Trey

by Nya Rawlyns

  He leaned into the back seat and dragged her out to plop her limp form on the

  straw-covered floor. With the light failing he needed to scout the area before night fell.

  He wanted to avoid any more confrontations. His body count in the service of his clan and his gothi had grown to mythic proportions, coating his legend and his soul in blood.

  He wearied of it yet the longer he fought the bond, the more he slipped into resorting to violence, a trait he’d despised in his father and brothers. It had been so easy then to hate and disavow his lineage. Eirik had freed him, redirected the anger, but not the violence, 43

  never that. With every passing day he eased back into the red haze of unrestrained rage—the berserker rage.

  “Stay there. I’ll be right back.” He was rewarded with a ‘umph’ and a glare of fear and despair. The more energy he drained from her, the more compliant she became.

  Odd pieces of agricultural equipment littered the bays and stalls, nothing of any use. Certainly nothing that would replace the vehicle. He didn’t need to be an auto mechanic to recognize the wheezing and clunking as the death throes of the engine. At the rear of the barn a people door stood partially ajar. He sidled through it and looked up at the sky, an angry purplish green. The super cell would pass to their north though they were still at risk for severe thunderstorms. He walked around the building and stopped abruptly.

  With a sharp intake of breath, he surveyed an old Ford truck with a rusted-out

  bed. The sound of the motor turning over and catching was music to his ears. They’d live to fight another day. Now he needed to contact the one man who could possibly help him, them—his only human friend, Samuel Eagles.

  He hopped out and ran to the barn as the heavens let loose.

  44

  Chapter Seven

  “Samuel.”

  “Trey. Good to see you, boy. What brings you to my neck of the prairie?”

  Trey enthusiastically shook the small man’s hand. “I’m going to need your help.”

  “Anything you need. I’m in your debt.”

  “You say that every time I talk to you.”

  “It’s true, son. They were looking to take my business away. Without your help,

  I’d be stuck in Cheyenne doing God knows what for a living.”

  “Yeah, well, it was the least I could do after you patched me up. Those three

  riggers turned out to be meaner than I gave them credit for.”

  Samuel laughed. “But I’m guessing you didn’t come all the way out here just to

  reminisce about old times.”

  Trey took Samuel’s elbow and led him away from the truck. He had the woman

  tied under a tarp in the truck bed. He needed to keep her presence off his friend’s radar.

  He did not want to harm the man who had done him a service when he needed it, but at this point he was on a short fuse. No one, no matter how much he cared about them, was safe.

  “And I mean it every time. Now, what can I do you for?” Samuel smiled but it did not reach his eyes. Trey could tell his friend didn’t like the ‘feel’ of the situation. It would be best to conclude their business and be on their way.

  “I need provisions; two horses, a mule, food, clothes, camping supplies, rations for the animals and whatever you can spare. I need them fit enough to climb.”

  Samuel thought it over. “They’re fit. Question is, for how long?”

  “I don’t know. How much can the mule carry?”

  “If you’re climbing, no more than two hundred pounds. I’ll pack high density

  grain and hay pellets, dried stuff for you. Who’s going with?”

  “Nobody. Just me. Horse is a spare. Just in case.”

  “Uh-huh. When do you want to leave?”

  “When can you get us packed?”

  “Gimme three hours.”

  “Make it two and I’ll give you that rifle of mine you’ve been wanting so bad.”

  Samuel sucked in a breath and muttered, “You got it.”

  “Sam, I need transport to,” Trey consulted a topo map, stabbing a finger at a spot to the north and west of Riverton, “this spot here. There’s a trailhead with parking.”

  “Yeah, I know the place; nothing up there but cattle and elk, son. You planning on doing some rustling?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “All right, I’ll be back with the trailer. You’ll want to move that truck into the lean-to, I expect.”

  Trey watched Samuel drive away then backed the truck into the shed. He hopped

  onto the bed of the truck and peeled the tarp off the woman. She lay in a pool of sweat on the ridged metal surface. He’d deliberately made her as uncomfortable as possible.

  She looked close to caving. Tears stung her eyes and she wore that defeated look, her 45

  eyes dull, hair hanging lank and tangled. Neither of them had had access to bathing facilities since their mad dash cross-country, but she was much the worse for wear.

  “I’m going to look for something for you to wear. Wait here.”

  The woman stared, uncomprehending, for a long moment, then rolled on her

  side, resigned. Trey ran to Samuel’s small cabin that he shared with a native woman during the winter months. If he was lucky, she might have left some clothes in Sam’s bedroom. It was worth a look. Where they were going, shorts and a tee shirt would not be enough protection from the elements … and other things.

  When he returned, the woman—Caitlin—lay curled in a foetal position. She’d

  heard him coming. Her shoulders gave an involuntary twitch as he once more jumped onto the truck bed.

  “I’ve got clothes for you to wear. I’m going to untie you. Get dressed. I’ll wait over there.” He made quick work of untying her bonds, taking care to touch her as little as possible. He would have dressed her in the new togs himself, but he feared coming in too close a contact. Her energies still oscillated and grappled with his own, like tentacles seeking to entrap him once more.

  The woman made short work of sloughing the filthy tee shirt and cut-offs. She

  shrugged into the peasant dress, then carefully wrapped and laced the corset. The simple act of donning clean clothes seemed to perk her up.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Someplace safe.”

  “Safe from who?”

  “The people who probably killed the old man with you.” Trey ignored her

  anguished look. “I’m assuming it was your father. You’re the one they want. You—and your special abilities.”

  “You don’t know that,” she gasped.

  “But I know the people who took him and who came after you. Trust me. We are

  both on their elimination lists. I’m taking us to a place where no one can touch us.”

  “Why? Why not just give me to them? There must be a reward if they want me

  that bad. What’s in it for you?”

  “Nothing. Everything. I’m not going to waste time explaining it to you. You

  wouldn’t understand.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her around to the back of the lean-to. He quickly trussed her so she couldn’t move and reapplied the piece of duct tape. “The truck and horse trailer are coming. I won’t be long.”

  Trey walked to the front of the lean-to and waited for Samuel to drive up. His

  friend spun the rig around and parked it. He got out slowly and palmed a Remington thirty-aught-six as he approached the man he thought he knew as a friend.

  “They’re saddled, ready to go. Mule’s panniers are packed much as I could. He’s

  carrying nearly two hundred pounds. I’d think kindly if you’d take care on the climbs.

  He’s a good mule.” Samuel gritted his teeth and spat out, “Not my best horses, but they’ll do you.”

  “The rifle is in the truck. I’d best drive to the trailhead myself. You can pick the rig up tomorrow. You might want to get rid of that,” he inclined his head
to the old Ford,

  “and forget you saw me.”

  Samuel nodded and walked into the lean-to. He opened the truck door but turned

  back and called out, “Trey?”

  “What?”

  46

  “Go with God, amigo.”

  Trey watched, emotionless, as his only friend on this world drove away.

  ****

  Caitlin stared, dull eyed, barely registering her captor’s well-choreographed

  movements as he checked tack and the over-stuffed bundles on the mule that he called

  ‘panniers’. She’d never been around either horses or mules and felt ill at ease with the beasts. She closed her eyes, hoping it was just a nightmare, only to have that tableau replaced with images of her father racing across Greyfalcon’s rooftop as she spun off into space, the sound of gunfire, screams of men hit, men running, her mad rappel down the side of the building—all whirled in a kaleidoscope of fierce angry reds and evil purples.

  She whispered, “Please, dear God, let them be alive and let me live so I can go back for them. Please.” Her father may have given up on her brother, but she hadn’t.

  Once free of the madman holding her hostage, she’d do whatever was in her power to bring the O’Brien family together again. She held onto that thin sliver of hope with determination.

  “Woman. Get over here. Time to mount up. We’re running out of light.”

  “Why won’t you use my name? It’s…”

  “I know what it is. Now get up there.”

  The man angrily gripped her thin arm and squeezed hard. Her harsh intake of air

  seemed to dismay him, his strange gold-flecked brown eyes giving away what little emotion he displayed. But he persisted, dismay yielding to challenge, the pressure steady, promising more if she did not acquiesce. Scrambling awkwardly onto the animal, Caitlin took pleasure in the small victory though it was short-lived. He reached up and quickly bound her hands, then took the reins. Mounting easily, he settled the mule on one side of his horse and her mount on the other. He urged his horse forward toward a wavering curtain of air, heat waves dancing over the rocky ground, strangely indistinct

  … and threatening at a primal level that churned her gut.

  He turned to her and said, “This will feel strange. Close your eyes if it will help. If you need to vomit, do it off the other side.”

  Caitlin asked, her voice barely above a whisper, “Where are we going?”

  “To hell, woman, to hell.”

  ****

  Eirik barked, “Don’t fuck with me, Gunnarr. He’s in the wind and you say he’s not alone?”

  He refused to give his brother the satisfaction of asking who was with Trey, though he already had a good idea. He ached for clarification but not at the expense of giving Gunnarr the upper hand; too much of his own power base rested on a fragile foundation of hearsay and rumour, leaving Gunnarr secure with his illicit commerce.

  Eirik decided to remind his brother what was at stake for both their groups,

  despite their mutual differences. In the process he hoped to shake out enough details so that his own people could devise an exit strategy for whatever mess his nephew was in.

  Gunnarr’s deep voice raised an octave as he interrupted, “I’m aware of all that.

  47

  The last thing I need right now is a history lesson.” He hesitated, then rushed on, “Let me remind you … I wasn’t there. I’ve gotten this all second-hand from Knutr. I’m as much in the dark as you, Brother.”

  Eirik heard rasping breaths as Gunnarr paused, clearly fighting for control. His agitation seemed out of proportion to the matter at hand, as bad as it was. Before he could pursue a new line of questioning, Gunnarr surprised him by speaking candidly.

  “I have O’Brien.”

  That confirmed Eirik’s suspicions but there had to be more. He was rapidly tiring of extracting, piecemeal, tidbits of information, but his brother was a master of the game. Reluctantly he asked, “And?”

  “He’s injured.”

  “Dammit, Gunnarr.”

  “He’ll live. And, no, I don’t know exactly what went down. As soon as O’Brien can talk, I’ll find out what we both need to know.”

  “Fuck you will…”

  Gunnarr growled, “I will, whether or not you believe me.” He paused and other

  voices echoed weakly, followed by a terse, “I have to go.”

  Eirik stared at the cell phone and wondered just what in hell was going on and

  what hornet’s nest had Trey stirred up this time.

  48

  Chapter Eight

  The man lay supine on a bed of rocks, one leg elevated, the other stretched out.

  His boots still bore mud and smudged blades of grass from the nearly dry creek

  crossing. The dark blue wool jacket lay nestled, coiled, under his neck. He’d raised his stern face in silent supplication, one hand shielding his eyes, the other gripping his glasses.

  Sun, they’d prayed for it for days, but now it burned like acid on the skin. The stranger she called ‘Aiden’ soaked it up. Dark stubble peppered his square jaw, hiding the dimple Caitlin found almost irresistible, almost.

  Aiden. That wasn’t his name, not even close. In a fanciful fit, early on in the insane journey, she’d chosen for him. He’d ignored it, just as he had disregarded so much of the civility she’d foolishly insisted on bringing through the Portal. She forced herself to look away, to look anywhere but at the man she had learned to hate and desire in equal measure.

  For the thousandth time, she asked herself, why me? Why this place and this time? Just not how … that could never be explained. He’d called it a Portal, a gateway, unmapped and safe, for now. Mimicking his words, she reminded herself that it indeed had been a doorway into hell, an alien landscape, fearsome and unforgiving.

  She could barely recall the flight from the self-styled armies pursuing them,

  friend and foe alike. Greyfalcon, of them she knew, but the Althings had been a distant, unknown factor. What had become of her father, ambushed while trying to save her? A frisson of apprehension swept like ice up and down her spine, the tingle almost

  soothing, far more real than the false stage upon which her new life played out. She had failed him—Jake O’Brien—the man she admired above all others, even when his

  mistakes had cost them her brother and everything that passed for normal in her skewed universe. Even when his moral compass had spun so wildly out of control that they’d resorted to madness to set it all to rights. Then him, the nameless being appearing in the shadows as she fled the mob. Like a stun gun to her gut, leaving her addled and helpless.

  She’d wondered, who is he? She could have asked, what is he, but she wasn’t nearly prepared for those answers, not yet, not even after a seeming eternity where even fear took shelter from the mindless dance of unanswerable questions.

  How ironic that using her ability to shift into other human shapes had resulted in nothing more than a monumental fuck-up. Kieran and her father were lost to her now, along with her own identity and her gift. She could no longer shift. She barely knew herself.

  But she did know him.

  Restless, she wriggled on the unforgiving surface. Everywhere she looked, the

  sere outcrops punctuated the pale sky, climbing row upon row, saw-toothed and

  menacing. Not nearly as terrifying as the things that lurked in her peripheral vision: a flicker of a wingtip and shush of leathery downdraft. He’d said they were safe but he hadn’t known about them.

  Treading carefully on the steep slope, he’d led them to this point, to this resting 49

  place, to this mecca of cessation from the unrelenting motion. He’d been confident at first, judging from his cocky manner and imperious gestures, then less so as weeks went by without finding another Portal.

  He’d muttered in a language she couldn’t understand, but the meaning was clear.

  They were adrift in a
wilderness of unimaginable bleakness. Whatever plans he’d had, however he measured his ability to keep them secure from the horrors inhabiting this place, his new mission now boiled down to simple survival. His bolthole would prove to be their undoing, a phantom one-way door into a room with no exit. They would die here, unremarked. All because of her and her so-called gifts—the prize, the Golden Fleece, the brass ring. Freak abilities for the freak-show she called her existence.

  Why him? Why was he the Champion, the lone tilter at windmills, bucking what

  surely had to be powerful groups, well-armed and determined to secure her, ‘the asset’, by any and all means? What possible use could she be to anyone? If only he would look at her, really look, what would he see?

  Questions, useless now. If there had been any answers, surely he would have

  revealed … something. She licked her lips, rough and parched, and smiled. Her God was perverse for she would fill the hollowness of her life with the man’s unending disdain as she extended another small courtesy before hope vanished forever.

  “Do you want some water?”

  He grunted and flicked a finger. She leaned over his still form, stretching to reach the saddlebag standing sentinel near a precipitous boulder fall. Small stones skittered downhill with an alarming pinging, snicking noise. She extricated a small canteen from inside the leather bag resting against his head. He could easily have reached it; he chose not to. That was her job, tend to his needs and fulfill their unspoken agreement: protection. Her life now boiled down to its essence—payment rendered.

  She unscrewed the lid but he ignored her. Though but an instant in time, it

  amounted to an eternity for her to reflect on her own insignificance. She was thirsty, beyond need, beyond desire. Her lips were parched, her skin seared, drained of all moisture. Lank, straw-colored hair hung straight and unkempt. Dry as the shrivelled prairie grass. Bone dry.

  She asked again, “Do you want this water? There’s not much left.”

  Silently, reluctantly, he rousted himself from his uncomfortable bed. He took the canteen and drained it, the last drop falling onto his full lower lip, beading into a sweet bubble of slickness. The bead swam in near perfect rainbows, refracted in the harsh light. With reptilian ease, he flicked his tongue and the droplet disappeared. She tried to swallow, choking through her pain.