The Bone Roses

by Kathryn Lee Martin

  Hunter bolts across the small kitchen, eyes wide with terror and pain. Gunshots pepper our chicken-patterned wallpaper and I can’t tell if Colton is returning fire from behind the overturned table or if the K. C. have opened fire. It doesn’t sound like the Damascus.

  Sadie . . .

  Hunter flees for the living room in desperation. Like a savage, wild animal I give chase and propel myself into a lunge through the doorway. Fingers spread wide, I catch his legs and twist my body sideways.

  He goes over and hits the floor in a violent shattering of glass and wood.

  “Oh God, oh God,” Sadie shrieks from behind Frank, who holds her close, gentleness replaced by a terrifying mountain-bear stance just behind the couch.

  A sharp, boney knuckle slams against my jaw. Blinding pain sears my arm, the stitches pulling free as we hit the broadside of the couch and roll onto the unforgiving hardwood and braided rug behind the broken lamp and fractured small table.

  The hunting knife—I need that knife.

  My fingers lose their grip. Pain assaults my chest, the braided floor rug catching me. Every breath can’t happen fast enough and I struggle to get back up, the world swaying out of focus and returning just as quickly.

  The woodstove is too far away though. I’ll never get to it in time.

  He’s up in a wild panic, gasping and panting.

  Frank lunges for him and I hear a deep-throated, bellowing cry. The burly man reels back. Blood spatters the floor, pouring from his hand and torn flannel sleeve.

  “That’s right, back off, Williams.” Hunter snarls and brandishes a narrow blade slick with blood. He grabs Sadie and jerks the woman close to him.

  My breath hitches in my throat. Blood drips down over the switchblade’s dark burgundy handle. A handle my fingers have walked over for three years and dropped while fighting Henny in the square yesterday.

  “Hunter!” I push myself up, feeling every muscle protest. “You want to kill someone, you come kill me. Let her go.”

  Don’t hurt her. God, don’t let him hurt her.

  “Bold words, witch-child, but I must decline.” The mousy man rolls his eyes and brandishes the blade closer to her throat. Sadie flinches, breathing heavy, dark-brown eyes full of terror. “You see, a new age has dawned here in Rondo—”

  The blade ticks flesh just under her left ear. “The time of demonic rustlers and those who support them is long over. Long live Hyperion, ruler of this world and the next, and our salvation.”

  Fear sweeps through me. He’s going to kill them.

  No . . . My fingers scratch the bloodstained, braided rug and touch floorboards. No. No. No.

  “Frank!” Sadie screams and tries to break away.

  “You shut up.” Hunter tightens his grip. “Or I’ll do worst to you than I did that miserable preacher.”

  Jericho . . . No . . .

  A deep, rumbling growl shakes my bones. The words lash like the slave master’s whip. Flames roar in the woodstove. Shadows stretch across the wood-paneled walls and disorganized shelves.

  Get that knife away from her. Protect them.

  My fingers curl against the floorboards, gathering the thick, braided rug coils to my palms. “Get your filthy paws off my mother.”

  I wrench the rug backward and Hunter’s legs go with it.

  Frank lunges forward. A painful scream fills the room, two bodies hitting the floor in a heap. His knees hit the floor at the same time my hands seize Hunter and throw the man away from Sadie.

  “Sadie. Honey.” The big man shakes her shoulder and gathers her quivering body to his chest.

  It’s too dark to see if he got her.

  “Frank. . .” Her voice sounds so small and fragile in the shadows. She grabs for his flannel shirt and pulls herself against him, weeping and shivering.

  Please be okay.

  Frank brushes aside her curly caramel hair and looks down at her neck. “Thank God.” Onyx eyes flash up at me his relief turning to panic. “Rags! Look out!”

  Hunter’s arms catch me around the midsection. I grab his wrist, stopping the blade from piercing my heart as he spins me to face him. I brace the soles of my boots against the braided rug and wooden floor, everything I have struggling to force him back and away from my family.

  Cold steel swings over my head, held back by my shaking left hand. Blood soaks my arm where Henny got me but I don’t let go.

  “We will never bow to Hyperion.”

  We strike the ground hard and roll closer to the woodstove. I grapple for the switchblade. Blow after blow finds my body from his free hand. Bruises form with each jab but I don’t let go. Not this time.

  “Stop hitting her.” Colton’s yell roars through the living room at the same time the switchblade falls from Hunter’s hand. The traitor smirks, gray eyes looking to the heavy soldier presence flooding the room. Their carbines click and take aim.

  “Make me, field rat.”

  “You’re going to regret this, Lawrence. Oh, how you will.”

  Hunter breaks from my hold and scrambles to his feet, bolting for the kitchen and the protection of his men.

  I’m on my feet in pursuit, fingers embedded in his jacket.

  “Frost Flea, watch out!” Colton shies back, swinging the Damascus up and fending off a carbine with a warning shout. Violent pain crashes down between my shoulder blades as I twist to face my opponent, sending a wave of agony down my spine and paralyzing every muscle.

  The world shifts upward in a violent wave, my body crashing against the hardwood. For a brief moment the world spins and blurs. Sadie’s screams fade as I briefly see soldiers’ boots march by. The world goes black.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The stag stands behind the willow. Winter hide shaggy and purer than the snow rising past his hocks; he bobs his beautiful chiseled marble head. His warm breath hovers before his muzzle. A set of heavy antlers curves into the branches.

  They part and sprinkle snowflakes over his frosty, lion-like mane in almost complete silence. He watches me with dark-blue eyes, all the wisdom of the forest contained within a single soul. His majestic legs wade through the drifts until he stands under the thicker boughs leaving only the faintest hints of his existence among the few curtaining branches disturbed by his antlers.

  The stag tilts his muzzle upward and delicately seizes a rough piece of bark on the tree’s trunk with large, flat teeth. A single strip peels away. His attentive ears flick back and forth.

  Satisfied, he turns his regal dark-blue eyes back to me. The tree’s branches thicken around him in the soft flakes until they match his pure hide. I blink and he becomes one with the snow as if never existing.

  Fuzzy silver lines do, though. Lots of them. Horizontal and vertical across everything. They pulse and shimmer until they solidify into honeycomb-like wire mesh thicker than normal chicken wire. The snow turns to shadows. Our beautiful willow shifts into a dark wood, folding table. Sheets of paper spill over its edges and onto the floor.

  A portable wood-burning heater flickers nearby, casting shadows across the olive-green canvas walls.

  Where am I . . .

  My hands shake and curl into a scratchy, wool blanket. Straw pokes through a white cotton sheet underneath. Sweat soaks my goat-hair sweater and ruffled buckskin pants. Drenched mahogany hair clings to my face.

  Water . . .

  Thirst makes it hard to swallow. I push my tongue against the roof of my mouth. Anything to drive away the dryness and bring some relief. It only makes the problem worse.

  How did I get here? Where’s Hunter? Where’s my family?

  Heavy, throbbing pain crawls through every muscle. Bruises flare at the straw’s prickling touch. A whistling hiss slips through chapped lips. My ribs feel like someone poured hot coals on them.

  I struggle to bring the room into better focus. My battered jacket hangs from a folding chair outside the metal cage’s industrial chicken-wire web. I wince. The chicken wire stretches from a plywood floor to the te
nt’s ceiling. A neatly made cot sits next to the tiny heater, cedar chest tucked at its foot.

  “I’m going to kill him.” Canvas tears sideways and rattles the tiny brass loops holding it up. He sweeps into the tent, blond ponytail swinging wildly, amber eyes venomous.

  “Henny, calm down.” Colton grabs the tent flap and rips it closed behind him.

  Henny’s combat boots slam the wood with a bang rivaling a gunshot. “Out of my way, Fieldson. That son of a bitch is a dead man.”

  “Shhh.” Colton holds both hands up. “Stop yelling.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” he snarls and rips his Damascus from his shoulder. His hands rifle through the cedar chest. An ammunition clip snaps into place. “Now get out of the way.”

  “Henny.” Colton frowns. “Calm down or you’re going to do something you’ll regret.”

  “Get out of my way,” a loud, bellowing roar responds. He towers over the Irishman by a good several inches, teeth bared and amber eyes livid.

  I lay as still as possible, thankful for the wire barrier between me and them right now.

  Colton looks up at him. “I’m just as upset as you are about this whole fawking mess but if you storm out there and put a bullet in his brain you’re no better than him.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Yes,” the word rolls through his accent, “you do. And I’m not going to lose another little brother because he does something stupid so give me that gun or I’ll put you on your ass so quick you won’t even have time to pull that fancy trigger.”

  Another brother? I pretend to be asleep. Come on now . . . Is he serious? Henny is his other brother?

  Henny’s nostrils flare.

  Colton reaches into his jacket. “Don’t make me do it, ’enny. Because I will.”

  The taller young man tilts his chin upward, neck muscles rigid as Colton holds Jericho’s hunting knife just below his jaw. He holds out his free hand and makes a motion to hand it over.

  “Damn you, Fieldson.” The ebony Damascus lands in Colton’s outstretched hand. “He deserves to die and you know it.”

  “Yes.” The blade moves away from his neck and back into Colton’s jacket. “But there are better ways to handle this and you know it—so you do your job and I’ll do mine.”

  Henny curls his lip into a menacing snarl and turns away. The wooden table flips over. Papers flutter everywhere.

  “Now that was just childish.” Colton shakes his head.

  Henny scowls. “Don’t you have a purification proclamation to write for Hyperion or something?”

  I struggle to keep from shivering and drawing their attention.

  “Well, I did.” He flops down on a folding chair and sets the ebony Damascus on the ground beside what looks like the cherry stock of my Damascus poking out from under the cot and an elaborate dark-walnut recurve crossbow. “But asshole Hunter went ahead and took over the whole fawking town on his own accord. Turns out Rondo is worse off than we even imagined since just about all but a handful were quick to join the ‘Hail Hyperion’ campaign he started.”

  “This would be easier if you’d give me my rifle back.” Henny looks up from the table he uprights. “You’re a damn luresman, Colton, not a soldier.”

  “Now wait a second, Henny.” Colton drums the tabletop with his fingers. “This isn’t a bad thing. We’re supposed to purify the settlement. Lawrence did all the dirty work for us. All you have to do is march in there, take out Lawrence, and give Hyperion what he wants in a public purification ritual—a good show of strong force.”

  His gaze trails to me briefly. Damn. He knows I’m not asleep.

  “You make it sound so easy.” Henny collects his paperwork and arranges it in neat stacks. “Have you forgotten Tobar already?”

  “Henny,” Colton sighs, “you know that haunts me every chance it gets, which is why I think we can avoid a repeat of that mess. Not everyone joined up with Lawrence. There are still a few holdouts at the church.”

  The church . . . I harbor fragile hope. Maybe they’re still alive.

  “And what do you suppose I do with these holdouts?” Henny glances over at the young man. “You know what happens to those who won’t bow, Fieldson.”

  “Wait just a minute, Henny.” Colton stretches both arms above his head. “I have a bit of a plan to deal with this. It’s hedgy at best, but if all goes well, Hyperion still gets his show, Rondo still gets purified, and with some luck, you get to pay Hunter Mayfaire Lawrence back for what he did to you and Matty a few days ago tenfold.”

  “Oh yeah?” Henny slams a hand against the tabletop and leans over it with a “prove it” look.

  Arms still stretched above his head, Colton turns one finger to point at me.

  Oh hell no. I’d rather die than give in to the Kingdom. Especially with what they’ve done to my family.

  Henny frowns. “And what makes you think Ragamuffin over there is going to help you? She’s their rustler.”

  “Ragamuffin, cute.” He snorts. “She’s more of a Frost Flea to me, but to each their own.”

  Colton lowers his hands and closes his eyes with a knowing smirk. “She’s wounded, exhausted, starving, and away from her home. Rondo is about to be purified and her family is still in Rondo, likely holed up at the church where Lawrence’s men took them all. She’s also got the same reason to hate him as you do at this point. Pretty safe bet we can use her to our advantage.”

  “A lot rests on this, Fieldson.” Henny’s amber eyes narrow and look over at me. “You have six hours. Do not mess this up.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The tent flap swishes open and closed as the tall, young blond man strides into the cold without his rifle. Colton leans back in his chair. Quiet settles throughout the tent and when his footsteps recede completely he drapes both arms lazily over the chair’s back.

  “Sleep well, Frost Flea?”

  I harbor a glare that feels about as threatening as a knock-kneed baby goat. My muscles throb at the effort to even get a few inches off the sweat-drenched sheet.

  “Don’t move too fast. You’ll make the headache a thousand times worse.”

  Headache? I manage only enough leverage to prop myself up on an elbow before throbbing assaults my entire skull. The world sways. Everything blurs. Tears trail down my cheeks.

  “For a rustler, you do not listen well.” He gets up and withdraws a small leather pouch from his jacket.

  The frayed strings loosen as he reaches into it and pulls out a small cylinder. Weak lantern light flickers across its glassy surface. He holds it up and taps the glass, checking something. A tiny droplet oozes from the barely noticeable needle at the top.

  Every muscle trembles in my less-than-impressive struggle backward. More chicken wire forms a wall behind me. My shaking hands sweep across the uneven cotton sheet for anything to keep him away. The woolen blanket tangles and twists.

  “Whoa, easy.” Colton holds up the vial and the little leather pouch. “Easy, easy!”

  Panic and pain swirl together, giving me barely enough strength to sit up. Both shaking hands burrow into the wire mesh. I need to get out of here.

  The metal shakes and bows but doesn’t give enough to pull away from its wood and steel frame. Like being in a livestock cage. A very strong, very sturdy livestock cage.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” He sets the needle on the table. “See? Not in my hands.” The leather pouch lands beside it. “I was just going to help get rid of that headache.”

  Don’t touch me. The words translate into muffled growls.

  “Okay then. No needles. Let’s try something else.” He reaches behind the table for a stiff leather backpack and pulls out a tin cup and a bronze flask with a K. C. hare etched on it. His steady hands unscrew the metal cap and clear liquid pours into the cup.

  Wire mesh presses against my spine and I back deeper into its protective embrace.

  For a moment, his eyes turn compassionate and he reaches into his pocket. A s
harp, clinking sound soon follows, three tiny gray bone roses twisting back and forth. The pewter stag swings wildly on the tether entwined with his fingers as if trying to break free. He dangles them a few inches from the wire mesh and smirks.

  The bone roses . . .

  “Aye, that got your attention. Now, you going to calm down and listen to me for a minute, or do I have to take Matty’s nifty little keychain to Henny without giving you a chance to save your delightful little family?”

  I cling to the mesh and glare through the pain. Give them back, right now.

  “Thought so.” He wraps the bone roses securely around his left hand and pulls a flat, bronze key from his jean pocket. It slips into what sounds like a lock above the actual mesh. The cage door slides sideways.

  He sets a tin cup against the sheet where I can easily reach it and leans back outside of the cage, holding the door open a few inches.

  “It’s plain water. Drink it. It’ll at least make you more comfortable.”

  Comfortable? Yeah right. I don’t trust him or his Kingdom. He’ll probably knock me out again until Rondo is long gone and then shuffle me on a one-way trip to a public execution.

  The water glistens in the dim lantern light. My throat tightens and tongue feels so thick and raw. No. That water could be poisonous.

  “Wow you really are more stubborn than I give you credit for.” He leans against the cage’s frame. “The water’s not poisoned. Here. I’ll prove it.”

  Water pours from the flask into his cupped palm. It oozes between his fingers, coating the bone rose’s petals, making them shimmer. He scowls and adds a little more water before sipping it.

  I reach for the cup, curling my fingers around the same places he touched and drag the cup across the sheet. My free hand pinches my goat-hair sweater sleeve, pulling it taut so it won’t slip from the constant trembling.