His Touch of Ice

by Kody Boye

  I couldn’t remember much when I dragged myself out of bed the next morning. Though the hangover was a blight upon my awareness, I thought of only one thing as I sauntered into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water.

  Guy.

  The task would be enormous. So shrouded in mystery were the Kaldr that there appeared no outright indication of where their people might go. The phrase ‘mountain men’ had come up in last night’s conversation, but even then, that could hold no bearing on Texas geography. It’d been referenced in regards to European lineage, not something that would relate to the Americas, or even Texas. There were no mountains here.

  Unless—

  I shook my head.

  No.

  I couldn’t bear to think that.

  Guy wouldn’t have left the state just to protect me—or would he?

  I swallowed down my first glass of water and tried to see through the hopelessness of the situation. The looking glass was marred—flecked with illusions of promise that came in the form of excruciating sensitivity to light. To think that I could even begin to gleam any amount of information today was nearly impossible.

  I closed my eyes at first to shield them from the light, then I realized to fight the urge to cry.

  “Come on,” I whispered, the sound of my own voice enough to drive needles in my eyes. “You can do this. You know you can.”

  Could I? The headache was enormous. If I did anything now, I might miss something. But if I went and laid down…

  No.

  I couldn’t afford to waste time.

  Taking hold of the water and bottle of painkillers, I stalked through the hall and into Guy’s study.

  On a leaflet of paper from a tiered shelf behind his desk, I began to make a list of everything necessary for my departure from the Kaldr ranch. They ranged from clothes, to nonperishable foods, a casual form of disguise and, of course, something to protect myself with. That didn’t inlcude a car, which I knew I wasn’t going to get—unless I happened to steal one, in which case I could instantly kiss my credibility with the Kaldr goodbye.

  Then again, wouldn’t leaving automatically exonerate me of their trust?

  Sighing, I shook my head and continued to tack down everything I could possibly think of. When my brain had run dry, I leaned back in Guy’s office chair and took a deep breath, eyes instantaneously drawn to the triangle-like symbol cast in fine silver over his desk.

  In all the time I’d spent with Guy, he’d mentioned little about his personal life. Nothing about friends, not a word about past boyfriends or lovers—not even the name of the place he worked. While some information would have been easily accessible with an internet connection, I was lost in that aspect. As such, there was very little I could actually go upon.

  A brief glance through file cabinets and personal documents showed nothing more than forged implications of Guy’s life.

  It was sad.

  He’d never got a chance to be a real person.

  “Until he met me,” I mumbled.

  Defeated, I settled down in the middle of the office and stared at all of Guy’s things.

  It wasn’t hard to realize that, in some people’s eyes, I had become one of them.

  I dreamed I was standing in the middle of an open field.

  I was a child, here. Seven years old, short and with long mangy hair, stubborn about my need to wear prescription glasses but forced to use them because of the headaches I’d otherwise endure—at that age, I was the trademark of what you would call an all-American boy. I played baseball, I did well in school, attended church regularly. I was rarely prone to bad habits, but the one thing that always got me in trouble was the one thing that could kill me.

  Thunderstorms.

  One rolled across the winding outskirts of east Texas in a great fog of white. So smoky that the clouds resembled nothing of their usual selves and instead looked like marshmellows finely melted over a brimming fire, it ebbed and contracted as the wind carried it across the state with a casual malevolence only found in nature. Such storms had always fascinated me. Previous viewings in other states did little in comparison I found to the awesome spectacles that took place in Texas. As such, I had wandered away from home—across the street to the field where, during the summer months, I played baseball with my little league team.

  My parents had no idea where I was.

  Mom was making dinner.

  Dad had yet to come home from work.

  I’d been given the perfect opportunity to sneak away.

  The first flashes of lightning were like startled insects freed from their inconspicuous homes—one here, one there. They rarely spiderwebbed and only occasionally produced thunder—which, even in its infancy, sounded like great belches from the Gods. I struggled to maintain my position, keeping away from the trees that blanketed the outer sides of the park.

  There was one thing I’d always been told—even as a child, when I could just barely walk: When you’re out in a thunderstorm—

  Stay away from trees.

  The monumental moment in which I would be struck came as no surprise to someone who suffered reoccurring nightmares. There was no reason in the way it happened. Lightning can’t strike twice. It rarely strikes in open fields. But when it does, it rarely strikes anything in them.

  That day, I just so happened to be that mathematically-impossible thing that happened.

  It hit me—hard, right on the top of my head. Supercharging the hairs on my skin, sending my hair straight on end, my body reeling from an electric shock so immense that it would knock me out for hours on end.

  Unlike my regular dreams, I wasn’t viewing myself from the outside—I was actually in my body.

  I didn’t feel the impact. I didn’t experience the pain, the confusion, the outright terror as my mind struggled to process the situation. Instead, I looked directly into the face of the beast and waited for my answer.

  Something materialized before me.

  The flowing skirt of snow, the immense obsidian eyes—

  The flash cleared and with it the memory of my past. In its place came the Kelda—who, hovering in midair, descended toward me with a grace incapable of any living thing.

  Jason, she said.

  I couldn’t speak. Shock might’ve played a big factor in that, as well as my dream-like state, but I understood everything.

  A great wrong has been committed in the grand scheme of things, she continued, her countenance not faltering once as she lowered to just a foot above the ground. Kaldr Winters has faltered. They have usurped the destined ruler. A traitor in our midst. Guy Winters has been taken.

  “What?” I asked.

  The breath parting from my lips whispered before me in a low white hue, disappearing moments afterward as the storm raged on above. The Kelda’s face remained unmoving—stone-like even in her eyes. Her thin, nearly-invisible lips parted, paused, then parted again before she said, I do not know the answers to the questions you speak. I hear them, child, in my head, my heart—but my passion calls me to my child. He has not been taken by a man of mortal flesh. Those who bay within the night have sought to call him Justice.

  Lightning flashed. The rustle of leaves, followed by the downpour of them past her figure, shrouded the Kelda’s form.

  Her mouth opened in silent admission of surprise.

  My guts strangled themselves.

  “Where is he?” I asked, stepping forward, breaking free of what I imagined must have been some supernatural hold. “Where is he, Kelda? Tell me where he is.”

  It is a trap. They wish to lure you into their den.

  “I don’t care! I can’t leave him to die!”

  I hear truly the matter of your heart, dear Jason DePella, Warm Flesh and Bóndi of Kaldr Prince Guy Anthony Winters. I speak only one thing: The dogs live underground. They will not be hard to find.

  The sky opened to let forth peals of rain, which struck the Kelda and surrounded her porcelain skin with globules of ice that resem
bled hailstones. She looked briefly to those pooling before her, then lifted her head to train her eyes on me.

  She said nothing.

  I only faltered.

  Such a pull was indicative of a dream-like state.

  I was waking up.

  And when I did, I knew what I would do.

  PART 5:

  I was so engrossed in packing that I didn’t even hear the door open, nor see the figure who passed into the bedroom until a flicker of movement appeared out of the corner of my eye.

  “Jason,” Amadeo said, upon garnering my attention. “I came to see how you were.”

  “Fine,” I grunted, shoving another pair of clothes into my pack. I slung it into my arms and started for the doorway without any consideration for the man’s appearance.

  “Where are you going?” the man asked.

  “To get Guy,” I said. “Whether anyone likes it or not.”

  I pushed into the kitchen and began to tear through the cabinets, grabbing bags and cans of food without so much as looking at what they were. A can opener graced my palm, as did a casual cutting knife, which I pushed into a makeshift sheath before securing it into the pack.

  “I think you’re overreacting,” Amadeo said from his place opposite me in the living room.

  “Overreacting?” I laughed. “Are you kidding? I should’ve done this sooner!”

  “Jason—”

  “Where the hell were you when all this happened? Huh? Where was the good parent when the bad one kicked his only son out of the house!”

  “I sympathized with Guy’s plight only because I wanted you to be safe.”

  “So what is this then? A witch hunt? Tie the victim to the stake but let his martyr burn instead?”

  “That isn’t what I did.”

  I slammed the backpack on top of the counter and zipped my makeshift survival pack up. After a careful scan of Guy’s pantry and makeshift medicine shelf, I grabbed what I needed, shoved it into the bag, and started toward the doorway.

  Amadeo pushed his arm out to stop me.

  “Move,” I growled.

  “I can’t let you leave, Jason.”

  “You’re going to. Now.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! Get a hold of yourself! You don’t even know where Guy is.”

  “Yes I do.”

  “How could you possibly—”

  “The Kelda told me.”

  Amadeo’s lips faltered. “The Kuh-Kelda?” he asked. “Jason, what’re you—”

  “She came to me in a dream. Told me that Guy had been captured by the Howlers and that they lived underground. Said they wouldn’t be hard to find.” I shoved past Amadeo and headed toward the door. “That doesn’t give me many places to look.”

  “You can’t go.”

  “Stop me.”

  “You’ll get caught, Jason. You’ll be the death of Guy.”

  That stopped me in my tracks.

  Frozen before the doorway, hand extended toward the handle, I trembled as the realization set in.

  I did what any good person would do to protect the man he loves.

  Tears sprung at my eyes, mirroring the stutter in my limb. The sound of Amadeo’s approaching footsteps were the only warning I had before he set his hand on my shoulder.

  I expected him to freeze me—to knock me unconscious and keep me locked within this place, or to at least punch me out or slam me in the door. Instead, his fingers curled around my shoulder and remained there.

  “I never told him I loved him,” I said, turning my head to look into Amadeo’s eyes.

  “Some things are meant to happen,” Amadeo replied.

  “You can’t keep me here. You can’t let me let him die.”

  “Jason—”

  “Please, Amadeo!” I sobbed. “Please! He’s the only thing I have left! Without him… there’s no point in living.”

  The subtle shift in Amadeo’s eyes was something I noticed only because of the rings around his irises. Emblazoned to a brighter hue, they flickered in their sockets as they looked upon my face and traced the flow of tears along my cheeks. His adamant expression had recessed. Instead, he appeared sympathetic—as if his eyes and lips told the story of every regretful man’s life.

  Did he remember his own plea, when Elliot had saved him on the verge of death?

  Amadeo’s hand slid from my shoulder.

  Stepping forward, he reached out and set his hand on the door handle. “You know,” he said when he didn’t turn the handle to open the door. “I was in your position, once. When there was nothing I could do and only one person I cared about.” Amadeo’s fingers slid along the door until his hand found the locks. With careful clicks, he secured them into place, then ran the chains across the door before he turned to face me. “I know where they’re keeping him, Jason.”

  A lost breath instantly returned to my lungs. “You do?” I asked.

  Amadeo nodded. “There’s a location—east of the Enchanted Rock State Park. It’s a compound, hidden under the ground, concealed in a dilapidated farmhouse that’s been abandoned for years.” He sighed and lowered his hands at his side. “I know I can’t stop you, Jason. You love him far too much to simply let him go, but I couldn’t live with myself if I let you go and something happened. Which is why I brought this.”

  Reaching back, Amadeo lifted the hem of his shirt and withdrew a revolver from the small of his back. He popped the cylinder to reveal a full round of silver bullets.

  The absurdity was too much.

  I laughed.

  “Does that really work?” I said, faltering when I realized that Amadeo’s expression had not lightened. “I mean… just like the movies?”

  “Silver is the greatest weapon against evil,” Amadeo replied. “Do you remember the cross Guy always wears around his neck?”

  I wear it as a sign of my mortality, Guy had said that first fateful night. I have hope. One should when they see such horrible things.

  I nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “I do.”

  “That cross is lined with silver. To a Sanguine, it’s repulsive—a sign of their damnation from the unholy thing that made them. To a Howler? It’s like liquid fire spreading through their veins.” Amadeo snapped the cylinder shut. “I have boxes of this for you. I can get you a car, food, supplies. I can get you out of here, if that’s what you truly want. There’s only one condition.”

  I waited for him to continue.

  “Once you rescue Guy,” he said. “I don’t want you to ever come back. He sealed his fate when he left this camp.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  Amadeo nodded. “Good,” he said. “Give me an hour to get everything ready. Then you can leave.”

  “Everything’s in the truck,” Amadeo said. “The food, the supplies, the ammo.”

  We stood in the ranch’s garage looking upon the beast of a machine that would take me to the entrance to the Howler’s lair. At such an early hour of the morning, it was illuminated only by the fluorescent lights that flanked either side of the walls, but that did little to diminish the enormity of the cobalt-black structure before me.

  Black as night, the Spanish Kaldr had been fit to say. Quiet as can be. Tinted windows. Nondescript.

  The plates were registered under a different name from someone who now lived in a different state with documentation that would raise no wariness or speculation. With the vehicle arranged as it was, Amadeo said someone would have to peer through the front window in order to see its occupant, and even then they’d be hard-pressed to identify someone whose height only allowed him to look over the steering wheel.

  You’ll be fine, the man would have said, had he the inclination to believe in me.

  Instead, he figured me nothing more than dead—a stupid kid on a suicide run to save his boyfriend.

  Amadeo gave me a brief tour of the truck and all its features. GPS navigation on the dashboard, overhead sunroof above the console, the various dials that controlled the heat in both the front and back c
ab—at one point, he pulled out a drawer beneath the passenger seat to reveal a full pack of bottled water and an emergency kit, complete with maps tucked behind the seats.

  “You’re set,” the man said, after he deemed me informed of the appropriate knowledge.

  The scrutiny in his eyes was unbearable. Torn between the urge to flee and the knowledge that he was providing me the keys to my kingdom, I nodded and stepped back as he secured the truck’s back door.

  From his pocket he dangled the ring, simple with the Ford ignition key and a Swiss Army knife. “I’m trusting you know what you’re doing,” Amadeo said, his voice almost lost in the shadow of the nearby generator.

  “Yes sir,” I said. “I do.”

  Leaning forward, Amadeo took my hand, pressed the keys into my palm, then wrapped my fingers around them. “Godspeed, Jason. Godspeed.”

  He pressed a kiss to my brow.

  Breaking away, he walked to the garage door, took hold of the bar, and dragged it out of position, looking back at me as I rounded the hood to enter the vehicle. “I’ll open the front gate,” he said. “After that, you’re on your own.”

  Darkness.

  It was all I could see as I drove along the long stretch of Hill Country highway that would lead me to the place Guy was being held. The A/C on full blast, the windows down and the wind blowing through my hair, I regarded the GPS laid into the dashboard with cautious consideration as I realized that it would not be long before I arrived at my destination.

  It’ll be off the road, Amadeo had said, and you’ll have to get out of the truck, so make sure you’re armed.

  The pistol lay on the center console—loaded, the safety on, the bullets secured in their packs of cartridges beneath the passenger seat. All I had to do once I pulled over was round the vehicle, open the passenger door, and lean under. Then I could reload and go in guns blazing. Or not. At this point, I wasn’t sure how anything would play out. I didn’t want to kill anyone. I wasn’t a violent person. But if it meant them or Guy—sociopaths who would either kill or sell Guy to those who would brutally torture him—it would be them.