Bad Blood

by Ren Hamilton

  “Give it to me, Obrien. I know you want to live, so just stop fucking around. You’re no hero. You’re a born follower, and you’re weak. So give me the detonator and maybe I’ll let you live.”

  “Kiss my ass!” Patrick pressed the only button his thumb could find on the device he held. He was only half sure it would actually do anything, but the explosion knocked them all off their feet as the hub of the guesthouse and fleet of Arcania trucks shared a simultaneous explosion.

  Oh, fuck.

  There were minutes of panicked confusion, then the smoke and dust began to clear. Tiny flakes of ash fell from the sky like a delicate black snow flurry.

  Shep got up first, still clinging to the gun, and gaped at the flames that engulfed the guesthouse and the white box trucks. The roof of the guesthouse was already starting to give way under the heat.

  Klee began to cry, high, squeaky sobs. “Zirub!” He ran to Shep, stumbling as Shep caught his arm. “Zirub, the crops are burning! What are we to do? Why is everything go wrong? What—”

  Shep punched Klee hard in the face.

  Klee dropped to the ground, unconscious. The other brothers looked at Shep with disbelief. “Relax, my brothers,” Shep said. “Klee doesn’t need to see any more of this. He’s too new, he can’t handle it. Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.” Shep turned the gun on Patrick. “But you won’t.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re going to kill me now,” Patrick said. He marveled at how numb he’d become. It was most likely trauma overload.

  “That’s right, Obrien. You’ve just ruined fifteen years of planning, you dumb fuck! You were a mistake from the beginning. Now you’re going to die.”

  “So kill me already!” Patrick said. “Please, just shut up and kill me. I am so tired of listening to your bullshit, Shep. I’ve been listening to your crap for ten years. Please, spare me from having to hear another word!”

  “Patrick.” Litner gave him a warning look from where he sat on the ground. Juris had a gun pressed against Litner’s temple.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Shep said through clenched teeth. “You’ve got your wish. You won’t have to listen to me anymore, Obrien. Ever.” Shep sounded serious enough but there was hesitation in his eyes. A gust of heat blew through the air from the direction of the burning guesthouse. They were all sweating now.

  “What are you waiting for then? Come on Shep! I mean nothing to you! I’m just the Shield, remember? You can make another one. I’m nothing. You don’t care about me. So shoot me! What are you waiting for?” Patrick’s voice had elevated to a hysterical scream.

  Margol looked over at the wall of flames that engulfed the guesthouse, then back at Shep. “Shepherd!” he said. “What are you waiting for? Kill him already!”

  “Oh, I will, Margol,” Shep said. “I will.” But he didn’t. He just stood there, his face a tortured mask of indecision.

  “I’ll do it then.” Margol pointed his own gun at Patrick. Shep spun and pointed his weapon at Margol. Margol froze, looking shocked and hurt. “Zirub?”

  “No, Margol,” Shep said. “Put it down.”

  Margol lowered his weapon.

  Shep gathered himself and turned his gun on Patrick again. “It has to be me. I have to be the one to kill Obrien. No one else.”

  “Yes, Dr. Frankenstein,” Patrick said. “You created me, so you must destroy me, right?”

  “Oh, I’m going to destroy you.”

  “You keep saying that. Pull the trigger!” Patrick screamed. He paused, panting as he waited for death to come.

  Everything around him seemed to go still. Litner looked up from where he sat on the ground, gun to his head. Margol gaped at Shep with a combination of surprise and disappointment. Allisto watched patiently. Klee rested on the ground like a sleeping child.

  Shep’s face twisted in frustration, and Patrick saw the conflict behind his green eyes. It was surprising. He hadn’t really expected Shep to have much trouble killing him. He certainly didn’t have any trouble killing anyone else.

  “Do it!” Margol urged. “Get rid of him.”

  Shep nodded and took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll do it. Here we go.”

  “Put the gun down, Zirub!” a voice called out from the darkness.

  All eyes turned to the right, where a thin young man with short, pale blond hair was walking toward them, seemingly out of the flames. As he got closer, his features became clear.

  Wesley! Patrick could hardly believe his eyes.

  Shep’s lips parted in surprise as he watched the handsome, youthful blond approach. Even in the dim firelight, Patrick could see the color drain from Shep’s face. Wesley stopped when he reached them, and stood alongside Patrick, directly in front of Shep.

  “You,” Shep hissed, and that one word held more hatred than Patrick had ever heard.

  “Still won’t say my name, huh Zirub?” Wesley said sadly.

  “What are you doing here? This does not concern you! Go back to your mountain home or I promise you there will be hell to pay!”

  Each of Shep’s words he spat out like hot flames. Even Patrick and Robin’s betrayal did not elicit this much anger. He trembled with it, a rage so intense his lips curled back from his teeth, eyes blazed gold and brimmed with hot tears as he glared at Wesley.

  “Oh, Zirub,” Wesley said, his voice a soft quiver. “There already has been hell to pay. Still trying to take over the world I see. You’d think you’d get the point by now. It’s not going to happen.”

  “You know nothing about this!” Tears slipped down Shep’s cheeks. “I don’t need you this time! I’ve formed a new plan and it doesn’t concern you. How dare you come to me like this? How dare you show your face here?”

  Wesley was an odd sight amongst this crowd of sweaty, soot covered men, a contrast in his clean yellow polo shirt and khaki shorts. He looked over at the burning guesthouse and trucks. He glanced at Rourke’s dead body, then back at Shep. “Oh yes, Zirub,” he said. “I can see that your plan is working out far better this time. Things have gone off without a hitch, have they? Drop the gun, and let Patrick go.”

  Shep turned and stared at Patrick, his mouth agape. “How does he know your name?” Patrick felt a little rush of the hate in Shep’s eyes. It was scalding. He didn’t dare answer. Shep turned to Wesley and screamed, “How the fuck do you know his name?”

  “Patrick is an acquaintance of mine,” Wesley said.

  Patrick winced and blinked slowly. This was going to be bad.

  Shep shook his head frantically. “No! No! Liar. You cannot possibly know him. Patrick is my Shield! He’s mine!”

  “Yes,” Wesley said, “And I can see that you’re looking out for his well-being, just as you did with Rollie.”

  Shep bared teeth at Wesley and uttered what sounded like a tiger’s growl deep in his throat. It scared Patrick more than the gun. Wesley jumped a little, but stood his ground. He was shaking, clearly terrified, but he stiffened his jaw and met Shep’s gaze. “I am so tired of being afraid of you.”

  Shep’s eyes gleamed yellow. “How dare you bring up Rollie? That wasn’t my fault. Rollie was weak. He made a terrible Shield. I’ve created a better one. Patrick is far stronger and more effective than Rollie ever was!”

  “Really?” Wesley said. “Then why are you about to put a bullet in him?”

  Shep glanced at Patrick. He looked back at Wesley. Then he closed his eyes, slapping his palm to his forehead repeatedly. “Shut up!” he screamed. “Shut up, shut up, shut up! I can’t think!”

  “Let this end, Zirub. This is twice your plan has been foiled. Can’t you read the signs? Your plan is not meant to be!”

  Shep pointed the gun at Wesley’s face. “You are not meant to be. You do not exist.”

  Wesley swallowed hard and took a daring step toward Shep. “You can pretend I don’t exist all you want. I even tried to pretend I didn’t exist. For forty years I’ve hidden myself away from the world, and before that, I lived only for you.” His breath shivered, a
nd he hiccupped a half-sob. “Only for you, Zirub. I’m sixty-two years old and I haven’t even lived yet. I want my freedom. I want to be free of you, and free of my fear.”

  “No!” Shep said. “You will never be free. You tried to push me back into the void!”

  “Because you murdered my aunt!”

  “I don’t care! You tried to push me back into the nothingness! And as punishment you will live with nothing. You will live as nothing until you die. You have two choices. Kill yourself, or go back to your mountain home and live as I instructed you to live!”

  Wesley’s eyes leaked tears now. He shook his head. “I’m leaving that house, Zirub. And I’m leaving this property. But I’m taking Patrick with me.”

  Shep pointed the gun at Patrick again. “You can take him, but you won’t take him alive.” Shep’s arm trembled as he tried to steady the weapon.

  Patrick held his breath and waited for death to come. But again, there was only the stillness of anticipation.

  Finally, Shep grunted angrily and lowered the gun. “Damn it!” he screamed. “It seems I can’t kill you, Obrien.”

  He said the words with disappointment. He looked confused, like he couldn’t comprehend his own failure to kill Patrick. Patrick didn’t know quite what to say to Shep’s announcement that he could not murder him in cold blood. He didn’t think ‘thanks’ would be appropriate.

  He was shocked out of his pondering when Shep suddenly turned the gun on Wesley. “But YOU! You I can kill…Wesley Jackson Shepherd.”

  Patrick had a microsecond to think, Hey, he finally said his name! Then Shep pulled the trigger. In that instant before he was absolutely sure that Shep was going to do it, Patrick made a decision. It was not a decision born of blood or bonding rituals. It was a decision made of his own free will.

  Patrick dove in front of Wesley and caught the bullet in his side, just below his chest. He actually felt one of his ribs shatter, then the side of his body exploded with the worst pain he’d ever felt. As he fell to the ground, his only thought was, this hurts a lot more than it looks like in the movies.

  Someone was screaming, and it took him a moment to realize that it was Shep. He was vaguely aware of Litner shouting, trying to get to Patrick. Wesley knelt down and grabbed Patrick’s shoulders. “Patrick! Patrick can you hear me?”

  Patrick nodded.

  Wesley looked at him through glassy tears. “Why did you do that? Why, Patrick? You are not my Shield. You’re not bound to me.”

  Patrick winced, overwhelmed with pain. “Wanted to,” he squeaked out. “You haven’t lived yet. You said it yourself. You can’t die here. Not like this.”

  “Neither can you! I’m going to get you help.” Wesley lifted his hands from Patrick’s body, and they were covered with blood. Patrick dared a glance down and saw the thick dark blood seeping out of his rib area. Then a hand came in and shoved Wesley roughly aside. It was Shep.

  “Get away from him!” Shep hissed. Wesley tumbled over in surprise. “Obrien, you dumb fuck! What the hell were you thinking?” Shep opened Patrick’s jacket and lifted his tee shirt up, examining the wound.

  Margol came forward. “What are you doing, Shepherd? Just let him die! He betrayed us!”

  Without looking up, Shep said, “Get away from me Margol, or I’m going to get angry.”

  Margol retreated. Shep examined Patrick’s wound, his brows knitted in confusion. “This isn’t right. You’re supposed to be healing.” He pushed his hands down on the wound and Patrick winced. “It doesn’t make sense. Heal damn it!” he yelled. “Heal!”

  “What do you mean he’s supposed to be healing?” Wesley asked.

  Shep gave Wesley a dirty look, but then he answered. “There was an attachment I added to his blood bond with Joey. I gave him extraordinary healing power when I made him The Shield, so he could take hits for Joey and still live. The bleeding should have stopped by now.”

  Patrick remembered now that Robin had administered the blood to Joey. Aunt Betsy’s formula to return his conscience and sever his bonds. It seemed to have succeeded.

  “Not the Shield,” Patrick said, his voice laced with pain.

  “What did you say?” Shep asked.

  “I’m not the Shield anymore. Bond has been broken.”

  “What?” Shep leaned in close to Patrick, running his hands over his body without touching him. He pulled abruptly back and stared with shock. “How the hell did you manage that, you shady fucker? Shit!” Shep turned around and looked at Agent Litner. “Hey, Agent Fuckhead, get over here.”

  Agent Litner looked up at Juris, who waved him on. Litner scurried over to where Patrick lay. “I need to get him to a hospital.”

  “I know,” Shep said. “But if we don’t do something first, he’ll bleed to death on the way there.”

  Litner gave Shep a wary look. “What are you suggesting?”

  Shep used the bottom of his tank top to wipe the blood away from Patrick’s wound. “Call it a Band-Aid.”

  “A Band-Aid?”

  “Give me your hand,” Shep said.

  Litner shook his head. “No.”

  “He’s going to die, Agent Litner.”

  Patrick laughed, delirious with pain and blood loss. “You were wrong, Shep. You don’t control everything.”

  “Obrien, shut the fuck up so I can save your life.” Shep looked at Litner. “Do you care about him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you care about Patrick?”

  “Yes. Very much.”

  “Then give me your goddamned hand, you mindless fuck!”

  Litner offered his hand to Shep, palm up. He met Patrick’s eyes. “Is he always this charming?”

  Patrick winced. “Pretty much.”

  Shep asked Allisto to bring him a blade, then made a slice in Agent Litner’s hand. He led it over Patrick’s wound, letting the blood drip. He released Litner, then made a cut in his own hand, and went to do the same.

  Litner grabbed Shep’s wrist. “No. Not your blood.”

  “I can stop the bleeding for at least an hour this way,” Shep said.

  Reluctantly, Litner let go of Shep’s wrist. Shep dribbled some of his own blood over Patrick’s wound, and closed his eyes. He whispered. “Uhl jetra plefarr, uhl jetra ongs.” Shep repeated the phrase several times, smearing the blood across the wound, mingling it with Patrick’s. Then he took a deep breath and pulled his hands back.

  Litner’s eyes widened as he examined Patrick’s wound. “The bleeding has stopped. That’s amazing.”

  Shep stood and wiped his bloody hands on his jeans. “Yeah, well it won’t be so amazing in an hour. He’ll start to bleed again, just like before, so you’d better get him to a hospital. You can take my car.”

  Litner frowned. “Your car? Why?”

  “Because I will be taking your government issue trucks over there, Steven. You know, the ones that are filled with what’s left of my crop?”

  Litner’s expression tightened, and he looked crestfallen.

  Shep laughed. “Oh, I see. You thought I didn’t know about them. My goodness Agent Litner, you continue to underestimate me.”

  “Yes, I do,” Litner said.

  The flames engulfing the guesthouse had all but died down, but suddenly they shot upward as though doused with a giant canister of lighter fluid. All eyes turned to look. The flames died back down gradually, and everyone looked away, until one of the restrained agents screamed through his gag.

  Patrick was able to sit up with Wesley’s help, and he looked over at the cluster of agents who sat tied together a few yards away.

  “Uhhnk!” One of them was trying to yell through the gag. “Uhhnk! Uhhnk!” The gagged agent was motioning his head toward the flaming guesthouse. Everyone turned and looked.

  Patrick sucked his breath in so hard his gunshot wound stung with fresh pain. In the center of the wall of flame was an egg-shaped glow where the color had gone pure white. And in that white circle was a figure. Patrick blin
ked at the apparition several times, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

  It was huge, the size of four men. It did seem to have legs and human hands, but that’s where the human ended. It had four heads, one on top of the other. Two of them looked vaguely human, but the other two were beast-like. One of the bestial heads resembled a lion, the other some sort of bird. It had four large wings, two on either side of its torso, and each wing was covered with eyes. The eyes turned together in whatever direction the heads did. It glowed with soft white flame that seemed to pulse and move through its form.

  “What in the name of hell is that thing?” Patrick asked softly.

  “Impossible,” Wesley said. “It can’t be.” His blue eyes gazed at the freakish vision. “Cherubim!”

  “Cherubim?” Patrick said. “I thought cherubs were fat little toddler-looking things with butterfly wings.”

  Wesley shook his head. “Common misconception, skewed interpretations of popular artists. That thing right there is what a cherubim is really supposed to look like. Four heads, human hands, four wings with eyes on them.”

  “Well, shit!” Patrick said. “That’s a pretty big misconception!”

  “Who’s doing that?” Litner asked, looking back toward the house as though expecting to see someone projecting the apparition from elsewhere. “It’s another hoax, right? Is Russell doing it?”

  Patrick shook his head. “Russell isn’t here. I fear that’s no hoax.”

  The thing hung there, translucent yet solid, like a watery photograph within the flames. Patrick looked up at Shep, and the fear in his expression told him this was very, very real.

  Juris’s lip quivered. “This is my fault? Because I brought the Schlarr when I was captive?”

  “I don’t know,” Shep said. “A Schlarr is one thing. But they’ve never interfered before.”

  Patrick tugged on Wesley’s arm. “Do you know why it’s here?”

  “No.” Wesley crouched down and leaned in close, keeping his voice low. “Cherubim are very high up. Supposedly, they carry the light of the creator within them. They never visit the material world. This is highly unusual.”