Executive Florian Bucklebee who sat to his right, along with Bucklebee’s wife, Maudette, and son, Malkus. Zent, who’d lost his first wife and daughter to disease, was seated beside his new partner, Colvin, and son, Rayder. Cletus and his wife, Neve, and son, Babbit, sat across Doogan and Paniess. He was astounded to see Grindle Heversham. Fontel’s death had marred Grindle’s features, though, he masked his grief with a fake grin.

  Babbit, Rayder, and Malkus he’d recognized as the interns being instructed by Merkle and Sese, boys he’d steered clear of when growing up in the village. The Executives’ offspring were elbow deep in messy business. It appeared evident, they’d been born without a conscience, or overbearing parents had tainted their scruples.

  Not remembering the last time he’d eaten, he strived for restraint, but wanted to gorge on everything in sight. While chewing with gusto, he noticed Malkus’s piercing gaze. Nudging Paniess under the table, he whispered in her ear, “So which one of these guys have you hooked-up with?”

  “Why? Are you jealous?” Her hand skimmed the thigh of his trousers.

  He stared at her curvy lips. “Malkus is boring a hole in my head and his nose is flaring.” Inclining into the chair, he popped a strawberry into his mouth. His eyes drifted over the attractive woman in her flowery dress with a yellow sash belting her waist. Her pinned up hair revealed her olive-toned complexion and painted carnation pink lips. “Miss Paniess Addler, you have an ardent admirer.”

  Pomfrey rose at the head of the table. Raising a glass of wine in a toast-like fashion, he said, “Tonight, we eat and drink in thanksgiving for those who survived, and for those who have given their lives this day. May those fallen victims remain steadfast in our hearts. We celebrate their lives.” Seeking Grindle, Pomfrey nodded. “Most empathically for our dear Executive, Grindle, and his lovely wife, Brazelle—who was too brokenhearted to join us this evening—for the loss of their ever-loving son, Fontel, who served Tallas faithfully.” He paused. “And lastly, to Dr. McTullan, who took a chance and gave my Gwin a new life.” His eyes held tightly to Doogan’s then roamed to Malkus.

  Glasses lifted, and a chorus of voices hailed, “Here-here.”

  Not quite as jubilant, Doogan downed the wine. Hypnotized by the candles flame, he stared, thinking of his family.

  ***

  She studied the man beside her. His square, broad shoulders stretched the seams of his shirt as lean surgical fingers combed through his lengthy black hair, which was in desperate need of a trim. Her unceasing thoughts of loving him as a teenager quickened her heart. She inhaled his scent and couldn’t take her eyes off the virile man he’d matured into. And now that Keeyla was out of the picture…

  “Why so moody?” Paniess moved to touch her shoulder to Doogan.

  He blinked, coming out of his reverie. “Just thinking,” he said.

  She longingly gazed as he raised his glass of wine to his lips, desperate to taste his full mouth once again. He must’ve felt her watching him because he turned to look at her. Gazing into his sultry eyes, scintillating heat coursed through her veins. “You look extremely handsome tonight,” she said in a thick, flattering voice.

  His sculptured lips curled in a winsome smile.

  “These old things,” Doogan joked, pulling at the knit shirt. “I don’t know where Fontel dug up these babies.”

  “You need clothes?”

  “My clothes were auctioned off to the Mediators, and the rest are laying in the mud somewhere down the street,” he said, “though, probably not any longer. Some lucky sap has them by now.”

  “You’re silly.” She swirled the glimmering fluid in her glass. “I’ll find something suitable.”

  “Don’t bother, I’m fine.”

  “We’ll see about that.” She gave him a mischievous grin then consumed the remnants of wine.

  Hearing the name of Dr. Sese, Doogan’s attention was drawn to the men assembled by the stone fireplace. In hopes of distracting him, Paniess covered his hand. “Come with me,” she said.

  ***

  Guests mingled after the meal, casting Doogan sidelong glances as Paniess led him to an alcove. A tufted cushion covered the window seat, which his mom had sewn more than twenty years ago, now faded and threadbare. He’d spent many an hour tucked in that nook, reading whatever old, dog-eared books his mentor let him borrow.

  Her handholding made him feel uneasy. Besides, his thoughts were with the men. He wanted to know what they were discussing.

  “I need to get out of here,” he whispered. Gazing out the window, darkness cloaked the outside and the beveled glass reflected their figures.

 
; Subsequent a significant pause, she said, “I know.”

  Not wishing to compromise her, Doogan hesitated. “Will you help?” Since the Mediators had him bogged down, escape seemed improbable. Untying their fingers, he felt the coldness in his hand and wiped them on his pants.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I should probably check in on your mother.” He turned to leave, but noted Pomfrey and the young men heading toward him.

  “Doogan, have you been formally introduced to our newest interns?”

  “Not…formally.”

  As Pomfrey supplied the names, each man performed a one handed shake. He then broached a new subject. “Were you informed of Afram’s ailment?

  “He’s laid-up with pneumonia,” Babbit said before Doogan had a chance to reply. If not for the man’s shiny dome on the top of his head, Babbit looked more like a teenager with his short thin frame. Compensating for his baldness, he sported a fully-grown beard.

  Malkus, his eyes too closely knit and shrewd, stated, “The old man could easily die.” He shrugged like it was expected. “We had an interesting surgery planned for tomorrow. I guess it’ll have to wait ’cause Dr. Merkle’s not in shape either.”

  Postponing the chopping off of a boy’s healthy leg apparently agitated him. Doogan felt the twang of his nerves, and steeled himself from lipping off. Malkus was an easy read, a man who wouldn’t think twice about slitting your throat to gain acclaim.

  “Director Jedd has decided to accept our Dr. Rayder Olgebene on the floor within the week.” Pomfrey set a congratulatory hand to Rayder’s shoulder. “Rayder has met with Dr. Riggley’s approval. One more polished physician to help in the den of the sick. What do you think, Dr. McTullan? Would you prefer the underground trenches or the hypochondriacs on a daily basis? We could use someone with your knowledgeable capabilities to replace Afram.”