He had never really been in a fight before (Not that what the Krueger’s had done had really been a fight) and the pain was more than he was prepared for. Getting to his feet, he fought the tears that wanted to come and slowly made his way home. As he walked, it began to sprinkle. The rain seemed to mock him as he walked, making him want to lash out at someone. Anyone.
The whole way home, Brandon was terrified that his attackers would return and hurt him more. He cried harder. He stayed in the shadows as much as he could and fought the urge to run. He didn’t think he could run, even if he wanted to.
The house was dark when he got home, except for the entry hall light. He eased through the front door and was about to head upstairs when he heard a noise from the kitchen. From out back. He moved through the dark, careful not to bump anything, and found himself staring out of the sliding glass doors, into the back yard. There was light, soft and flickering, coming from somewhere beyond the deck.
Brandon slid open the glass doors, leaving them open behind him, and crept forward. Unsure of what he was about to see.
The back yard was shrouded in blackness, except for the circle of candlelight. The circle of stones that he noticed that first day. Candles were placed in the holes drilled into the tops of the stones and lit, the flickering light enough to illuminate the inside of the circle and nothing else. Gerrick sat, cross-legged, in the center of the circle. His head was bowed and the gleaming length of a sword rested on his knees. It wasn’t the Phoenix. Brandon didn’t know why he should feel relief at that, but he did. The candlelight flickered along the length of the blade, drawing Brandon’s eye. The blade looked like it was on fire.
As if reacting to some signal that Brandon could not hear, Gerrick sprang to life. Flowing up from his sitting position into a stance, he began to dance within the circle. Dance was the only word that fit in Brandon’s mind.
Sweeping the blade around him, coming up on the ball of his foot, Gerrick began going through different movements, flowing into them like water. Not stopping to breath or even look at his surroundings. The sword left flickering tracers in its wake as it moved, flashing from right to left, front to back.
It was indeed a dance, this strange performance that his uncle was giving. The blade whirled and slashed, nearly too fast to follow. It made Brandon’s head hurt to watch, but he kept watching, anyway. It was as if he was hypnotized. He barely felt the soreness from his earlier beating. His uncle’s expression never changed, not once, during the entire tableau. He wore only a pair of loose cotton pants and soft, padded shoes. Bare-chested, Gerrick looked like a super-hero. Thick slabs of muscle that seemed to be cut from granite, but moved like the well-oiled pistons of a machine, danced along his form as he moved. The man was huge and as hard as the rocks surrounding the circle.
The rain didn’t seem to fall inside the circle of light, Brandon saw.
Brandon noticed something else about his uncle. Scars. The man was covered with scars. They ran all over his body. Some were barely an inch long. Others, a foot. They looked awful. How much pain, Brandon thought, did wounds like that bring with them? How did a man receive those kinds of wounds? Not gunshots. They looked like healed cuts.
And stab wounds. How long did Brandon watch the dance? An hour? Two? He checked his watch, surprised to see that only a few minutes had passed. When he looked back up, the dance had stopped. Gerrick stood in the circle, the tip of the sword trailing in the dirt. He was watching Brandon. He wasn’t even breathing heavy, though a slick of sweat covered his body.
Had he known Brandon was watching the whole time, even in the dark? Of course. Could he see Brandon’s face? Did he have an inkling of what had happened? When he spoke, his voice was soft and reassuring. “Go to bed, Bran.”
Brandon did just that, going inside and closing the glass doors behind him. He went upstairs, barely thinking of anything except his bed. He slipped under the covers without bothering to take off his clothes. He drifted into a peaceful and dreamless sleep, somehow knowing that his uncle was once more dancing in the candlelight.
Dancing with steel.
Chapter 14
Brandon woke up the next morning feeling rested and not nearly as sore as he expected. Naked, standing in front of the mirrors in his bathroom, he studied himself. The bruises on his face were barely noticeable. Not bad enough to worry about. His stomach and mid-section looked rough but not too bad. The bruises were already fading. It didn’t feel like anything was broken. He would be careful not to take off his shirt in front of anyone for a while. Especially his uncle.
Getting dressed, Brandon pulled a tight white tank top on underneath his tee shirt. Just in case they had to undress in Gym. They usually played touch football or dodge ball during Phys Ed. Brandon would just have to make sure he was on the shirts team for the next couple of days.
At breakfast, Gerrick didn’t say anything about the night before. He ate his bacon and eggs without looking Brandon’s way, but did narrow his eyes at Brandon’s face when he was getting up to leave for school. If he noticed the bruises, he didn’t say anything.
The walk to school was uneventful. Brandon didn’t see either of the Krueger boys along the way. It occurred to him that it hadn’t rained yesterday, not until after the attack. Not a drop. He had no warning that anything awful was going to happen to him. He felt a little strange about that. The rain, which had always been so persistent during the awful moments of his life, had left him high and dry. Not appearing until after he had the crap beat out of him. And it had only sprinkled until he reached Highgarden, tapering off as he walked up the winding drive. Looking up at the cloudless sky, Brandon frowned and felt a sense of betrayal.
Claire caught Brandon as he was coming through the front doors. When she saw his face, her breath caught. “What happened?” She reached out and touched his cheek, just under his left eye. It was the largest of the remaining bruises. “Who did this to you?”
“The unofficial welcoming committee decided to welcome me.” He said. She followed him to his locker, her face concerned.
“The Krueger brothers did that?” She looked around the crowded hall, furious. “Those bastards. They’ve never been this bad, before. You know that new boy, Albert?”
Brandon nodded. “He’s in my first hour class. What about him?”
“They got him a couple of days ago.” She pushed her hair out of her face. The eye patch was beige, with a winking eye drawn on it. “He was walking out one of the side exits and I saw the Kruegers knock him down the steps. It was just a couple of steps, but he was pretty scraped up. I walked him over to the nurse’s office.” She looked at Brandon and sighed. “He told her that he tripped.”
Brandon smiled, wryly. “And that is why they get away with it.”
“And what are you going to say when somebody asks you what happened to your face? That you tripped, fell, and landed on somebody’s fist?”
“I’ll just tell them that my uncle beats me.” Brandon said, smiling. “That will get them out of my hair.”
“Not funny.” She said. Brandon shrugged his shoulders.
“Nope, not funny. But neither is the truth.”
Claire looked sad for a moment, before nodding. “I guess not.”
They caught him during lunch. He was in the restroom at the rear of the cafeteria, washing his hands. He just finished toweling his hands dry and was pushing the door open when Luke appeared, using his bulk to keep Brandon from leaving. Perry came in behind his brother and stood in front of the door, blocking the only route of escape. Luke pushed Brandon back into the restroom, his smile ugly. “Where you going, faggot?” Brandon kept his footing, just barely, and tossed his bag to the floor. “You know, Luke, I’m getting very tired of that word. Do you have some kind of issues that you want to talk about?”
With a roar, Luke charged, swinging his heavy arms like a pair of boat oars. Moving reflexively, Brandon ducked both of the powerful blows and stabbed a punch at the fat boy’s face. Luke’s bulldog
nose crunched and blood spurted down the front of his face and shirt. He stumbled back a couple of steps and looked down at the gory mess on his chest. When he looked back up at Brandon, his smile was gone and his eyes were narrowed. Tears streamed from them.
Brandon felt an icicle of dread stab into the pit of his stomach. He tried to step back, raising his hands defensively. There was real danger for him, now. He knew it without having to be told.
Luke was silent when he rushed in the second time. The silence was 100 times worse than any roar he could have produced. Brandon could feel his bladder threatening to let go. How he kept from pissing his pants, he would never know. He tried to avoid the big boy again, but this time Luke had foregone any kind of tactical attack, opting for a straight-line tackle. He bowled Brandon over easily, driving him to the tiled floor underneath his crushing weight. The world flickered, darkness creeping in on the edges of Brandon’s line of sight.
“You little bastard.” Luke drove his fist into Brandon’s face, bouncing his head off of the bathroom tile. Brandon tasted blood. He tried to push the bigger boy off of him, but it was no use. His head was suddenly jerked sideways by a vicious backhand slap. He saw stars.
Somehow, Luke had climbed to his feet. He suddenly seemed to have a dozen fists. Brandon lost count of how many times he was hit, only thankful that his face was only caught a couple of times. A heavy boot smashed into his side. His ribs, still sore from the beating the day before, screamed. Brandon tried to scream with them, but nothing came out. He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t breath.
All he could do was hurt.
The sound of Luke’s breathing, heavy and fast, began to grow silent. The world slowly vanished. He no longer heard the squeak of Luke’s shoes on the bathroom tile.
Was he dying? Was this the end? Was he really being beaten to death in the cafeteria bathroom?
Brandon didn’t notice when the beating stopped. One second, the world was a slow, dissolving mass of pain. The next second, the rain of punches and kicks stopped. A meaty and bloodied fist caught a hold of Brandon’s hair and, suddenly, his head was being pulled back, the bright florescent lights blinding him. His face was slapped and he was now looking at Luke Krueger, the blood thick and crusted on the fat boy’s chin and upper lip. When the boy spoke, blood flecked spittle hit Brandon in the face. “I’m gonna get you for this, you son of a bitch.”
For what, Brandon thought? Getting my ass kicked? For hurting your fist with my face? He felt like laughing, but nothing about any of this was funny. And if he laughed, Luke might start hitting him again. Luke leaned close enough for Brandon to smell the rot of the boy’s back teeth and whispered. “This ain’t done, pretty boy. Not by a long shot.”
He left. Perry chuckled as he followed his brother, and said. “See ya around.”
Brandon lay on the floor, the tile ice cold through the thin fabric of his shirt, and let the blood trickle from the inside of his nose down the back of his throat. He swallowed to keep from choking. He wasn’t sure, but he thought that one of his ribs might be broken. More than one, maybe? It hurt to breath.
After about a hundred years, Brandon rolled over onto his side and pulled himself up into a sitting position. He was glad he did it without screaming. He found his feet, unsteadily, and went over to one of the sinks. The mirror showed him a pale and bruised wreck of a boy. His lip was split and bleeding. The small bruise under his eye was now the size of a silver dollar, and swelling.
He didn’t cry. Not this time.
He was washing his face when the door opened and Albert walked in. The boy was short for his age and wore a solemn expression. He stood in the doorway for a long time, watching Brandon. Brandon smiled at him, his teeth bloody, and turned back to the mirror. He ran some water into his hand and used it to rinse his mouth. Albert went into one of the stalls and peed. He flushed, came out, and went to the sink beside Brandon. He didn’t quite meet Brandon’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Brandon gave him a queer look, smiling even though it hurt to do so. “For what, Albert?”
Albert shrugged, still not looking at Brandon’s eyes. “Everyone out there knew what was going on in here. Nobody tried to help. Nobody even went for the teachers.” He met Brandon’s gaze for the first time. His eyes were clear blue, a lot like Brandon’s mom’s had been. “I’m sorry I didn’t come in to help you. I was afraid.”
“Don’t worry about it, Albert.” Brandon said, using paper towels to dry his face and hands. “You would have only got hurt, too.” Albert nodded. He said, heading for the door. “I know. But at least you wouldn’t have been alone.” He left. Brandon watched the door for a long time after the boy left. He thought about Albert’s words. Would it have been better if he hadn’t been alone? If somebody else had shared in the pain?
Could he have watched somebody else be beaten and not have been crazy to stop it from happening?
Doubtful. He cleaned himself up as best as he could and left the restroom. The cafeteria was only about half full, most of the students having already gone back to class, but the ones who remained were watching the door closely when Brandon emerged.
Brandon stopped, looking out over the watching students. Then he smiled and flourished his hands, making the best leg he could, and bowed to the audience. There were scattered smiles and some outright laughs, but most of the kids avoided meeting his eyes.
Claire almost ran him down as he went through the cafeteria doors. She was breathless and looked as if she had sprinted the whole way. “I was at my locker when I overheard Luke telling Mr. Marcus some lame story about walking into an open locker door. I knew they must have jumped someone, I just hoped it wasn’t you or Albert.” Her fingers traced the bruises on his face. Her touch was gentle. “If only I had been there. I might have been able to stop them?”
“And you might have ended up in worse shape than me?” Brandon sighed, looking into her green eye. “I’m ok. Just a little sore. It could have been a lot worse.”
“Yes.” She said, touching his hand. “They could have killed you.”
Brandon shivered. “But they didn’t.”
“No.” Claire smiled, her voice soft. “They didn’t. Let’s skip next period. We can hide out in the gym.”
Brandon smiled. “You want to lift weights, Claire?”
She laughed. “Not really. But it might give you a chance to heal a little bit? And that’s worth the risk.”
Brandon thought so too. Her hand lingered on his for a long moment, the skin soft, and Brandon thought about when she kissed him the night before. The way her lips felt against his own. Meeting her beautiful eye, Brandon let her lead him away from the cafeteria and towards the gym across the street.
Chapter 15
It was after dark when Brandon got home. He and Claire spent the afternoon at the old feed mill. Sitting atop the tallest of the empty silos, watching the sun set, they talked about the Kruegers and tried to devise ways for Brandon to stay clear of them. Brandon didn’t know what was worse. Having them after him the way they were? Or not being able to stop them from doing the same thing to other kids. Kids like Albert.
And Claire.
Brandon thought that he would be hard pressed not to kill the Kruegers, outright, if they did anything to Claire. With his bare hands, if he had to. He looked over at her, as the sun touched the horizon, and knew that he was falling in love with her.
During the walk to her house, they held hands again while keeping an eye out for the red headed bullies. Once, as they walked, Brandon looked down at their entwined fingers and couldn’t tell which were his or hers. It was like they were one person. She kissed him again, before going inside. This time the kiss was longer. Deeper.
The long walk home, Brandon kept thinking of it. The way that she felt, pressed against him while he held her in his arms. The way that she had tasted.
Gerrick was sitting in the living room floor, using a piece of boiled leather to hone the edge of his sword. It was the sword he’d been usi
ng the night before, not the Phoenix. He didn’t glance up as Brandon walked in, but spoke. “We need to talk, Bran.” He looked at Brandon and gestured at the floor in front of him. Brandon sat across from him, Indian style, and waited. Gerrick’s mouth twitched. “How was school today?”
Brandon didn’t say anything. His uncle could see the bruises on his face and he could probably guess about the rest of his injuries. Gerick smiled and went back to his work. He spoke as he ran the cloth down the length of polished steel. “Do you want to tell me about it?” “What’s there to tell?” Brandon said, his voice low. “A couple of kids are giving me a hard time. I’ll deal with it.”
Gerrick stopped his sharpening and reached out to touch Brandon’s face. “This is dealing with it?” He snorted. “These bruises are nothing. Not much more than what your father would have gotten while playing with his friends. But they shouldn’t have happened. Why didn’t you defend yourself? Surely your father taught you that much?”
“There were two of them.” Brandon said, his voice flat. “And they were both twice my size.” He didn’t bother to tell his uncle that only one of the Kruegers had actually taken part in the beating. The two had been in on it together. That was enough.
“Only two?” His uncle said. “That’s disgraceful.” Brandon was about to agree but his uncle spoke before he could. “I would have thought that it would take at least five. “You are a strong boy, Bran. Two should have been easy enough to handle.”
“For you, maybe?” Brandon said, snorting derisively. Brandon narrowed his eyes at his uncle. “I’m not you, Gerrick. And I’m not my father. I’m just a kid. I don’t know anything about fighting or beating up two guys, much less five.”
Gerrick was silent for a moment. He was staring at Brandon. Through him. His mind was deep in some other place. Brandon waited. After a long time, maybe five seconds, Gerrick focused on Brandon. “Up to bed. Sleep. In two hours, we will begin.”
Rain Of Stone (The Merryweather Chronicles Book 1) Page 8
