Locked in Silence: Grimm's Circle, Book 5

by Shiloh Walker

  “Look at me, boy.”

  He did not dare.

  “I said—”

  “Oh, stop yelling at him,” she said. “Can you not see his fear?”

  Then she knelt by him, an angel in pink and gold. Uncaring of the blood on him, she reached out and touched his arm. “Will you look at me, boy? Please?”

  He darted a look. Then looked away.

  “What is your name?”

  He shook his head. A name. He had a name. But he had no way to tell her.

  “You have no name?”

  He hesitated then shook his head. He had a name. One he did not remember, and even if he did, he could not tell her. Slowly, he reached up and touched his mouth, shook his head, watching her from the corner of his eye, not daring to look directly at her, still hiding behind his damp, dirty hair.

  “Oh…you cannot speak.” She sighed and looked up. “How can you kill him now? He cannot even tell a soul that he saw you with me, Louis.”

  The man she called Louis knelt down as well. “Just because he says he cannot speak doesn’t mean he cannot speak,” the man muttered. “Look at me, boy, and do it now or I will have you killed and be done with it.”

  He looked—he did not want to die, and somehow he understood this man could have him killed.

  So he looked. And something about the face he saw startled him—

  The man called Louis sucked in a harsh breath and then looked at his lady.

  “Well. Perhaps I could have killed him before I looked at him, but it will be harder now. He shares my face, Françoise. Do you see?”

  Abruptly, there was a shout, followed by a scream. The guards came, hustling the lady and the man to the carriage. The woman—Françoise—she reached out and caught his thin arm. “You come too. You have faced enough thieves and bandits this day. Let the guards handle this.”

  Louis gave her a disapproving frown.

  “What? Would you have this boy with your face be slaughtered?”

  There was another scream from the guards, and something about it made the skin on the boy’s neck crawl.

  What came out of the woods were men—or at least they looked like men. But they moved too fast. And they were too strong. The boy had never seen a man who could rip the arms off another man, but that was what one did. The men who guarded Louis and his lady Françoise were being cut down like animals.

  One of the bandits…no, this was no bandit. That…that thing looked toward them and as he stared into the thing’s eyes, his gut turned to water.

  Evil…he was staring into the very eyes of evil. There was nothing human in those eyes. Nothing…

  Without understanding why, he gathered the shadows and used his darkness, spreading it across the clearing.

  Françoise screamed.

  Knowing he needed to see, the boy eased back and rested a hand on her knee, and one on Louis as well. The darkness eased for them and he saw the shock on their faces. He flinched, prepared himself for what they would say, what they would think, what they would do.

  But Françoise gazed at him in wonder.

  “Louis, did you see? What he can do?”

  “Françoise, be quiet,” Louis said, sweat breaking out on his brow. He looked at the boy, his mouth set in a grim line. “If you truly know how to fight, then you should prepare yourself.”

  He swallowed and looked back. He could not tell the man named Louis that there would be no fighting. He looked over his shoulder at the door to the carriage and then back at Louis.

  They needed to escape.

  Now.

  Louis stared at him, eyes narrowed.

  He shot the door another look then gave Louis one more pleading look.

  “Very well, boy. I hope you know what you are about…”

  Now…

  She hurt.

  Vanya thought the pain would choke her—either the pain or the blood.

  Fear dominated her mind, swamped her.

  I’m here, somebody whispered through her mind.

  A hand touched her brow.

  Strong, gentle.

  Then it was gone—

  No, she thought desperately. Please don’t leave…

  “I won’t leave you alone. I’m here, Vanya.”

  Who was he? She needed something to cling through during the dark, but she didn’t know how to ask, couldn’t find her voice to save her life.

  And then, as though he’d sensed her need, she heard it again, a vague whisper of thought.

  “I am Silence—”

  Silence…what a strange name.

  Her last conscious thought was that he knew her name…and she hadn’t been alone, after all.

  Silence scowled as he looked around the small, dank hotel room.

  It reminded him too much of the squalid little rooms where he had spent much of his mortal life. Too closed in. Not enough windows. Not enough light.

  Then he focused his gaze on Will. This is a hovel, he signed.

  “It’s where she’s been living for the past few months, my friend. She doesn’t have much money and it’s the best she’s been able to manage.”

  Cocking a brow, Silence pointed out, You have money.

  Most of them did.

  “And do you really think she’s going to let me pay her way? You don’t know modern women very well, do you?”

  Silence frowned. No. No, he didn’t. The woman he knew best was Sina—and modern, she was not. She might adopt certain mindsets, certain attitudes and customs, and heaven knew she loved the clothing and conveniences…but modern?

  She’d been ancient when he had been born.

  He dropped his bag on the floor by the wall and eyed the lone, rickety chair at the table. It wouldn’t hold his weight. It would shatter into splinters and toothpicks, and then he’d have to pick them out of his own ass.

  My home, he signed, looking at Will. Open your damned doorway—let me take us to my home. She can make her transition there. I can begin her training there.

  “Not yet.” Will shook his head. “She’ll adjust better if she awakes in familiar surroundings—you know it. Plus…” he blew out a breath, “she needs to say goodbye to her life. Let her have that. A few days, a few weeks, perhaps.”

  Will grimaced and looked around the hotel room. “Trust me, once she wakes up and her new senses kick in, she’s not going to want to stay here.”

  Then he was gone.

  Lucky bastard, Silence mouthed, shaking his head. Blond hair fell into his face and he sighed, fishing around in his pocket for a band to pull it back with.

  She’d go into the fever soon—the fever always came as the body adjusted to the changes. It would last for hours.

  It wasn’t an easy process and she was stuck with him. Sighing, he settled at her side and rested a hand on her face, his thumb absently tracing over one of the scars.

  Where had they come from? Gently, he angled her face to the side a bit so he could see the marks better. They looked like claw marks almost. Three of them running down the left side of her face.

  Vanya moaned, the sound low and tortured.

  Looking away from the marks, he saw the look of pain, fear tightening her features.

  Not much time.

  I’m here, he thought.

  It wasn’t much, and he knew she couldn’t very well hear him.

  He went to stroke her midnight black hair from her face, frowning at the blood in it. He needed to clean her up—make her more comfortable.

  Now, before the fever started, he supposed.

  But as he was washing the blood from her hair, he discovered it wasn’t her hair, but a wig.

  Scowling, he pulled it away, tossing it aside and combing his fingers through her pale, ash-brown hair. It was shorter, curly, the curls twining around his fingers like silk. It suited her, although he doubted she’d appreciate him thinking so. It made her look as young as he suspected she was. Young…and softer.

  The life she faced now was anything but soft.

  Th
en again, he suspected her life hadn’t been soft before this.

  She had scars, and not just the paltry ones on her face. Scars on her soul, just like him. He imagined the three, thin marks bothered her a lot, although he had seen worse—hell, he carried worse, although his own scars weren’t as visible as hers.

  Lightly, he touched her marks again, one at a time, tracing his finger down each line.

  Under his hand, she shivered and he pulled back.

  He was supposed to be seeing to her comfort—not pawing her.

  The darkness was surreal.

  Vanya didn’t think she’d ever known a darkness this complete.

  All encompassing, blacker than any night she’d ever experienced.

  But she wasn’t afraid.

  Not anymore.

  Even when the pain came and tore into her with sharp, tearing teeth.

  Because she wasn’t alone.

  He was there.

  She didn’t know who he was.

  She just knew he was there, and that his voice was there to guide her, no matter how dark it got.

  “You’re safe now, I promise.”

  “Breathe…just breathe, the pain will pass…”

  His words were like a lifeline, circling through her mind, with her no matter how deeply she dreamed, no matter how awful the nightmares became, no matter horrible the pain.

  Whoever he was, she felt safer with him than she’d ever felt. Safe, welcome…protected.

  Perhaps even wanted…

  Cared for.

  When the fever came, he had a cool cloth to stroke over her brow.

  When the dreams were the worst, his voice comforted her, murmuring to her from deep inside her mind, never, never leaving her alone.

  When the chills replaced the fever, he warmed her.

  When the darkness replaced the nightmares, he stayed by her side, reassuring her.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Not alone—

  She flung out a hand and he was there—his hand, bigger than hers, strong and ridged with scars, caught hers, held it.

  “I’m here.”.The voice in her mind was deep, dark and quiet, strong as iron and soft as velvet. “I’m here and I will not leave you.”

  Vanya sighed. And slept.

  Then…

  “Very good!” Françoise clapped her hands and leaned over, watched as he painstakingly spelled out his name—or rather, the name they had chosen to give him. “You learn so fast. You are terribly clever.”

  He smiled at her then looked away as blood rushed up his neck, staining his cheeks red.

  The past few days with this lady had been the happiest he had known since he had been a small boy.

  Before he had made the horrid mistake of telling his mother what he could do. He had thought she’d be amazed and she’d been horrified. He’d feared letting Françoise and Louis know, but they hadn’t feared him. He couldn’t make sense of it.

  There was a sound at the door and he looked up, automatically flinching at the sight of another person. It was Louis. A man he wanted to think was his friend. A man he wanted to be his friend. Nervous, he smiled.

  Louis smiled back.

  It was a smile that made him feel warmer inside. It was a smile he liked, one he wanted to trust.

  And because he wanted to so badly, he did.

  It was a mistake that would cost him his freedom for the next ten years.

  He could still hear her arguing.

  “You cannot do this to him, Louis. It is not right—he trusted you!”

  “He trusts me to a point,” Louis snapped.

  “Have you forgotten he saved our lives?”

  He huddled against the stone wall, staring out the narrow slit of a window, at the nighttime sky, wishing he was back in the forest. Away from here. Away from them, even Françoise. If he was back there, he wouldn’t be a prisoner.

  Again…

  “Have you forgotten we are at war? That we constantly face those who would seek to destroy us? That boy is a formidable weapon and he will aid me when I need it.”

  No, he thought, shaking his head. I will not.

  “You would use him. After he saved us. After he saved me.”

  There was a pause, and then Louis said, “Françoise, I will do what I must. Please, understand…”

  “No. I love you, but I cannot understand this.”

  There was silence, and then the door opened.

  He did not turn his head to look. It was Louis. The man he wanted to call friend.

  But he had no friends.

  He could trust nobody.

  “I did not wish to do it this way,” Louis said quietly. “Just tell me you will offer me aid and we will find another way.”

  He stayed quiet, gazing out at the stars.

  There was a sigh at the door. “You will change your mind. In time.”

  But he did not. Years passed, and he remained locked away…alone. In time, he realized it was best that way. Safer.

  Now…

  She slept now, Silence thought, studying her face.

  A healing sleep, finally.

  Her hand still clutched his. There had been times when her short, neat nails had bit into his flesh, times when she had squeezed so tightly, he’d felt the bones of his hand grinding together. She hadn’t hit full-strength yet—a good thing because, otherwise, she might have shattered every bone in his hand.

  Not that he would have stopped her. It wouldn’t have been the worst pain he’d ever dealt with, and if it brought her some comfort…

  Sighing, he reached for the rag and once more stroked it over her damp brow. A few more hours, he thought, and she’d awaken.

  Then things would really get interesting for her.

  How much did she know?

  Sometimes, Will had explained things well.

  Other times, not so much.

  He hoped she had at least more than a vague idea of what was going on. She certainly had been aware of her impending death, although that simply could have been premonition. She’d known about them, though. Will never brought one over without offering a choice.

  All of them knew basically what would come. But sometimes the basics were all they were given—a choice would be made. Do you live and help others? Do you die and move on?

  Let it be more than that, he thought.

  Absently, he reached up to touch his medallion through his shirt, thought of calling Will.

  But he didn’t.

  Will had already done everything he was going to do.

  If there was more he was going to do, he would have already done it.

  It was up to Silence now.

  Frankly, this woman ought to be scared to death. Having things placed in his scarred hands. Damn you, Will.

  He didn’t want her scared, didn’t want her to come into this unknowing…

  He’d have to explain—have to think of the best way to make certain she knew all she needed to know.

  At first, Vanya thought she might still be dreaming.

  Not a nightmare this time, though.

  Or maybe she had died…died and gone to heaven. Or some sort of way station. It made sense.

  Because there was somebody not too far away who looked too perfect to be real.

  He stood by the window, staring outside, giving her a look at his profile, and what a pretty, pretty profile…carved cheekbones, nice nose, a rather biteable-looking mouth. His hair was pulled back, leaving her view of that face unobstructed.

  She could have happily looked at him for another ten, twenty minutes.

  Hell, another ten, twenty hours. Weeks…months. Even years.

  But he noticed her attention, and his eyes, the pale, pale blue of a Siberian Husky’s, cut her way.

  Vanya tensed, bracing herself for the typical reaction she got from most men. The way they’d looked her over in that appraising sort of way, right up until they saw her scars.

  But he only stared into her eyes.

  Slowly, her heart
pounding in her chest, she sat up.

  Her mouth was dry, too dry. Spying an unopened bottle of water on the bedside table, she grabbed it and opened it. Her hand shook uncontrollably as she lifted it, though, splattering it all over her clothes. Blood rushed to her face.

  A shadow fell across her and she looked up, her breath freezing in her lungs as she realized he was there.

  He…who was he?

  Silence—

  His hand closed over hers, steadying it and guiding it to her lips.

  Gratitude flooded her, even as the blush deepened.

  So weak, she couldn’t even manage to a drink on her own.

  The water rushed down her parched throat and she drained the bottle in seconds.

  “Ahhh…thank you.”

  He nodded and backed away, taking the bottle with him and tossing it away.

  Studying him, acutely aware of the damp shirt clinging to her, she shifted on the bed. “So…are you…um…”

  He gave her his back for a moment, and she fell silent, staring at him as he crouched down, rummaging around for something. When he stood, she saw that he held a laptop and little velvet pouch.

  The pouch he held out to her.

  The laptop he held in one big hand.

  Still feeling as weak as a kitten, Vanya reached for the pouch and watched as he sat on the bed across from hers. Waiting, it seemed.

  She opened the pouch and poured what it held into her hand.

  Silver.

  It heated in her hand, pulsed…throbbed, like it held a life of its own.

  She caught the disc it held in her hand, rubbed her thumb over it. Her breath hitched in her chest as the wings etched into the silver glowed.

  “Whoa,” she whispered.

  So finely done…she could see individual feathers carved into the silver. Around the edge of the disc, she saw letters…words her brain couldn’t quite process.

  Her heart skipped a beat as she looked up at him.

  “Well, that answers the question I was going to ask,” she said, giving him a weak smile. “I was wondering if you were supposed to be my guide or trainer or whatever.”

  He gave a single nod.

  “You’re not much for talking, are you?”