by M. D. Massey
Carver considered his subordinate’s words, tapping his chin. “I agree with you about how to dispose of him. But you’re wrong about McCool not having anything we want. That Bag of his is supposed to be full of all kinds of magical artifacts. I’m sure you all remember how we made out when we killed that striga last year.”
A slight man with stringy blonde hair and a wispy beard nodded. “Damned straight. I ate good for six months after we sold all her shit—paid off my truck and the double-wide both. Hell, I say we kill him and crack that thing open to see what the fuck he’s got.” The man belched loudly when he finished—whether for emphasis or on general principle, I wasn’t certain.
Carver stroked his beard. “Eloquently said as always, Dicky. Thing is, we can’t kill him until he tells us how to get inside that Bag. Ain’t that right, McCool?”
He pulled his leg back and soccer kicked me in the gut. My body involuntarily doubled over, choking me when the spasms in my gut stretched the rope taut around my neck. After I stopped convulsing and strangling myself, I stared up at him with all the hatred I could muster.
I am so going to fuck this guy up, I thought. Just as soon as I figure out how to free myself and overpower eight trained hunters. No pressure, McCool. No fucking pressure.
13
A few hours later, I was hanging from a rafter in Carver’s garage, wrists bound tight and tossed over a hook and hoist chain overhead. I was shirtless, bleeding from a dozen cuts, and missing several fingernails. I’d been burned multiple times, had battery acid poured in my wounds, and I’d had red hot needles stuck deep into my muscles. Without a doubt, Carver sure knew his business when it came to torture.
On the bright side, he hadn’t started in on my teeth yet, so that was something.
He pulled a round metal tub across the floor, lifting my feet to place them inside. I tried dropkicking him in the chest, but I was too exhausted from holding myself up to even lift my legs. Most people don’t know that when you hang someone by their arms, hanging there is just as much torture as the torture itself. Your own weight pulls your shoulders up, making it difficult to breathe once your muscles fatigue, and pretty soon it’s all you can do to take a breath. I was way past that point, which was why I was finding it so hard to fight back.
Carver brought a hose in from outside, leaving one end in the tub. He walked back outside, and soon the tub filled with water. A few minutes later, the water shut off and Carver returned.
“I can’t understand why you’re fighting me so hard on this, McCool. You’re going to die, one way or another. Why not just make it easy on yourself, and tell me how to get in that fucking Bag?”
I laughed softly, which turned into a coughing fit, causing my head to bounce off my chest. “What makes you think you can get in it? Hell, what makes you think you want to? I swear, Carver, you’re mean as a sunburned rattlesnake, but you’re not near as smart as you think.”
My Craneskin Bag sat on a chair nearby, where Carver had flung it after turning it inside out and searching it for hidden pockets and who knew what else. Of course, to him it just appeared to be an old, worn, empty leather satchel. The Bag only worked for the descendants of Fionn MacCumhaill, so no matter how much Carver searched it, there was no way it would reveal its secrets to him.
“I know there has to be some trick to making the Bag work,” he said as he attached a set of jumper cables to a car battery. He clacked the ends together, making them crackle as sparks jumped from the metal. “All you have to do is tell me, and I’ll make it all stop.”
I considered my options and determined I didn’t have any. I hadn’t tried to shift in order to escape, mostly because I couldn’t trust my other self at the moment. Sure, I might change and kill Carver and his whole crew, but what if I couldn’t control it again? Everyone in a ten-mile radius of this place would be in danger. I’d rather die than risk it.
But eventually Carver was going to make me hulk out, and then I’d kill him and who knew how many others. Chances were I might not come back to myself if I transformed involuntarily—not with the way my Hyde-side had been taking over lately.
Or, Carver might actually kill me. As messed up as that was, I thought it possible. The Eye had done something to me after I’d killed Kulkulcan’s avatar, so it stood to reason that I might not be able to shift at all. Despite all the torture I’d endured, I hadn’t noticed a single sign to indicate my Hyde-side was trying to come out. I speculated that what the Eye had done might have cut me off from my ability to shift. And if that was the case, if Carver decided to cap me it’d be permanent.
So, I figured I may as well try to get something out of him before that happened. Either way, I wasn’t going to get another shot at him. It was now or never.
“Tell you what, Carver. I’ll make you a deal.”
He placed both jumper cable clamps in one hand, crossing his arms while carefully avoiding shocking himself. “Alright, I’m listening.”
“I just want to know why you did it. If I’m going to die, then I at least want to know what the hell I died for. So, you answer my questions, and I’ll tell you how to activate the Bag. Deal?”
He considered for several seconds, but I knew I had him. “Deal. Ask away.”
“Why kill all those fae? Were they hits, or did you just do it for fun? Clue me in here, because it just doesn’t add up.”
Carver responded with a genuine laugh. “Oh, shit—you think we killed all those fae? Seriously?”
I coughed and spat out a wad of bloody phlegm. “Just a working theory, but yes, that’s what I thought.”
He chuckled. “I admit I would’ve enjoyed it, and that’s a fact. But no, we weren’t the ones who took all those fae out, and we didn’t cut your brake lines either. We had nothing to do with any of that shit, except the ogre—that was our work.”
I kept an eye on him, doing my damnedest to detect any falsehood in what he was saying. As far as I could tell, he was telling the truth. Damn.
“Alright, then if you didn’t do it, who did?”
Carver shook his head. “Hell if I know, and even if I did I wouldn’t tell you. Someone contacted us through the usual channels, and they hired us to kill the ogre. They paid us in gold by dead drop after the work was done. We never saw their faces or spoke to anyone—everything was arranged via chat through a secure connection.”
I hung my head. “Damn it. All this and I’m no closer to finding who’s behind everything.”
Carver scratched his balls. “Sorry to disappoint you, McCool, but that’s the truth. Now, are you going to tell me how to get in that Bag?”
I glanced over at the chair, which was now conspicuously absent my Craneskin Bag. This was no shock to me, since I’d watched it disappear just a few moments before. The Bag had a mind of its own. Either it had decided to make itself scarce out of some vague sense of self-preservation, or Click was nearby and he’d snagged it. I thought the former more likely than the latter, but one could hope.
I gave Carver a smart-assed grin. “Yeah, about that…”
Carver beat me mercilessly after I told him the Bag was gone, convinced that I’d somehow double-crossed him. Now, I was being dragged by Bubba and Dicky through the woods behind their compound as daylight faded into dusk. Each man held a shovel in one hand as they pulled me by my ankles with the other. At least I knew I’d have a brief respite while they dug the hole.
When they’d dragged me away, Carver had been questioning the remainder of his crew, trying to figure out whether one of them had snagged the Bag. I’d told him I hadn’t seen what had happened to it, that it was there one moment and gone the next. Which was sort of true, although I’d actually seen it vanish. I hadn’t needed to lie much to plant a seed of doubt in Carver’s mind, which showed how little these low-lives trusted one another.
Bubba and Dicky discussed the situation back at the compound while they hauled me to my intended eternal resting place. “Bubba, did you take that bag? Be honest now, I won’t snitch
. I just want my share. Heck, we can even start our own crew and get the hell out from under Carver’s thumb.”
Bubba scowled. “Dicky, I didn’t steal no damn bag—and even if I did I wouldn’t tell you. You think I’m stupid? First thing you’d do is go run back to Carver and rat me out.”
Dicky stood a little straighter as he replied. “I sure in the hell wouldn’t. Uh-uh, no sir. Dicky Schumacher ain’t no snitch.”
“How many times I gotta tell you not to speak of yourself in the third person? It makes you sound like an asshole.”
Dicky visibly shrank at Bubba’s criticism. “That’s harsh, man. Why you gotta be such a dick all the time?”
Bubba ignored his protests. “And what the hell kinda name is Schumacher, anyway? Sounds Jewish or sumthin’.”
“It’s German, asshole. And I ain’t no Jew. My grandpa was with the Luftwaffe in World War II.”
“What the fuck is a lift-waffle? I think you’re just talking out your ass.”
Dicky looked like he was about to blow a gasket, but apparently he thought better of picking a fight with the much larger man. “Never you mind. Anyway, we’re here. So, how you wanna do this? Do we kill him now, or later?”
Bubba scratched his ass through his pants. “Supposed to bury him alive. Carver was pissed about that bag going missing, so I guess he wants this asshole to suffer. Sounds cruel to me—if he’s a shifter it’ll take him days to die. But I ain’t the one in charge.”
“I could give a shit one way or the other.” Dicky looked around the proposed grave site. “Let’s talk division of labor—do we take turns digging, or what?”
“Division of what? What kind of commie bullshit talk is that?” Bubba farted, waving his hand behind his ass. “Oh man, that Mexican food is coming back to haunt me. Naw, if we take turns we’ll be out here all night. You dig one end and I’ll dig the other. Carver said he wanted him buried deep, but I think three feet oughta do it.”
“Sounds good to me—oh holy shit, Bubba. That is fucking foul.”
Bubba had a good laugh, then the two of them got to work digging my grave.
Well, Colin, you fucked up this time, I thought. Now, how in the hell are you going to get out of this mess?
Out of desperation I’d tried a partial shift, just enough to break my bonds. It wasn’t working, which added credence to my theory that the Eye had blocked my ability to shift somehow. And my Hyde-side sure in the hell wasn’t coming out on its own, else it would have done so while Carver was working me over. I couldn’t work magic, not with my hands bound closed and my mouth taped shut. I was more or less completely screwed.
Or am I? I thought back to the lessons Finnegas had been teaching me lately, about tuning into nature with druidry. I wondered, if I could amplify the raw forces of nature to work magic, shouldn’t I be able to tap into it in other ways?
I had no idea what I was going to do, but right now it appeared that was my only option. I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing, settling into a trance just as Finnegas had shown me.
It took a while to get in the right state, simply because I had to block out the pain from the hundred or so injuries Carver had inflicted on me. Yet minutes later, I began to sense the energy of the earth and air around me.
Now, what is here that I can use to free myself?
The challenge I faced was that I needed the use of my hands to work druidry. So, creating a fireball out of a pinecone or sending a gust of wind to knock a tree over on Dicky and Bubba was completely out of the question. That meant I needed to use what I’d learned in an entirely new way.
All I have to do is improvise a little magic to save myself from a horrible and premature death. No pressure.
Out of options, I did the only thing I could do, which was to sink deeper into the trance than I’d ever gone. Time slipped away, and moments or minutes later I began to sense more than the elements around me. It was like I became a part of the area’s ecosystem. I felt the pine trees swaying in the wind, the smaller yaupon and farkleberry trees reaching for the last few rays of sun, and even the moss growing on a rocky outcrop nearby.
Then, another presence became known to me—countless presences, in fact. Like little fireflies lighting up the vast empty reaches of my consciousness, I suddenly became aware of dozens upon dozens of forest creatures, including birds, rabbits, squirrels, moles, raccoons, and even a fox and a pair of skunks. It was amazing and somewhat overwhelming, because I’d never felt that in touch with nature.
The question was, could I use it to my advantage?
I considered how druid magic worked, by amplifying the forces that were already present in nature. I wondered, what if I amplified the natural instincts and urges of the animals around me? Could I even touch the mind of an animal, or was that something that was beyond the skills of an apprentice druid?
No time like the present to find out, I thought. I searched my mind to locate the closest animal, then I tuned into its presence.
It was a grey squirrel, a species quite common to the area, and it was jumping around from tree to tree looking for food to eat and store away. At first all I got was static, but as I focused in on the creature I began to sense its thoughts.
Jump. Look. Noise. Freeze. Wait. Run. Food. Eat. The squirrel thought in simple directives, like a little ADHD nut-finding machine. Finally, I’d discovered something I could use to my advantage.
I concentrated on sending a specific message to the squirrel—specifically, where it could find the biggest, juiciest acorn it had ever seen. This incredibly large acorn was located inside a human’s hands, where he lay at the foot of the squirrel’s tree. Sure, there were other humans around, but this one was asleep and quite harmless. If the squirrel was careful, he could get the acorn and be gone before anyone noticed him.
Once I’d planted the idea in the little squirrel’s mind, I gently withdrew and waited to see what would happen. At first, the squirrel just sat there on his branch, and I worried that I’d failed. Then, he began to crawl down the other side of the trunk, out of sight.
Come on, little guy. You can do this.
The squirrel reached the ground and poked his head around the tree trunk. Bubba and Dicky were still arguing about how deep the grave needed to be, but they had their backs turned. The squirrel thought he was safe. He scrambled across the forest floor, right up to my tightly bound hands.
For a moment, I worried that the squirrel would chew through my fingers to get to its expected prize, but my concerns were unfounded. The little tree rodent was incredibly efficient, gnawing through the thin rope my captors had used to bind my hands in record time. Soon, the little guy had freed my hands. Although my fingers had fallen numb from being tightly bound, at least I was closer to freedom.
I wriggled out of the remaining ropes that secured my hands and wrists, sending the squirrel scurrying as I slipped free. I opened and closed my hands to get the circulation back, waiting several painful minutes as a small measure of sensation returned to my fingers. Then I reached into my waistband, pulling loose a tiny razor blade that I kept as back up for just such an occasion.
I fumbled it once or twice, nearly letting it slip through my numb fingers, but eventually I managed to cut my ankles free and loosen the tape over my mouth as well. The tricky part was making sure I kept my movements hidden from Bubba and Dicky—but the two hunters were deep in a discussion about the relative merits and drawbacks of truck stop Viagra. For the moment I was safe, but I still had to decide how I was going to make my escape.
On any other day, I could have easily taken those two bozos out barehanded without breaking a sweat. But right now, I was in no shape to take on two hunters empty-handed. Carver had worked me over good, and between the blood loss, concussion, and trauma, I put my chances at sixty-forty against me walking away from a fistfight with Dicky and Bubba. Besides, they were armed with knives and pistols, so unless I took them out quickly I’d be toast.
I racked my brain for a plan, then heard
a soft plunk nearby. I turned my head, and the most welcome sight ever greeted me. My Craneskin Bag was sitting on the ground next to me, flap open like it had been waiting for me there all along. I reached inside for the one weapon I knew to be within easy reach—the flaming sword I’d found in its depths when I’d been trapped underground in Maeve’s portal chamber.
I pulled the Bag under and behind me, keeping my arm hidden inside with my hand firmly wrapped around the sword’s hilt. Then, I waited for Bubba and Dicky to finish the grim work of digging my grave. It had grown dark and the two men had been working by flashlight, so I hoped they wouldn’t notice I’d cut my bonds until it was too late.
Finally, the two hunters climbed out of the hole they’d dug. Dicky wiped his hands on his pants before picking up the flashlight. “Well, Bubba, let’s get this over with so we can go have a beer.”
Bubba sat on a log facing away from me. He stuffed a huge wad of snuff between his cheek and gum, chewing for a moment before spitting a stream of juice out the side of his mouth. “Aw hell, Dicky, you toss him in. I’m too damned tired to do it.”
“Alright, but you owe me.” Dicky walked over to me, not even looking to see if I was still securely bound. He grabbed an ankle to drag me over to the hole, and as he did the ropes I’d cut fell away in his hand. “What the fuck—?”
Dicky never had time to finish his question. I stabbed upward, piercing his throat from the front and bisecting his spinal cord as the sword’s tip exited the back of his neck.
“What’d you say?” Bubba asked from where he sat on the log. “Dicky, quit fucking around and toss him in the hole so we can finish this shit and get back to the house.”
I kicked Dicky’s body off the tip of my blade, causing him to land across the log next to Bubba. “Dicky’s taking a break,” I said as I pulled the sword back over my shoulder. “Maybe you should join him.”