by J. R. Ward
The clearing arrived without preamble, the forest’s arboreal obstacles of trunk and bramble ending with sharp delineation, and for a moment Syn couldnae fathom where he had taken the chase—except then he recognized the landscape. ’Twas the start of his father’s verdant fields, the ones he rented out to the farmers for their horses, cattle, goats, and sheep to graze and take of the river water.
Up ahead, here was a post-and-beam construction, open on all sides, for the animals to find shelter under, and Syn headed there, hoping for some kind of protection from the attack. As he closed in, he noticed a stand of hay rakes propped up against one of the roof supports, and the strangest thing happened. His palms tingled and his body flushed in a manner not related to exertion or fear. Within his mind, he knew with abrupt clarity what he would do with the potential weapons and the precision of his plan shocked him—although not because of its violence. It was because the images held such certainty that it was as if the actions he would take had in fact already been taken.
Mayhap he could survive this.
Allowing his instincts to guide him, he gave himself up to a deadly purpose, relinquishing control to this unfamiliar underbelly of his consciousness. The effect of submission was otherworldly. Within his mind, he receded until he became separate from his body, an observer witnessing himself from off to the side rather than looking out from behind his own eyes.
It all flowed like water.
Adding speed to his spindly legs, he put some distance between him and his approaching sire, coming upon the meadowing tools with promptness. His small palms found the well-worn, sweat-stained handle of one of the rakes and he set the length vertically against his torso, keeping it out of sight as he waited for his sire to come unto him.
The hulking footfalls slowed as soon as Syn halted, and the breath was so heavy and pronounced, his father sounded as a charging bull.
Syn awaited the approach, the thunderous, earthquaking approach, and he began to breathe as did his sire. When he looked down at his hands gripping the rake’s pole, there was a red wash upon them, and he wondered when he had started bleeding—
No, it was not blood. It was his own eyes glowing as his father’s did.
But he couldnae wonder about this.
As his sire closed the final distance, Syn’s mind worried over when to swing, what angle was required, whether he would be able to lift the weight of the rake that was a feather to his father and a boulder to him. But his body knew the answers and had the power. Even as he wondered the when and how of it all, his arm and torso abruptly coordinated together.
The arc of the swing was too exact for him to believe. And he didn’t know who was more surprised, him or his sire. His father’s jowled face turned and regarded the clawed metal spikes coming at his head as if he didn’t recognize what they were.
Syn had little strength and the rake was heavy. However the teeth and tongs were unforgiving. Before his sire could raise an arm or duck, they scored deeply into his father’s ruddy, angry features, moving across his temple, his cheek, his nose. As the tool came out on the other side, blood flared and spooled in the air.
His father bellowed in pain, his filthy bear paw hands coming up to where he had been scratched so deeply. And then, on the far side, the rake was carried upon its own momentum, swooping down to the ground, landing like a bird of prey, talons gripping the earth as its perch.
Syn yanked against the handle. Pulled with what might he had. Threw his weight back against the abiding hold of the tool.
He looked at his father and froze.
His sire had straightened and dropped his hands. One of his eyes had been pierced and was hanging by some kind of threaded, bloody ligament, the orb upon his cheekbone, the vacated socket dark as a cave. His face was contorted in a mask of horror and vengeance, the mouth with the rotten teeth wide open, the fangs extended fully.
The rake came free from the earth, and as if of its own choosing, flipped in Syn’s grip, the tongs trading places with the blunt end of the handle.
Without thinking of what he was doing, Syn surged forward and thrust the wooden grip’s tip upward into the socket. He put all his strength into the penetration, and was horrified and relieved that the tool’s home was found as if it were an inevitability.
Another howl of pain rippled through the night, and his father blindly reached for Syn, paws swiping at the air, the sleeves of the filthy tunic whistling by Syn’s head and face. Relinquishing the hold upon the rake, Syn ducked between his sire’s legs. As he emerged through to the other side, he spun around, arched back, and caught himself upon the ground with his palms. Kicking upward with the soles of his feet, he punched his father’s backside.
The push was enough to send the weight that was already off-balance into a free fall, and his father landed face-first on the rake, the handle penetrating deeply into his skull, yanking his head to the side, popping out, popping free.
As his sire continued unto the ground as deadweight, Syn’s eyes went to the knife mounted upon his father’s wide leather belt. With the beast as yet stunned by the injury, Syn rushed forth and unsheathed the blade. The hilt was too thick for his palm, so he applied two hands unto the gripping. Raising the dagger over his head, he buried the sharp point in his father’s thick coating. He didn’t know whether it went in enough, however. His father, writhing in slow motion, seemed not to notice the fresh assault.
That was when Syn saw the rock. Flat. Broad. About the size of his chest.
It weighed almost too much for him. But fear and fury combined to strengthen him immeasurably. He waddled the stone over and brought it down upon the top of the hilt, once… twice… three times.
He hammered the knife in until its guard prevented any further progress.
Stumbling back, he fell upon the hard dirt patch created by a congregation of hooves around the shelter. He was breathing so hard his throat hurt and his eyes were blurry. When he went to clear them of whatever was upon them, he realized he was crying—
With a groan, his father rolled over and sat up, a ghost from a grave, except very real, and very capable of still doing damage. The injury to his eye was horrific and blood flowed freely, covering his features upon that side with a gloss that made Syn’s stomach lurch.
When it appeared as if his sire would stand up and fight anew, it was clear that he was drunk and did not feel the injuries sufficiently. Or mayhap the soul that animated him was just that hardy and evil.
Terror clutched at Syn’s heart and he jumped up to run—
* * *
Sometime later, much later, centuries later, Syn’s awareness returned unto him. Which was a strange thing as he was not aware of it having left.
Everything seemed quite blurry, so he rubbed his eyes—
A sting made him frown, and as he blinked… he realized he was sitting cross-legged upon the dirt patch in a puddle. Had it rained?
No. It was not water.
It was blood. He was sitting in a congealed puddle of blood.
Syn frowned. Lifting one of his hands, he found that it was covered with more of the same. Indeed, there was blood all upon him, staining his ragged clothes. Was he hurt? Had his father attacked him and—
“Dearest Virgin Scribe.”
Syn jumped and raised his eyes. The figure standing over him was one that his mind told him he should recognize. Yes, he should know who this is.
The pretrans male knelt down before him. “Please . . . give me the dagger.”
“What?”
“The dagger, Syn.”
“I dinnae have a dagger—”
“In your palm.”
It was as Syn lifted his hand to prove to this familiar stranger that he had naught within his grip that his sight informed him he was the one in the wrong. There was a dagger against his palm. How had he not noticed? And abruptly the identity of the pretrans came unto him. It was his cousin, Balthazar. He recognized the male’s face the now.
“The dagger, cousin.
Give it to me.”
Syn looked to the left and saw the first body part by the broken handle of the rake. The second was impaled on the rake’s tongs. The next was… over by the fence.
There were many more, and the largest, the torso, had been field dressed.
His father had been torn apart by someone. Who else had been… here?
“Syn, give me the blade. Now.”
His hand was unresisting as the weapon was removed from it. And then Syn looked into his cousin’s eyes as reality began to dawn, an ugly, unbelievable sunrise. “I think I did this, cousin.”
“Yes,” Balthazar said grimly. “You did.”
Syn stared at a severed hand that lay upon ground as a fallen soldier. “He was going to hurt her.”
“Hurt who?”
“It matters not.”
With focused effort, Syn managed to rise his tired bones from the pool of blood. As he weaved on his feet, he lurched toward the river, seeking out the cool, rushing waters. Wading into the current, he squatted down and cupped his hands, splashing his face over and over again. Then he drank of the stream, dousing the fire that ran down his throat and into his gut.
When he tried to stand up once more, he faltered and fell, catching himself upon slick rocks. Lifting his head, he found that his skull weighed as much as his entire body, and fast upon the heels of that reckoning came a wave of dizziness. Followed by a burst of heat that bore no relation to exertion.
“Balth… azar?”
His cousin hitched a hold under Syn’s arm and pulled him up and out of the water. “Oh, no, Syn…”
“What?”
Balthazar looked around frantically. “The change. You’re going through the change—”
“No, I’m not—”
“There is steam coming off your skin, you are boiling up.”
Syn looked in confusion at his arm, at his feet, at his ankles. Steam was in fact rising from his body, and he did feel a strange, certain heat. But…
All at once a vast incapacitation tackled him, sweeping his legs out from under him, taking him from the hold of his blooded kin. As he landed in a heap, the fire in his body trebled, and trebled again, and then his limbs began to hum.
“Dearest Virgin Scribe,” Balthazar groaned. “We need to get you shelter, and a blood source.”
“Nae,” Syn said through gritted teeth. “Leave me. It is well enough for me to go unto the Fade—”
As the bones in his legs strained, and his forearms felt like ropes being twisted, he lost the power of speech and laid his head down. Breathing shallowly, he recalled what he knew of the transition: Without the blood of a female, he was going to die, and he wondered how long it would take—
“I shall help him.”
At the sound of the words, Syn forced his eyes open. When he saw who it was, he shook his head. “No, no…”
It was the female, from the meadow. The one who had always been so good to him.
“Balthazar,” he said urgently. “Take her away, she mustnae see—”
The female walked forward. “I know what he did to protect me and my kin.” She kept her eyes down, as if she were deliberately not witnessing the damage he had wrought. “I know… and I would help him the now.”
Syn shook his head weakly. “No. No, I am unworthy…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Unworthy?” Jo asked as she pulled into a parking space in front of her apartment building. “Unworthy of what?”
As she spoke, Syn did not seem to hear her. He was sitting stock-still in that passenger seat, hands on his knees, eyes staring straight out the front windshield like he was watching a TV. He seemed totally calm. Or… maybe he was dead? He wasn’t blinking.
“Syn?”
Well, one thing was certain. She was not about to touch him as she shut the car off—
Slowly, his head turned to her, and his expression was vacant, as if he were in a trance. But then he cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Even though she didn’t know what exactly he was apologizing for or what precisely she was forgiving him of.
He nodded. Then contradicted himself. “No, it isn’t. None of it was.”
Jo glanced around him to the front of her apartment building. “Do you want to come in?”
Was it going to be yes, with a head shake? Or another no/nod combo? she wondered.
“Or should I take you home?” Wherever that was. “I can take you home.”
“I don’t want to go back there right now.”
Was he talking about where he was in his head? Or where he stayed?
Whatever the reply to that question might be, Jo didn’t want him to go. She wanted some answers. About what he thought he knew about her. About who he was and where he came from. About why the connection between them seemed so undeniable.
She eyed the thick thighs straining those leathers.
Okay, fine. She had a clue about that last one—
“Yes,” he said as he opened the door.
Wait, had she asked him anything? He must be talking about the invite into her place.
Jo got out as well and met him on the other side of her car. As they walked up the cement path together, she wondered how her digs compared to where he was living. Probably not well, given that he was bunking with his boss—or whatever a bodyguard called his employer. Meanwhile, the modest little apartment she’d moved into was housed in a building that was just four stories high and split in two, with units stacked on either side. The outside was cheap brick veneer, the inside common areas utilitarian, but clean. Her neighbors were grad students, medical residents, and a couple who were pregnant and moving out soon.
“I’m over here,” she said as they went through the second set of entry doors.
Her one-bedroom was right there on the left, and when he walked into it, he stopped dead as if he’d run out of gas on the highway. She turned on some lights.
“I don’t have much furniture.” She thought of her parents’ fancy mansion. “I don’t have much period, but everything in here is mine.”
She closed the door. And took her coat off because she had to do something.
“Can I offer you a drink?” she asked. “I have… well, four bottles of Sam Adams, and a bottle of cheap red wine that my coworker made me take home with me after I…”
“I don’t drink,” he mumbled.
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Well, she certainly was going to after the last couple of days. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll just help myself to a beer.”
Syn turned to her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m glad you are. No offense, but you don’t look well.”
Glancing down at himself, he lifted his arms as if he expected something unsavory to be dripping off of them. “I really do want to take a shower.”
Jo’s heartbeat quickened as she pointed to an open doorway. “It’s right in there. Fresh towels are hanging on the rods because I did laundry when I couldn’t sleep early this morning.”
“You should have called me if you couldn’t sleep.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
“You didn’t write down my number, did you.”
Leaving that one alone, Jo motioned at the bathroom. “Hot water is through there. Then we can talk.”
There was a pause. And then Syn nodded and went where she told him to go. As he passed by, his sheer size was unbelievable. Out in more wide open spaces—like the back alleys of Caldwell’s downtown or the parking lot at the CCJ—his height and weight didn’t seem as big a deal. But in here? In her little seven-hundred-square-foot crash pad? It was like someone had driven an eighteen-wheeler indoors.
As he closed the bathroom door behind himself, she wondered if he showered with his weapons on—and then promptly got a mental picture of a whole naked accessorized by Smith & Wesson.
And jeez, that really shouldn’t be as hot as she imagined it to be.
When the water started to run, she
rubbed her aching head and thought about the empty pit of her stomach to avoid any more hypotheticals involving Syn’s birthday suit: She was still hungry. Then again, she’d eaten less than half of her meal at the bar, and she knew she had to do something to make up those ten pounds—fourteen, actually—she’d recently lost.
Pizza was always good, right?
Determined to be a proper hostess—thank you, Mrs. Early—Jo went over and knocked on the bathroom door. “Hey. I know it might be overkill, but I’m going to order some Italian food. Would you like any?”
The last thing she expected was for him to open things up.
And yeah, wow, Syn had apparently turned the water temperature up to Scorched Earth, and given that the hot water heater was right next to the shower stall in the closet, it took no time for things to get toasty. Accordingly, a great swirl of humid air wafted around behind him, setting him off like he was a mystery centuries old—but that wasn’t the half of it. He’d taken off his jacket—and also whatever arsenal he wore under it—and then removed the skintight Under Armor shirt he seemed always to wear.
So his pecs were on full display. His abs, too.
As well as the pair of wing-shaped hip bones that flew above the waistband of his leathers.
“Whatever you want is fine with me.”
Or at least, that’s what she thought he said. It kind of sounded like “Lwibekew ksb icbe ls owbd bakd ow.” Because, hello, her hearing had gone on the fritz.
Oh, and if those were the words he’d spoken? Well, then she had a few things she’d like to order, none of which were going to be helpful in this situation, and all of which had him taking his leathers and whatever underwear he had on down to the floor.
Commando? she wondered. Dear. God.
“I was thinking pizza.” Liar, liar, drop those pants on the fire—that was not even close to what she was thinking about. “What do you like on it?”
And P.S., she now had a pretty damn good idea of how men felt when a woman wore a low-cut blouse. It was taking nearly an act of Congress to keep her stare at his collarbones.