"I don't believe you." Brandon said, coming to his feet and turning his back to his uncle. He tried to achieve the emptiness again but it wouldn't come. His mind reeled. "My mom and dad loved one another. They were crazy about each other.” He struggled to talk, his throat felt constricted and tears stung his eyes. He closed his eyes and said. “They would have told me."
"Ask Lawyer Dagget." Gerrick said from behind him. "He drew up the papers."
"But why?" Brandon shook his head and looked at Gerrick. "They never fought. They were always so good together, always hugging and kissing each other. They couldn't have kept it from me. They wouldn’t have lied to me like that."
"Secrets." Gerrick said the word slowly. "Do you remember a man named Tom Ewing?"
Brandon started to shake his head, but then stopped. "He worked with my mom, I think. He came by the house once, to drop something off." Brandon stopped, his face suddenly going blank. Then his eyes hardened.
Gerrick nodded. "They had an affair. It was brief, but your father found out about it. She couldn't keep it secret. Not from Stephen."
"Tom died." Brandon said, his voice flat. He felt cold all over. "It was in the newspaper. I remember because mom was really shook up about it. He was mugged or something. Beat up." His voice firmed. "He was beaten to death."
Gerrick's eyes were chips of obsidian. "Stephen called me the night it happened. He just went to talk to the man. To talk. Nothing more. But Ewing liked pushing people's buttons and he pushed your father's. So they fought."
"He killed him." Brandon's voice was stronger than he felt. "He killed a man and you helped him cover it up and that’s why the Curse killed him."
"Secrets." Gerrick leaned back in his chair. His voice was soft, his tone mild. "Stephen claimed that it was an accident and I didn't question him. Your father was no liar. The man charged when he should have ducked. His windpipe was crushed. He choked to death while your father tried to help him. Luckily, he called me before he did something foolish.”
“Like call an ambulance?” Brandon interrupted. He shook his head. “You helped him cover it up, didn’t you?”
“He knew what the consequences were. He knew what his mistake had cost him. Had cost all of you. He was crying as I told him what to do."
"Mom knew, didn't she? She figured it out." Brandon said. He moved back to the table and reached for his chocolate but stopped when he saw his hand shaking. Making a fist, he clenched his teeth and shook his head. "I had no idea. They told me nothing."
"Of course." Gerrick said, his voice hard. "You were just a boy. Why should you be burdened with the knowledge that your father killed the pig who seduced your mother? The man was a pig, for certain. His attitude when your father confronted him proved that. He got what he deserved. But it was your bad luck that it was Stephen who gave it to him."
"And Sha'ha'Zel killed him for it." Brandon said, another realization dawning. "If my mom hadn't cheated on dad, they'd both still be alive, right? All of this is her fault."
Gerrick spoke firmly, his voice cold. "Unfocused magic is dangerous. Once let loose in the world, it takes on a life of its own. Your family’s curse was very specific. It had to be. Sha'ha'Zel doomed every adult with the Merryweather name. For the women, that meant coming into their moon blood.” When he noticed the blank look in Brandon’s eyes, he cleared his throat and said. “Their menstrual cycle."
Brandon blushed and gestured for the older man to go on.
Gerrick leaned forward and set his mug down. The chocolate had long gone cold. He said. "For men, it was two things. Lying with a woman. And spilling blood in combat. Before your father left the Old World, he took care of the first requirement, much to your grandfather's dismay. He did it in ignorance."
"And my mother helped him with the second part." Brandon said. He wanted to shout, but it came out a whisper. He met his uncle's black eyed gaze and raised his voice. "Is that why the Curse killed her?"
"Sha'ha'Zel killed your mother to hurt your father." Gerrick said. His eyes were tight. The words sounded like they were being drug from him. "She was pregnant. The Curse slaughtered her in front of your father just to show him that the child was not his."
Brandon didn't realize he was crying until he tasted the tears running down his cheeks into the corners of his mouth. They were salty and sweet at the same time. Though his eyes were wet, his face was hard as polished bone. He felt as if his parents had died all over again.
And, in a way, they had.
Always before, he kept a perfect picture of his family in his mind and in his heart. His mother and father, smiling and arm in arm. But now the picture was flawed. A long jagged crack marred its surface now. Their smiles looked forced and their arms no longer fit together just right. Their eyes looked different now, like those of a stranger. His mother had cheated on his father and his father killed her lover. And they both paid for it with their lives.
Brandon said. "It doesn't matter." He looked at the Phoenix. It lay on the table like an idol, deadly and alive. He was unable to meet Gerrick's eyes as he said it again. "It doesn’t matter. Is that all you have to tell me?"
Gerrick said nothing for a long time before nodding. "For now. The rest can come later."
Brandon nodded. Picking up the Phoenix, he turned to open the back door and stopped, an icy wind gusting inside. Gerrick got to his feet and said. "What are you going to do?" He looked like he might try to stop Brandon, if he didn't like the answer he heard.
Brandon looked at Gerrick, meeting his eyes. The older man blinked at the sudden heat in the younger's gaze. Brandon said. "I'm going out to kill something." He went outside, slamming the door behind him.
Gerrick stared at the closed door and thought of following and shadowing the boy through the night, but he didn't. There was nothing out there that could stand up to Brandon. Not now. Not with the Phoenix in his hands. And not with his demonic guardian looking out for him. He was almost ready for the end game.
Getting up, Gerrick picked up the two mugs and went to the sink. While he rinsed them out, he thought about Stephen. It was a long time since he thought of Brandon's father, but tonight had dredged up more than old memories.
"It had to be told." He said aloud. Speaking to the house. To the ghosts of Highgarden. And speaking to Stephen's shade, if he had one. "He can't die, not knowing."
Brandon didn't bother putting his shirt back on. Cutting across the bright white of Highgarden's snow covered back lawn, he felt the icy wind only dimly from within the emptiness. The Phoenix burned brightly in his fist, warming him from the inside as he crossed the bridge. It seemed a hundred years since the night he found Rok. The water, which ran deep and cold during the summer, was frozen now, heavy snow piled thick on the ice.
Leaving the bridge behind him, Brandon threw himself into the forest. He could sense the grohlm following, moving through the snowy treetops. He ignored them. It wasn't time to kill. Not yet. The forest was dark under the overlapping limbs overhead, but Brandon knew where he was going.
It didn't take long for him to reach the hidden graveyard. Snow covered the handful of rock tombs, making them into soft white mounds. He stopped in the center of the bone yard, raising his head to the sky and breathing deep. The wind rose and died, bringing the smell of cold steel and the pungent odor of matted fur.
The grohlm moved slowly out of the shadows. Fearful as they stepped out into the moonlight, they sniffed at the air and brandished their rusted and frost bitten blades. Moonlight glistened on bits of frozen armor.
When did it get dark? The thought made Brandon pause, sliding across the emptiness from somewhere in the ether. It had a lost quality that nearly shattered his concentration. Pushing away his uncertainty and confusion, he stood in the snow and watched the approaching grohlm. The whole day seemed like a fever dream.
An even dozen grohlm came out of the darkness, surrounding him. They were mostly wolves, but there was also a stag and a snorting bull. The largest of the wolves stepped
forward, rattling a rusty sword against a plain wooden shield. Its black lips peeled back, wrinkling its muzzle, and it growled deep in its chest. Its breath misted white in front of its face as its tongue lolled from its hungry grin.
Brandon waited, maintaining the emptiness. There was no fear. No anger. The emptiness was nearly perfect, except for the soft glow of Rok's presence. And something else. Something he couldn't quite see, like a flickering light seen from the corner of his eye. Then there was only the moment. There was only the sword in his hand and the enemies surrounding him.
The wolf charged, his pack mates hard on his heels, and Brandon exploded into motion. He was a killing wind, tearing into them and unleashing all of his pent up rage. The grohlm knew they couldn't stand up to the power before them, but they came on anyway. Dancing between the flashing blades and spiked maces of the snarling grohlm, Brandon swept the first wolf's head from its shoulders. Then, twisting, he snapped his right heel into the throat of the charging bull, sending it crashing to the snowy ground, thrashing as it choked to death.
Brandon slid sideways, letting the stag's short spear slice the air in front of his face, and drove an elbow into its face, before cleaving it in half at the waist. Black blood misted the arctic air, peppering Brandon's chest and arms. The remaining grohlm threw themselves hard at him, snapping their jaws and snarling as they fell. No blade touched him, or even came close.
The fight was over almost as quickly as it began. The dead grohlm were scattered around him, most in pieces. The once pristine snow was now a churned lake of black blood and mud and guts. Brandon stood in the center of the bone yard, staring up at the moon, standing high and full overhead. His breath misted in front of his face and he felt an insane urge to howl at the moon. But he felt the glazed eyes of the dead wolves staring at him, accusingly, so he didn’t. Instead, he contented himself with kneeling and cleaning the Phoenix on the ratty tunic of the dead bull. It was one of the only bits of grohlm clothing that wasn't covered in blood.
Around him, he heard more grohlm moving in the forest. But they stayed out of the light, watching from the shadows as Brandon headed home. He left the dead where they lay, knowing that the bodies would be gone before morning. He once asked Gerrick what the grohlm did with their dead and regretted asking when the older man told him. Grohlm were lazy and anything that could fill their bellies without work or fighting was fought over.
He walked slowly, listening to the grohlm following through the trees. They didn't attack or make themselves known, just stalked him almost all the way back to Highgarden. They stopped ghosting him at the same place they did on the day Eric Golph died.
Brandon stopped walking and turned, looking for them. There were glimmers in the trees that might have been watching eyes. Sometimes they blinked. Nothing else.
What was stopping them, he wondered? Nothing about the place where he stood felt any different than before. Not to Brandon. But something definitely kept the grohlm out. More magic, most likely.
He was getting sick of magic, even if it was the only thing keeping him alive, if only for a short time longer. Less than a week until the new year. Less than a week and it would end, one way or another. For better or worse, it would all be over.
Giving the lurking grohlm one last hard look, Brandon turned his back to them and went home.
The wolf watched the Storm Lord leave, putting his back to the grohlm in a brazen show of disrespect, and growled deep in his throat. Nashoba was surrounded by dozens of lower grohlm, as well as his murder of high wolves, but those numbers seemed hopelessly inadequate after seeing what the young warrior was capable of in the forest, back in that old place of death.
He was formidable. But not yet so formidable that he wouldn’t fall to the wolf’s spears. If not for the magic surrounding his den, he would already have faced the judgement of the grohlm. But the barrier stood firm, preventing the horde from entering.
But how long would it hold?
Not forever. Nashoba wasn’t the wisest of grohlm, though he was considered a cunning warrior, but even his warrior’s mind knew that in war anything could happen. He would face the young one in battle one day. He would test his spears against the cub’s magic steel and he would triumph. He did not fear the boy’s gods, old or new.
He would taste his blood.
Silently promising to return, Nashoba led the horde away from Highgarden and the prize waiting within.
Underhill arrived at the police station in a rush, pushing his way through the door, and stopped to marvel at what could only be described as organized chaos. Bloodied deputies and their families were scattered throughout the police station, kids crying and spouses trying hard to keep everybody calm.
Teague saw him enter and called to him from his open office door. “Al, over here.”
Underhill took in his friend’s bloodstained uniform and shook his head. “How many dead?”
“We haven’t heard from a couple of the new deputies, so I sent out two teams to check in on them. They’re in route now.” Teague ran a hand through his hair and said. “This was a coordinated attack. These things are getting smarter.”
“Or they have a new leader?” Underhill said, glancing into the younger man’s office. Teague’s wife, Rachel, looked up from where she was sitting with their daughter. They were on a small couch that sat against the office’s far wall. The little one was lying down, her head resting in her mother’s lap as she slept.
Rachel smiled when she saw Underhill and said. “Hello, Mr. Underhill.”
He gave her as reassuring a smile as he knew how to give and said. “Hello, Rachel. Are you two lovely ladies okay?”
“We’re fine.” She said. She rested a hand on her resting daughter’s head, running her fingers through her silky hair. She shook her head and wiped sudden tears from her eyes. Then she laughed softly. “Or not. I don’t really know. It’s hard enough being the wife of a police officer, before you throw monsters into the mix.”
“Derek is doing very well.” Underhill said. “You should get some sleep, if you can. You’re safe here.” He gave her another smile before turning and addressing himself to the police chief. “Let’s get everybody in from the cold, then we can start planning for the next hunt.”
Teague didn’t say anything right away. The grohlm were getting desperate. That was what the attacks were all about. This wasn’t some grand plan of theirs to take out a threat, but a last ditch effort to prevent their own annihilation by a stronger enemy. Teague looked at his friend and said. “We’re going to win, aren’t we?”
Underhill touched his nose with his finger and said. “Only time will tell, Derek. There are still battles to be fought, not all of them by those present here.” He turned his gaze to the frenzy of activity in the police station and a craggy smile tugged at the scar on his face. “But it’s definitely a good start.”
Chapter 32
The days leading up to Christmas Eve found a Matheson changed greatly from the terrified town weeks before. The town was beginning to return to a semblance of normalcy, nearly the same town that it used to be before the dark times. The curfew stayed in effect, but people were out on the streets again. Living their lives and sleeping a little better knowing that the police were spending more time on the streets and in the woods, serving and protecting. Chief Teague and his men survived the ambushes at their homes and, because of it, intensified their hunts. Their patrols moved deeper into the woods and they found fewer grohlm to kill. Many of the men believed that the monster's numbers had to be dwindling. That or they were being forced into hiding. Ambushes became fewer and less frequent. It felt like they were winning.
And to some degree, they were. The grohlm had learned much from their contact with the human hunters, but the main thing they learned was to be wary of firearms. They no longer threw themselves into gunfire with the same abandon as before, as if feeding themselves to a meat grinder.
A few of the people in town knew that the war was far from over. Th
e old men at the Antique store watched the town slowly waking up and knew that any celebration would be premature. They could feel the swell of magic building in the air around Matheson, like atmospheric buildup before a powerful thunderstorm. Something powerful was coming and they both knew that Matheson’s future hung in the balance.
Gerrick also knew better. He watched the stillness of the woods and forests surrounding Highgarden and felt a sense of unease that had little to do with the approaching deadline. He'd been in enough battles to recognize the calm before the storm. Sha’ha’Zel was coming and he doubted he would have what it took to stop him from facing Brandon. He thought of Stephen and the talks they’d had as young men, back when they thought destroying the Curse might be possible.
It should be possible, but neither of them had the power to do so on their own or even together. But Brandon might be strong enough. So he spent the quiet time sharpening his swords and teaching Brandon the things that he needed to know to survive. Brandon absorbed the lessons as he had every thing else Gerrick showed him, but things had changed between the two warriors. He didn’t see Gerrick as his superior, not any longer. Nor did he see him as an equal.
There was contempt in the younger man’s gaze now when he looked at Gerrick. He tried to hide it, but it was definitely there. He didn’t respect Gerrick any longer. He saw himself as the stronger of them. Gerrick should have been angry about that, but it actually made him that much more proud of Brandon. He was truly becoming a man. He entertained thoughts of the man Brandon would become if he somehow survived past New Years, though he knew, deep down, that neither of them would live through the Curse's coming.
Whatever strange magic was in the air, Brandon felt it as well. The morning of Christmas Eve, he stood out on Highgarden's back deck and stared out at the forest and felt a chill settling itself deep in his bones. Something was coming. Something big and bad. And he didn't think it was just Sha'ha'Zel.
Fire And Steel (The Merryweather Chronicles Book 2) Page 32