House of Slide: Wilds, Part I

by Juliann Whicker

  “How terrible the need for solitude: that appetite for life so ravenous a man’s a beast in his own house, a beast with fangs, and out for his own blood…” I took a breath, mildly surprised he hadn’t cut me off yet. Old Peter was not a fan of Roethke. “Dream of a woman, and a dream of death;” I finished but the words left a bitter taste in my mouth. My accent was a flat American that could have come from anywhere and nowhere. Old Peter looked at me for a moment and nodded.

  “Now that’s the right one. Tell me what you know about Sanders?”

  "This town? You should tell me. You're the one who retired here."

  Sanders was as dull as it was avoided at all costs. For Old Peter to leave the action and find a nice quiet spot like Sanders had felt wrong since however old he got, he’d never seemed tired of the game played out between the remaining suits.

  I shrugged as I gave another look at the quiet houses crouched beneath the trees, the woods omnipresent in the background while a towering gothic relic from another world stood out in the distance. The little town had grown on the back of the pharmaceuticals company founded two decades before. There was not much interesting to see, not when everything had been brushed thoroughly ordinary, but I could feel the wildness of the woods on the other side of the river as it longed to cover the current residential housing.

  The Wilds of the world would like its original story forgotten, the bones and spires burned and buried, but of course I knew its history. My father would have done most of the burning. Like me, he left burying to others.

  Old Peter let the silence grow between us until I finally answered his question.

  “Sanders is a new name for an old place; it used to be called Hollow Haven. What used to be the cathedral is the only thing left from Haven. This area is highly defensible, surrounded by the rivers and the woods. The woods across the river are old. They’re a refuge for some of the most dangerous creatures known and unknown to man. It’s a very good hunting ground.”

  “Get that smile off your face. We’re not here for fun and games,” he snapped, his tone crusty.

  “No?” I studied him for a moment where he ambled beside me, cane clutched in the crook of his arm.

  Old age creased every inch of his skin. He seemed to move by sheer will, well, will and momentum. He moved with the confidence of experience and the knowledge that he had in his hands a leveling tool that would work on any playing field. Not a lot of things could knock me out cold, the cane, innocuous looking as the old man, could with ease.

  “If we're not here for fun, what are we here for?” I asked, looking up at the sky where dark low lying clouds scudded, ready to break at any second.

  “What?” He blinked at me with blue eyes so intense that I forgot about the age, the stooped frame and the paper thin skin. “How would I know?” he asked with a shrug while his large hands tightened on the cane.

  I sighed only once before I shrugged back.

  “Oh I don’t know. You seem to be pretty well informed for an old guy. If you wanted an escort to a funeral, I could have worn a suit.” I glanced down at my nondescript jeans.

  “Put up the hood, and you’ll be fine. Shut up now, and listen closely.” He frowned at me to make sure I was paying attention.

  “Sanders was established twenty years ago or so by Alex Sanders and his lovely wife Helen. Helen is the daughter of the House of Slide. Keep up, boy.”

  I glanced up at the sky and knew why the clouds looked so ominous. From the unfortunate times I'd spent dealing with Wild Houses, I'd heard about Slide and the deep talents of its members. I should have known that Old Peter wouldn't retire far off the beaten track.

  “She married a warm blood? I’ve never heard of Sanders House.”

  Old Peter glared, irritated with my interruption. “No. He’s Cool. They came here to raise a family away from the complications of a mixed marriage.”

  I stopped walking again, scowling after his ambling figure before I caught up with him in a few long strides.

  “A Cool and a Wild? Why haven't I heard about this? Slide is a white house that follows the Code, don't they?"

  "Nothing technically in the Code about marrying outside of your suit," Old Peter wheezed.

  "Wilds don’t marry Cools. It’s illegal.”

  Peter made an ambivalent sound. “Maybe so, but this isn’t just any Cool. Besides that, they’re soul mates.”

  I snorted. I couldn’t help it. The idea of a daughter of any House, least of all The House of Slide, giving up her birthright for love, was ridiculous.

  "You're telling me that the Daughter of Slide married a Cool, and that they weren't destroyed by every Wild House on this continent? Really?"

  “He didn’t used to be Alex Sanders. That’s a nice new name that makes people a little less nervous around him.” Old Peter chuckled like he was looking forward to the time when people got nervous again. He sounded less and less retired all the time.

  “Oh? Do you know him?” Old Peter knew practically every dangerous Bloodworker, Hotblood, or Hunter you should avoid.

  Old Peter chuckled. “Know him? He thought he killed me a few times.” Old Peter was not easy to kill. “He’s even harder to kill than I am,” he said almost reading my mind. “He’s an interesting man. I can’t quite make out what he’s got going on right now. You need to stay far away from him at the funeral. Shouldn’t be a problem though since he’s likely to be otherwise occupied.”

  “You’re taking me to a funeral so I can avoid the people who are there? That sounds like your idea of a good time. Why don’t you tell me exactly what I am doing here, Old Peter? Oh that’s right, because then you’d have to explain things instead of just leaving me to blindly wade into all kinds of trouble. Wouldn’t want to spoil your fun by turning on the light every now and then.” All right, I did sound a little bit irritated, but with Old Peter I had to stay on my toes, and I was already getting a headache from trying to keep my temper.

  “You’re not still bitter about that time in upstate New York?” He chuckled. “You handled yourself very well, boy, considering how far you've gone.”

  Boy. He’d called me boy three times already, reminding me of my place and his. The 'boy' and the reminder of the last time I'd come into contact with him and his cane did not help with my temper or the heat behind my eyes.

  “Thanks. The compliment makes me all warm inside.” I wouldn't have had to handle myself well if Old Peter hadn't dragged me into the middle of a Hotblood war, one side led by an obnoxious Bloodworker I'd let think had killed me to end the war, a war that we could not afford any Wilds knowing about. Hotbloods with too much ambition usually died before they got so irritating. That was the best thing about them.

  I grinned at Old Peter, letting him see the unmistakable signs of my Hotblood fury. I wasn’t kidding when I said I felt warm, not when I could feel my heart race, beating faster as my entire body heated up. The fury was controllable, of course. I’d been working on it for some time, but the headache was something I could live without. The terrible migraines were the worst part of having a fury—unless it was waking up covered in blood, unable to remember the events in the previous 24 hours; that took some getting used to.

  “You came here fast, boy, faster than you should have if you’ve been loafing in South Africa pretending to be dead. What brings you to the area? Good hunting?” His voice quavered, but the steel carried through the words.

  I gazed at him levelly before I shrugged. “For somebody.”

  He knew I would come—he’d been waiting for me. If I were patient and didn’t lose my temper first, he might tell me why. Old Peter glanced at me, a quick darting glance with those sharp blue eyes that made me feel like the rabbit instead of the hawk. My temperature rose a little bit more.

  “I’m here. You don’t have to play games with me,” I said having a difficult time keeping my voice level. Apparently, I’d spent too much time with rational people if I'd already had enough.

  “But you’re so goo
d at playing games. Listen, Lewis…” I jerked my head up when he said that name, a name no one else would have dared call me, a name worse than boy, a reminder of someone I tried hard to forget.

  “Lewis?"

  I hadn’t heard that name in a long time. It brought back the kind of memories that spread the heat in my chest through my limbs. For a moment I saw a face, perfect beauty that would have looked much better if I weren't dangling upside down from the ceiling, wrapped in chains, listening to her lecture on my heritage and the pride I should take in my dead father and his fine reputation.

  I forced my shoulders down and my hands to relax from the instinctive fists ready to smash and crush. Being a Hotblood got rather tedious some days. Maybe it was being a disciplined Hotblood that was so annoying. If I ripped off Old Peter’s head like I wanted to, then it would be more fun.

  He loved testing me, seeing how far he could push me. Like old times.

  “It’s Lewis now, or it will be soon. Listen Lewis, the cemetery’s getting close. Can you smell the rain and feel the electricity in the air? This is going to be some storm. Who knows when it’s going to end? Whatever happens, stay with me. Do you hear me, boy?”

  I nodded and closed my eyes trying to slow the beating of my heart. I hadn’t had trouble with a fury for years. It wasn’t simply that Old Peter knew how to get under my skin when he wanted to. For the past few months, I’d been tracking but it felt more like being baited, led from one clue to the next. If I weren't careful, all the plans I'd carefully made would unravel leaving me with nothing but my father's dark legacy.

  I let the fury build up until my head pounded in time to my pumping heart. I concentrated on the heat and let go of my will, becoming lost as I submitted to the consuming rage. For an instant there was that feeling that my body would fly apart under the strain, but with the next breath the anger was gone leaving me a little light-headed.

  As we neared the cemetery, I noted the long line of parked cars that stretched out as far as I could see. People hurried through the windy May morning towards the iron gate that clanged against an ivy covered wall with each gust of wind. At the end of the wall to the right was a slope dotted with headstones, and dead center was the coffin where people gathered, pale faces and hands in stark contrast to their black clothing. There were countless faces, each wearing an expression of deepest sorrow as they gazed at the coffin.

  We joined the civilians, late to the party and didn't slow down until we reached the fringe of the crowd. I still had no idea what I was doing there. All I really wanted was to get the names from him I needed to continue my hunt then get out of Sanders. Getting the names would take persuasion though, patience, and a ridiculous lack of dignity.

  “We are gathered together,” began the priest. In spite of his weak voice we heard him clearly, his quavering voice carried to us on the wind.

  I let my eyes and attention wander to take in the crowd. It looked like the entire town and then some had turned out for the event. I saw a few high schoolers standing around the coffin. A girl whose white blond hair stood in sharp contrast to the requisite black.

  When I looked past the coffin, a flash of lightning illuminated a line of seven men with umbrellas held over their black hats. It took that flash of light for me to see them in the growing darkness from the imminent storm. My body filled with heat and a rush of adrenaline as my body prepared to fight. I tried to breathe evenly as I fought with the assault of their Wild blood.

  If I didn’t contain my irrational anger they would kill me, or worse. I’d put a great deal of effort into convincing Wilds that I was already dead in order to stay out of their manipulative clutches. The dead were the only souls they didn’t meddle with. It was the only good thing about the suit with a tenacious belief that whatever they were doing was morally justified. After all, they had the power to manipulate the very elements of nature: wind, fire, earth, blood. Surely that gave them the inherent right to use their abilities on anyone who got in their way.

  House of Slide had a different kind of reputation. Each of them were soldiers in their own right, trained to kill. The Slide brothers fought hand to hand in real battles. The big one, the one called Satan had taken out more lives than I cared to think about. His reputation for craving the fight, whatever your blood, made him almost liked and mostly respected in Hotblood circles. Wilds usually looked at Hotbloods as disposable firepower. I wasn't sure which was worse. At least Wilds who didn't look too closely at Hotbloods were less likely to single you out as particularly good at what they wanted you to do.

  I struggled to smother out the heat in my eyes. Old Peter had warned me about the father, but he hadn’t said that every one of the legendary House of Slide brothers would be in attendance. It was the kind of thing he would have enjoyed not mentioning.

  The black-haired woman in the center shared their blood—I could smell it. She must be Helen, former daughter to the House of Slide who had given up her birthright for love. I studied the Wild woman. She looked as calculating and icy as any Wild I’d known.

  The whole thing made my head ache. Why would Slide make such a big show for someone who had been disowned? The tall man to her side opened an umbrella and covered her and the slumped person between them. I shifted trying to make out the figure, but it was impossible.

  The wind began to pick up, and I could smell the sorrow in waves and gusts as the grieving people looked yearningly towards the coffin. I’d known more than enough Wilds in my time, but I’d never been to a packed funeral where everyone felt real regret at the loss.

  “Who’s in the box?” I whispered.

  “Devlin, Son of Helen and Alex Sanders.”

  Devlin of Slide I had heard of. The lesser known grandson of the Head of Slide had left an impressive wake of fear in the short time he'd spent enforcing Slide's law. The Hybrid had been on the way to having as fierce a reputation as his uncle, Satan. His wild blood had made him a foreteller, or seer, and as a Cool he had the ability to make you do whatever he wanted while thinking it was your own idea, leaning. It would have taken someone even more special than he had been to kill him.

  I didn't like it. I hated the Wilds and the people with their scent of sorrow, sharp and poignant in the cool air, too many notorious Wilds for a simple ceremony. They had a purpose here that I didn't know, and I certainly would end up paying for that lack of knowledge. I studied the gray umbrella over the central group and felt a wave of irrational anger.

  “It’s not even raining yet. What does he think the umbrella is going to protect them from?” It wasn’t the umbrella that irritated me. I should have left as soon as I'd seen the line of men in their nearly invisible coats, guarding the trio in the center. I should stay as far away as possible from the people who’d created someone like Devlin, a foreteller who could have told Old Peter when I’d be coming by. Being known, being seen by a Wild, even a dead one made me tremble with the effort to contain the rage, the need I had to burn until there wasn't anything left of me or them.

  Old Peter glanced over at me, and I tried to shake it off. I wasn't ready to burn out, not yet.

  “Who’s the other one?” I muttered. The third figure, the one that Old Peter hadn’t even mentioned, worried me the most.

  “Daughter,” he said, short and to the point without actually giving me any information.

  If she was anything like Devlin, like her mother and the rest of the House, she was beautiful, gifted, dangerous—the kind of girl I’d spent the better part of my life actively avoiding. It was fine though, hardly something to worry about, only Devlin’s family, I thought.

  I breathed deeply and tried to focus on her scent, the scent I’d been unable to pick up before. It would give me something to distract me from the Wilds who made it so difficult to stay cool. It was something to do, to trace one flavor while the wind blew hundreds of different smells at me. I had the strong odor of the woman Helen to guide me. I caught a flash of something enticing from the mystery girl just before the subtle
scent of the man holding the umbrella struck me like a physical blow.

  I exhaled and closed my eyes as the first spattering drops fell from the sky. I let my senses become blind in the smell of ozone. When I thought I had myself under control, I opened my eyes and studied the threesome closest to the casket. The man’s silver hair trailed down the back of his black suit, as much as I could see for the umbrella. His scent was difficult to pick up like all Cool ones, but he was much more than simply Cool; he had an especially high dose of Nether blood—the blood that created all of us and our gifts.

  As a rule I stayed far away from Cools. They manipulated the world around them so subtly that no one even noticed much less minded. Most of them weren't that bad. They'd be more likely to live and let live unless a recent infusion of Nether blood like this Cool had would make his traits stronger, his powers greater, and bring out his aggression. Some people thought Wilds knew how to play games and scheme, but they were nothing compared to motivated Cools.

  Old Peter hadn’t mentioned why he was so dangerous; if he had, there was no way I would have come. He was tall and slender like all Nether. I couldn’t be certain at this distance, but I had a strong suspicion that his face was on the deck of cards in Old Peter’s pocket. Cools lived a very long time even without the Nether blood. Did the woman beside him know what he was? She watched nothing and everything like a Wild, but she always kept her body protectively between the slight figure beside her and everyone else.

  The crowd began shifting as the wind picked up speed, flapping dresses against legs. The sound of rain beating its way across the hills triggered a running exodus towards the cars.

  Not a lot of people had brought umbrellas and this wasn’t going to be your run-of-the-mill May shower. Old Peter didn’t flinch as we were pelted with rain that stung my cheeks. It felt good. I would have found it refreshing if I weren’t still preoccupied with the brothers of the House of Slide, a Nether Cool, and her, the unseen daughter.

  When the hail began, I shifted to block Old Peter from most of it. Another flash of lightning illuminated the seven Wild brothers of the House of Slide as they gathered near the grave in their nondescript trench coats. The largest of the brothers, Satan, motioned and two others lowered the casket.