by L. S. O'Dea
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” Curtis grabbed him by the arm.
He tried, but his feet wouldn’t move. At his trial, he’d been shocked by the vehemence directed at him. Jason and the Council had convinced the public that the massacre at the Remore household had been his fault. They’d said that it’d been his responsibility to make sure that the Trackers took their serum. It made no difference that he hadn’t known there were any Trackers besides Mirra. All the blame and anger had been given to him, like a gift of sorrow and pain, linking his name for eternity to the tragedy known as the Night of the Trackers.
Curtis must’ve gotten tired of waiting because he began walking, dragging Hugh along. The door to the visiting chamber was getting closer. This was the second to last part of his punishment. He’d sit, chained in the room while family members of those he’d harmed came to have their final say. They wouldn’t be allowed to touch him but he feared their words and heartache more than any beating. He deserved hatred for Viola’s death and Buddy’s and his mom’s, but not the others.
“It’s time, High Hugh.” Curtis stopped.
“I don’t go by that anymore.” It was a stupid thing to say, but it’d slipped out. He hadn’t been called by his title in a long time.
“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.” Curtis winked as he opened the door.
The room was empty except for three, burly Guards, a two-way mirror on the wall, a table and chairs. Curtis handed him over to one of the Guards and stepped outside, closing the door. The Guard guided him across the room and hooked his cuffed hands to the table and then his feet. He could move about six inches in either direction but there was no escape.
“Sit,” said the Guard, pushing down on Hugh’s shoulder.
He dropped onto the chair behind him, saying a quick prayer that Little Sarah would show up soon. If he could see her first, he might have the strength to face the others—the widows and orphans and the parents morning their dead children. The Trackers had killed many that night. He stared at the wall. It was blue with a hint of purple. It was similar to a flower but he couldn’t recall which one. He’d focus on figuring that out and not what was to come.
One of the Guards coughed. All of them were staring at the door, noses wrinkled in disgust. He sniffed. He couldn’t smell anything but he did hear the footsteps. There were different treads. It could be Little Sarah and her family, but he wouldn’t be that lucky. No, it’d be some mother or parentless child. He tried to focus on the wall, but his eyes kept darting to the door. He didn’t deserve this. The deaths at the Remore party had not been his fault.
The door opened. There were three of them standing outside with Curtis. As they entered, the heavy scent of perfume invaded the room. He breathed through his mouth to protect his nose, but that was worse, the odor clinging to his tongue like the taste of rotten meat. Curtis shut the door, trapping them inside with the stench. The three Guards shifted away, tucking their heads toward their arms to try and block the scent.
Two of the three visitors were Almightys dressed in their black, ceremonial capes. Their bowed heads were covered by hoods, so he couldn’t make out their faces. The other was a Guard. He looked familiar. It was Jackson, but with a beard. The Guard had finally yielded and grew the facial hair of his class. Hugh started to smile but stopped. If Jackson were here, then the other two had to be Benedictine’s family.
He sagged against the chair as the tension fled his body. Of everyone, the Remores knew he wasn’t to blame for the Night of the Trackers. Before his trial, Kim, Jethro and Jackson had wanted to come forward and explain their part in the mess, but he’d convinced them that it’d make no difference. He was going to be executed for treason; there was no point in anyone else dying.
The three guests moved across the room. The male had to be Jethro, but the boy hadn't filled out like he’d expected. Jethro was still lean and lanky. The other was a woman, a young woman by her posture and stride. So, it was Kim and not Martha. They stopped in front of the table, Jackson behind the others. The Guard wouldn’t meet his eyes. It was for the best. The warden was probably watching from the two-way mirror. It wouldn’t do for him and Jackson to seem on friendly terms. The Guard didn’t pay much attention to Kim either which was odd. Usually, the sexual tension between the two was palpable. He held back a grin. Maybe, the tension had been relieved. Without Benedictine’s watchful eye, his daughter was free to do as she pleased and from what he’d witnessed after the Night of the Trackers but before his imprisonment, what Kim wanted was her father’s Guard.
Kim was different than he’d remembered too—tall and lean with the promise of lush curves shaping the robe. Wait a minute. He may not have seen a female in years but something was wrong. Kim was not and never would be willowy like this female. Kim was short and curvaceous. His eyes narrowed. Since when was Kim taller than Jethro? The boy might not have grown over the years, but he shouldn’t have shrunk.
As if sensing his scrutiny, Kim raised her head. Golden eyes framed with lashes the color of soot met his gaze.
“Hello, High Hugh.” Trinity grinned.
In one fluid movement she was across the room, slashing at the Guard on his right. Jethro, who wasn’t Jethro at all but Tim, launched himself at the Guard on his left while Jackson grabbed the third Guard, placing him in a chokehold. In a moment, the struggle was over. The three Guards lay on the floor and he was standing—he didn’t remember standing—with his mouth hanging open.
“Tie them up.” Trinity grabbed his hands. “Where are the keys?”
“Jackson, stop.” This was all happening too fast and yet not fast enough. They’d come to save him. He had no idea why and he didn’t care but it’d be for nothing if they didn’t act fast. He pointed behind him at the two-way mirror. “The warden and who knows who else is back there. They’ll signal for more Guards if they haven’t already.”
“Don’t worry. We got this.” Jackson slipped out the door.
“I...I.” He had no words. His throat was filled with hope. He wasn’t going to die. He started to run his hand through his hair and stopped, his arms still chained to the table.
“I can’t find the keys.” Tim searched the Guards.
“I got this.” Trinity pushed her hood back and pulled a long needle from the bun in her hair. “Start undressing one of them.”
“This is taking too long.” He turned toward the door. “Where’s Jackson? There was another Guard outside the door. Did you get him?”
She grabbed his hand. He jumped at the contact. It’d been years since he’d been touched by anything but a fist, let alone the soft skin of a female. She dug her claws into his wrist, scraping slightly as she stared up at him, her golden gaze angry.
“Stay still or we’ll all get caught.” She began picking the lock.
“Do you know how to do that?”
Her head was bent over his hands and the light reflected off her hair as it slipped free from the bun and flowed onto her shoulders. Brown was too tame a word for it as highlights of red and gold created a cacophony of glorious hues. It was the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen. The latch clicked open.
“Yep.” She grinned at him as she grabbed his other hand.
The breath caught in his chest. She used to hide her fangs when smiling. She’d been young and unsure of herself, but now she accepted who she was. Her confidence was in every gesture and move she made. She was magnificent. His eyes traveled down her body, searching for the curves hidden by the cloak. He blinked and raised his gaze to the wall. This was Tim’s daughter. But she’s not your niece. That didn’t matter. She was young and innocent, not for him. He took a deep breath, choking on her perfume.
“If you don’t like the smell, stop breathing.” She continued working on the lock.
“That was the Council’s plan, so unless you want to join me you’d better hurry.” He’d forgotten about her smart mouth.
She raised a brow at him as the second latch opened. She knelt and st
arted working on the chains around his ankles.
“This is taking too long.” He repeated as he glanced at the door. “Other Guards will be coming.”
She unlocked another latch and moved on to the next. “One more to go.”
The door burst open. Trinity jumped to her feet, claws bared. Hugh shifted to block her, but she pushed in front of him, sending him a dirty look.
“It’s us.” Curtis held up his hands as he and Jackson stepped into the room.
“Curtis is with you?” That’d explain why the young Guard had never taken him down for a basement beating.
“Sure am, High Hugh Truent.” Curtis slapped him on the back.
“I...don’t call me that.” He hated that title. It represented the fool he’d been and he wasn’t that man anymore.
They all glanced at him.
“Okay, Hugh. Whatever you want.” Curtis’ smiled faded a bit.
Trinity gave Hugh a disgusted look as she knelt back at his feet. She looked up at Curtis from under her lashes. “Don’t pay any attention to him. If he’s not griping about something, he’s not happy.” She smiled, her eyes meeting his for a moment in challenge and then flashing over to Curtis.
Curtis blushed.
“Hurry up, Trinity.” Tim glared at the young Guard.
“I’m only irritable when you’re around.” He hadn’t missed the exchange between her and Curtis. He didn’t envy Tim. Shy, unsure Trinity had been trouble. Confident, flirtatious Trinity would be a nightmare for her parents.
“Almost done, Dad. I told you that you’d be glad I learned how to do this.” She unhooked the last cuff.
“It’s who you learned it from that I don’t like,” said Tim.
“Let’s go.” Hugh rubbed his wrist and moved toward the door.
“Wait. We need to check you for a tracking device.” Jackson blocked his path, a Tracking Pinpointer in his hand. It was long and thin like a metal stick.
“What are we going to do if I have one implanted?” It’d have to be removed, but sometimes the devices attached deep in the tissue.
“Whatever we have to.” Trinity bared her claws.
“Freedom comes at a price.” Tim grinned.
“You don’t have to sound so happy about it.” Having a device the size of a piece of rice dug from his body by claws was not an experience he wanted to have.
“Sorry. Has to be done.” Jackson turned on the pinpointer.
“I’ll do it. You need to change.” She grabbed for the device.
“I got it.” Jackson jerked away from her.
“Stop arguing and let Jackson handle it.” The words came out almost a shout. He’d forgotten how annoying the squabbling of the other classes could be. “Jackson has experience with locating tracking devices and we need to hurry.”
She stepped closer to him. “You’ve been locked up a long time, Hugh. You have no idea how experienced I am.”
His eyes flew to Tim. She couldn’t mean that the way it sounded.
“Don’t even,” said Tim, sending a glare at Curtis who was grinning at Trinity.
“What did I say wrong this time?” Her eyes darted from one male to the next, red creeping into her cheeks.
“Don’t worry about it, honey,” said Tim.
“I’ll never learn if you don’t tell me.”
“You’ll never learn by spending all your time hanging out in the forest with Gaar and Mirra,” said Tim.
“Now, Dad? Really?”
Tim closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. “No. You’re right. We can talk about it later.”
“We’ve talked about it enough,” she said under her breath.
Jackson was trying unsuccessfully not to smile as he ran the wand up and down Hugh’s body.
“What’s that about?” he whispered to the Guard.
“Tim and Millie want her mated but”—Jackson glanced at her—“she’s not ready.”
“I can hear you.” She didn’t bother to look up. “I’m sure Dad will tell you all about how I constantly disappoint him and Mom, but first we need to get out of here.”
“We’re not disappointed in you, just your choices.” Tim’s tone was weary as if they’d had this discussion too many times.
“That’s so much better,” she said.
“All clear.” Jackson slipped the device into his pocket and started changing into the prison Guard’s uniform.
“I told you they wouldn’t waste the money on a dead man,” said Curtis.
“We had to be sure.” Jackson grinned at Hugh as he buttoned his shirt. “It’s too bad. It would’ve been fitting if they’d put your own invention inside of you.”
“Yeah, a real shame.” He’d also forgotten what a warped sense of humor Guards had. He collected the weapons from the prison Guards. They didn’t carry guns but they did carry clubs.
“You can’t have these. Not yet, anyway.” Jackson took the nightsticks from him. “Let’s go.”
“As soon as we put the shackles back on him,” said Curtis.
“No. What if I have to run?” He didn’t want to be chained, not ever again.
“We won’t latch them.” Trinity grabbed his hands.
“Be careful as you walk. You don’t want to lose these at a bad time.” Curtis tucked Hugh’s socks around the cuffs to keep them in place.
“Kind of ironic, a Producer chaining an Almighty.” She hooked his handcuffs loosely around his wrists. “I like it.”
“I don’t.” He wasn’t truly restrained. He could slip his hands free with little effort but after all these years, he didn’t want chains or locks anywhere near him.
“Neither do we.” Her large, gold eyes were brittle.
If you like the story, you can find it here or on my website. http://www.lsodea.com
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Rise of the River Man
CHAPTER 1
MUTTER WAS IN TROUBLE. No one wanted a Guard like him. He was too big, too strong and too ugly. He stretched out on the concrete floor and winced. His ribs were definitely broken, but he’d fought and won with broken bones in the past. He started coughing. It was this sickness that had cost him the match. He sat up; the coughing subsided. He’d pleaded with Vickers, his Almighty master, not to make him fight but the money had already switched hands. He leaned his head against the bars of the cage. He’d lost the fight and now he’d lose his life.
The door opened and a male Almighty around thirty years old with blond hair entered the room followed by Satcha, the House Servant who ran this establishment. The Guards’ Shelter didn’t allow visiting at this hour but Almightys did whatever they wanted. Mutter didn’t bother to stand up. He’d learned his lesson. Right after he’d arrived, he’d trimmed his beard and had tried to look pleasant, but it had done no good. Every time that he’d run to the front of the cage and had smiled at the Almightys, he’d smelled the fear on them. Most had tried not to look at him, but he was big and scarred and hard to ignore.
They stopped in front of his cage.
“Ableson, this is the one I told you about,” said Satcha. “Looks like he was a fighter. So, he should be used to obeying. I thought he might work for you, but he does have a bad cough.”
“Just a little tickle in my throat from this damp, rotten place.” He hated Servants. They didn’t know when to keep their big mouths shut.
The Almighty remained quiet, his blue eyes never leaving Mutter.
“Come here,” said Satcha.
Mutter wanted to stay where he was to annoy the Servant but Guards like him didn’t get many chances for a home. He stood slowly, letting the Almighty get used to his size and appearance.
“How old are you?” asked Ableson.
“Not sure. Been around for a while but not too old.” That was the safe answer. He had counted nineteen winters but that might be too old or too young. He never could tell what an Almighty wanted.
“By his teeth and body we estimate around twenty-five to thirty
years,” said Satcha.
Ableson twirled his finger. Mutter understood that signal. Before the fights had started, when the betting happened, he was often sized up by the gamblers. He turned in a circle, giving the Almighty time to study him.
“I’m strong and healthy.” That was a lie but he would be healthy again. He just needed a little time and some food.
“I need an obedient Guard.” The Almighty’s eyes roamed up and down his frame.
“Won’t find one more obedient than me.”
“Let’s see if that’s true.” Ableson walked down the aisle. “Is there another Guard who he’s close to?”
“Him?” Satcha laughed, following the Almighty. “He’s so big and ugly even the other Guards stay away from him.”
Ableson stopped in the hallway. “Take this one out.”
The Servant opened the cage and slipped a rope over a young Guard’s neck. Mutter’s chest pinched. Typical. The Almighty’s always chose the young ones. His only chance was gone. They would walk out and soon he’d be executed. He started to sit back down, when the three of them stopped in front of his cage.
“Put her in with him,” said Ableson.
“Ah, we keep the younger ones separated from the older ones, especially the older males,” said Satcha.
The Almighty didn’t say a word, but his look was enough. The Servant muttered an apology and opened the door, shoving the young Guard into Mutter’s cage.
He glanced at the little Guard who stood as far away from him as possible. She couldn’t have been older than nine. She had russet hair and large, frightened, brown eyes.
“Hit her,” said Ableson, his tone conversational.
“Wait,” said Satcha. “That one’s young and attractive. I can find a home for her. Let me get—”
“I’ll pay for both.” The Almighty’s eyes never left Mutter.
Mutter kept his face a mask but his stomach clenched. He didn’t want to do this. He’d fought females before but they’d all been experienced fighters.
“I need an obedient Guard,” repeated Ableson.
The girl trembled in the corner, tears running down her soft, round cheeks. “Please, don’t hurt me.”