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Myth and Magic

Page 27

by Mae Clair


  “It’s my fault,” Caith whispered. “Because of my dad and his money.”

  Trask turned his head. His eyes were wide, sunken into his face with harsh rings of shadow. “Will he pay?”

  “Course he will.”

  “Will they let me go, too? I’m not worth anything.”

  Caith’s stomach clenched. “Don’t say that.” The words came in a fierce hiss. “Don’t even think it. It’s my fault you’re here. I won’t go without you.”

  A feeble smile flickered over Trask’s lips. “Like before…when we cut our thumbs?” His voice was thin. “Blood brothers?”

  “Brothers,” Caith affirmed. He didn’t need blood mingled between them. Didn’t need make-believe or words. What he felt in his heart was enough. He was responsible, and Trask was his friend. More than a friend.

  “Hey. Quit whispering over there.”

  Farrow’s sharp command made Caith cringe. Richter had hit him, but Farrow was the one who terrified him. Farrow with his models and glue and threats of violence.

  “What are you boys talking about?”

  “Nothin’.” Caith squawked the word so quickly, air caught in his throat. At the sound of Farrow’s chair scraping against the floor, he scrunched his eyes closed.

  Don’t come over…don’t come over…pleasedon’tcomeover.

  “Hey, Farrow,” Richter hailed from across the room. “I’d leave the little punk go, ’less you wanna clean up another mess. He looks ready to piss himself.”

  Farrow gave a snuffling snort. “He’ll do more than that if his parents don’t ante up that ransom. Know what I think?”

  Caith felt someone loom over him. A sinking sensation swept through him when he realized it had to be Farrow. His stomach twisted inside out, bubbling acid into his throat. He was cold. So cold he was shaking, yet sweat dribbled down the back of his neck.

  “I think we need to convince his lordship’s parents we ain’t fucking around.” Caith opened his eyes in time to see Farrow send Richter a broad wink. “I think they need physical convincing, hey?”

  Richter chuckled. He was big and raw-boned, and when he laughed, he made a goat-like sound. “What do you have in mind?” He sidled into view from a chair below the window. His lips stretched in a macabre smile as he pulled a knife from a sheath at his belt. “Finger or an eye?”

  Caith blanched at the sight of the stout knife with its thick blade. It was the kind the farmer down the road used to butcher deer. With a whimper, he scrunched against the wall.

  Farrow folded his arms across his chest. “Those blue eyes are too pretty to cut out. I say we send them a finger. How about it, boy?”

  The room reeled. Caith’s stomach pushed into his throat. Farrow reached forward and yanked Caith to his feet, shaking him so violently his teeth clacked together. His head rolled backward and flopped to the side. They were going to cut off his finger, send it to his parents. Trask yelled, pleading with them to stop, but he had no voice of his own. Every nerve in his body had turned to stone. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t react.

  They’re going to cut off my finger.

  Farrow flung him across the room and he crumbled to the floor.

  “Don’t!” Trask screamed. “Don’t hurt him!”

  Somehow he scrambled to his hands and knees, the uneven texture of the cold floor biting into his palms. A shadow loomed over him. He was going to be sick, spew his guts, and this time Farrow would surely beat him for it.

  They’re going to cut off my finger.

  Farrow grabbed his collar and hauled him to his feet. His knees buckled. He managed a strangled gasp, half whimper, half protest, before being propelled toward the table. Farrow shoved him into a chair. The stench of model glue engulfed him in a suffocating cloud and he started to gag.

  “Don’t hurt him!” Trask screamed again.

  Farrow pinned his arm to the table.

  “Let him go!”

  From the corner of his eye, Caith saw Richter approach with the knife. It was really happening. They were going to cut off his finger, maim him, and send the part to his parents as proof of his abduction. Tears blurred his eyes. Would he faint? How badly would it hurt? He prayed he wouldn’t disgrace himself. He’d hurl in Farrow’s lap to spite him if he could, but didn’t want to wet his pants.

  Tears trickled down his cheeks.

  Richter was almost to the table. “Which finger?” He flashed the knife for effect. “Eeny. Meeny. Miny. Mo.”

  “Don’t!” Suddenly Trask was there, hurling himself at Richter. Trask, a pitiful sack of stick-thin bones going against a man three times his size.

  “No!” Caith found his voice.

  Trask made a grab for the knife and Richter pivoted unexpectedly. The blade tore through Trask’s stomach, burrowing deep, blundering out his side. It happened fast. So fast that when Trask crumbled in a boneless heap to the floor, Caith could only stare in horror.

  Farrow released him, lurching backward. “You stupid shit!” he yelled at Trask. “It was a game. We weren’t really gonna hurt him! We were having fun.”

  Caith pushed out of the chair, dropping to his knees at Trask’s side. There was a new smell in the dingy basement. More powerful than the mold clinging to the damp walls and the glue splattered in bird-like droppings on the table. A hideous smell he would never forget.

  The smell of blood.

  “Help him!” He clamped his hands over the wound, felt something hot and slippery against his palm. Something that told him Trask was dying. “Help him!” He looked desperately at the men standing dumbfounded to the side, but neither moved, neither spoke.

  “C-Caith.” Trask grabbed his wrist. “Caith, I’m scared. I-I don’t wanna die.”

  “You’re not going to.” But he knew with dread certainty Trask’s life ebbed with each passing second. Hot tears flooded his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. He blinked, trying to focus. “Why’d you do it? Why didn’t you just let them cut off my finger? Trask. Please don’t go away, Trask!”

  His friend’s eyes flickered and closed.

  “Please.” It was no more than a whimper. The hand on his wrist went slack and tumbled free, thudding against the floor.

  “He’s gone, kid,” Richter said behind him.

  The world upended.

  Blood, glue, shame, and every horrible fear he’d kept locked inside for two days exploded. Whirling, Caith threw himself at Richter. Something tortured and inhuman ripped from his throat, a savage animal wail he didn’t recognize as his own.

  “He was my friend. He shouldn’t have even been here, you sick bastard! It’s me you wanted.” He flailed blindly with his fists, striking anything within range, consumed by hatred, ravaged by grief.

  Trask was dead.

  Only when Richter knocked him senseless did the agony stop.

  Breathing raggedly, Caith dropped his forehead against the door. His son was on the other side, a prisoner like he’d been a prisoner. Like Trask had been a prisoner.

  Derry, please don’t go away.

  He heard muffled voices through the barrier. A man and a woman, the deeper baritone farther removed. Caith cracked the door in time to see Kelly Rice, her face still covered by veils, walk briskly outside. Seconds later, an engine roared to life. Headlights cut through the room, then faded into the distance.

  She must have left in McClure’s car. Easing from the office, Caith crept into the main bay, noting it was crisscrossed by a series of catwalks overhead. When the rendering plant was in operation, carcasses must have been hoisted by crank, then lowered into vats for reducing, the entire procedure observed by workers stationed on the open bridges above. The glow from a single fluorescent tube cloaked the bay in weak half-light.

  A banged-up car in the corner looked like it was being refitted with a roll cage, likely for use on a dirt track. Bicycle parts, pieces of farm equipment, and smaller projects in various stages of completion were scattere
d over worktables and on the floor. Cutting torches, oxygen and acetylene cylinders, pressure gauges, regulators, and an assortment of welding tools lined the walls.

  Caith’s eyes were drawn to the bottom of a narrow flight of metal steps. A single blue marble winked in the semi-dark. Derrick had left a trail.

  He followed the path with his eyes, tracking to the catwalk suspended twenty-five feet above the floor. His heart caught in his throat when he saw Derrick being pushed along the elevated bridge by a man in a black ski mask. Uncontrollable rage rocketed through Caith. He bolted for the steps.

  “McClure!”

  The man on the metal bridge halted.

  “Dad!” Derrick tried to break free, but McClure caught him by the collar, jerking him to a rough halt. With his free hand, he ripped the ski mask from his face and tossed it over the rail.

  “You weren’t supposed to know about this, Breckwood.”

  “Get your hands off my kid.” Caith raced to the top of the stairs and stepped onto the catwalk. The shop yawned below in a web of dizzying shadow. A single rail created an ineffectual waist-high barrier on each side of the elevated walk. Ignoring the reeling height, Caith focused on McClure.

  “Everyone knows. About Kelly and Galicorp, and how Galina paid you to cause problems at the lodge. Give it up, McClure. The cops will be here soon.”

  The last part was a lie. Duke Cameron didn’t know and hadn’t made the connection. Not even Balin knew where Derrick was, but the bluff was all he had.

  Caith’s gaze flickered to his son. Derrick’s face was bone-white, fear in his eyes. But there was trust, too, the unmistakable trust of a child for his father.

  “Let Derrick go.” He took a step forward.

  Sneering, McClure tightened his hold on Derrick’s collar and gave a sharp tug. “Stay where you are or I’ll toss him over the side.”

  Caith staggered to a halt. He was close enough to see beads of sweat glistening on McClure’s forehead. A sour whiff of alcohol told him the bigger man had been drinking and probably wasn’t thinking rationally. “Let him go. You’re not going to gain anything.”

  “Screw that, he’s my ticket out of here. Keep you and the cops off my back.” McClure held Derrick in front of him like a shield. “Anyone tries to take me down, I’ll break his fucking neck.”

  “You son of a bitch.” Caith ground his teeth, forcing himself to stay rooted in place. “You hurt my kid, and I’ll—”

  “What? You think you can take me? You’re an asswipe, Breckwood.” He gave a short guttural laugh. “Too bad your boy looks like you. Makes me wanna beat the shit outta him for the hell of it.”

  “Dad,” Derrick whimpered.

  McClure snickered and started walking backward, dragging Derrick with him. A landing loomed behind him, connecting to a second set of steps that descended into the bay below. Caith spied a cutting torch and industrial lighter hooked to a post at the corner of the landing. A long curling hose connected the torch with two small tanks butted against the framework of the platform. If he could get close enough, he could use the tanks as a weapon. One hit and even someone as big as McClure would go down.

  “Turning tail and running?” he challenged, inching forward to close the distance between them. “Afraid I’ll kick your ass like I did at the Jade Club? If you hadn’t had that bat in the parking lot, I would have taken you down there, too.”

  His jeering had the intended effect. McClure immediately came to a halt, his face puffing with anger. “Like you could.”

  Caith grinned tightly, moving even closer. “Try me.”

  The goading challenge was all McClure needed. Flinging Derrick onto the platform, he spun around and caught Caith squarely in the chest with the flat of his work boot. Caith reeled backward, stumbling off balance. Air exploded from his lungs as the metal side rail caught him in the small of the back, knocking the wind from him. He nearly plummeted headfirst over the barrier, but hooked his arm at the last minute, preventing a nosedive to the concrete below.

  “Derrick, run!” By the time Caith regained his footing, McClure had snatched the cutting torch and striker from the post. From the corner of his eye, Caith saw Derrick pause at the top of the landing, clearly torn by fear and concern for his father. “Derry, run. Get the hell out of here.”

  Propelled at last, Derrick raced down the steps. Caith backed along the catwalk, retreating as McClure advanced. With a single click of the lighter, he sent a rod of flame shooting from the end of the cutting torch.

  “You shoulda stayed in Boston.”

  Caith sent a glance below. He stood in the center of the catwalk, open space gaping on either side. As long as he kept McClure focused, Derrick stood a chance of escape. He tried to spy his son in the shadowy darkness below, but the light was too limited. Had he made it to the door?

  Wetting his lips, he gripped the rail on either side. Beneath the leather gauntlets of his costume, the metal was slick without traction. “You’re only digging a deeper grave, McClure.”

  “Think I give a fuck?” McClure swiped the torch at his face, making Caith wrench backward. “Galina’s got lots of money. More than you. More than your whole good-for-nothin’ family. She’ll buy my way clear of anything. Know why?”

  Another swipe of the torch. The heat hit Caith directly in the face, searing his skin as he flinched to the side.

  “She’s gonna resurrect the Tolars.” McClure kept the torch in front of him. “It’s why she wants the lodge and the lake. It’s part of some cult she got involved with, thanks to her old man. He told her about the history of the lodge, and now she thinks she’s a fucking Tolar Queen. Like I give a shit about some stupid mumbo-jumbo. All I care about is money.” His lips split in a wolfish grin. “That and kickin’ your rich, snotty ass.”

  Caith was prepared this time. When McClure lunged, he pivoted as far as the narrow catwalk would allow. McClure blundered into the opening, and he locked hands with the bigger man, straining to hold the lethal flare at bay.

  “You’re no match for me, whelp.” McClure bared his teeth, pressing an advantage of height and weight. The hiss of the high-intensity flame was blinding at such tight quarters. Inch by inch, he forced the burning metal shaft closer to Caith’s face.

  Releasing him, Caith drove his fist squarely into McClure’s nose. The bigger man staggered, dropping the torch to paw at his face. He lurched clumsily, inadvertently kicking the flaming rod. It clattered over the side, caught when the hose snapped into place like a bungee cord. Dangling five feet below the catwalk, the nozzle spit a steady stream of fire, cutting a halo of light through the shadows.

  “You mother fuckin’ S-O-B.” With a roar, McClure plowed into Caith, snaring him around the waist and slamming him against the retention rail.

  The impact ignited fireworks in Caith’s head and sent pain boomeranging up his spine. Gasping, he drove his fist into McClure’s midsection using his shoulder for leverage. McClure staggered and Caith caught him a second time, delivering a solid uppercut. The rage he’d felt earlier bubbled up like hot lava. “You tried to hurt my kid, you sick bastard.”

  McClure slumped against the rail. With a dazed expression, he raised his head. The blood from his nose dribbled over his mouth and chin. To Caith he looked ghoulish, a Halloween monster. Only monsters kidnapped children.

  “Derrick shouldn’t even be here.” Like Trask. It was his fault all over again. Neither of them should have been there. “I’m going to make sure you get locked away.” Somewhere in his head, past and present merged. “Like Richter, Farrow, and Force.” With a savage curse, Caith kicked him in the ribs.

  McClure grunted, but recovered quickly, grabbing Caith’s boot at the last second. With a violent wrench of his hands, the thug rotated his ankle, twisting like a corkscrew. Pain ricocheted up Caith’s leg. He crumpled with a groan, striking his head on the rail. Something wet and sticky streamed into his eye. Before he could recover, McClure straddled him, throttling h
im by the throat.

  “You ain’t lockin’ me nowhere, Breckwood.” McClure pinched his windpipe, cutting off his air. “And when I’m done with you, I’m goin’ after your prissy kid.”

  No!

  The scream was soundless, heard only in his head, but it echoed seventeen years of pain. The same unspeakable horror he’d felt when he’d watched Trask fall beneath Richter’s knife. Not again. Not Derry. Panic, frustration, and fear mushroomed into rage so black and lethal, the loss of air no longer mattered.

  Caith stopped fighting the pressure on his neck. He drove his fist into McClure’s broken nose. Blood gushed over his glove as McClure loosened his grip. Sensing freedom, Caith wormed free. He hooked his leg around McClure’s neck, and in a move reserved for self-defense classes, somersaulted the bigger man backward.

  Unable to stop his momentum, McClure rolled to the edge of the catwalk. Weight carried him beneath the retaining rail as he scrambled frantically for a hold. At the last second, he locked onto Caith’s leg, but gravity sent his greater weight plunging toward the earth. Dragging Caith with him, he tumbled from the catwalk.

  Instinctively, Caith clutched the metal lip, halting his fall. McClure clung to his leg just below the knee, both of them dangling precariously in midair. When McClure cursed and tried to clamber upward, using his body like a ladder, Caith knew he was in trouble.

  Heat washed over him and sweat dripped into his eyes. Suspended by the hose, the acetylene torch swayed near his leg, cooking him as it hissed flame. Growing lightheaded, he ground his teeth and tried to dislodge McClure. As the bigger man’s fingers hooked into his belt, Caith released one hand from the rail and pivoted violently to the side. The jarring movement sent McClure careening face first into the flame-spewing torch.

  With a gurgling scream, he released Caith, frantically pawing at his face. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, but Caith barely had time to register the horrific odor. McClure plummeted twenty-odd feet, his body landing with a sickening thud on the concrete below.

  Swinging away from the torch, Caith tried for a better hold on the rail. His head rang and his ankle throbbed painfully. Grimacing, he wedged an elbow on the steel lip and tried to hoist himself up. His hand slipped and he fell back, losing what little advantage he’d gained.

 

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