Savant & Feral (Digital Boxed Set): Books 1 and 2 of the Epic Luminether Fantasy Series

by Richard Denoncourt

  “We have to tell Ascher,” Milo said.

  Calista shook her head. “Bad idea. If Ascher finds out, he’ll send a rescue party. The boy and his father are scared. Otherwise they would have come to the ranch for help. Maybe we should find him ourselves. Since I’m a Feral, he’ll trust me.”

  Milo looked at Emma. “I don’t know. What do you think, sis?”

  “She might be right. We don’t want to scare him off. If he’s from Earth, he probably has no idea what happens to Ferals here.”

  Milo nodded and looked at Calista. “How do we find him? I mean, we can’t just search the forest. That’ll take forever, and if he doesn’t want to be found…”

  “I got it,” Calista said, and winked at him. “My senses are sharper than you can imagine, Savant.”

  “Good,” Milo said. “Let’s get it done before dinner, so we don’t raise any suspicions.”

  Emma and Calista nodded and followed him down the hill. Calista leaned close to Emma and spoke in a whisper.

  “Lily was right. He is kind of cute.”

  Emma rolled her eyes.

  CHAPTER 41

  O scar watched his father sift through the bushes for berries.

  His stomach rumbled. It was getting late, and he was looking forward to curling up on a bed of leaves and calling it a night. It was funny—sleeping in the forest felt more natural to him than any bed on which he’d ever spent the night.

  “A moment longer,” his father said in Spanish. There were bits of twigs and leaves stuck to his black beard. He no longer bothered to pick them out. He resembled one of those grizzly street bums—a gamín—who roamed the streets back home, begging for money.

  Back in Cartagena, Oscar’s father had sold mangoes, strawberries, and bananas on the side of the street. He had been saving money for years, and Oscar remembered the first day—it was on his eighth birthday—that his father had brought home his brand-new taxi.

  “Wow,” Oscar had said. “Papa, it’s so shiny.”

  His father had shooed away the street dogs that kept approaching his son. In the last year, Oscar had become a canine magnet. Cartagena was full of homeless dogs, and they drifted toward Oscar as if he had pinned strips of bacon to his clothes—but they never bit him, only looked at him in helpless surrender.

  “It’s going to change our lives,” his father had said, opening the door of the taxi for Oscar to be the first one in. He’d had to shut it immediately to keep a stray dog from leaping in.

  The taxi changed their lives all right, but not nearly as much as the tail that began to grow on Oscar six years later. At first, Oscar thought it had something to do with the dogs that kept following him in packs down the street and waiting for him outside of school. Maybe he’d caught some sort of weird infection from them? He hid the tail as much as he could, but the day came when all the duct tape in the world couldn’t help him.

  “Here we go,” his father said, bending over to pick up a small sack he’d been using to hold the berries.

  Oscar’s hand shot forward and grabbed for it. His father watched him eat. Oscar ate about half of the berries and offered the rest to his father. The man shook his head and motioned for Oscar to finish.

  “I spoke to that boy,” Oscar said between mouthfuls.

  His father’s eyes widened. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to scold his son for being reckless. Then his expression went back to its normal, fatigued state.

  “I didn’t mean to,” Oscar said. “I saw him in the forest.”

  “What was he doing here? Looking for us?”

  Oscar shook his head and burped. “Two of the girls played a trick on him. I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Papa, one of the girls had a tail.”

  His father nodded and kept his eyes on the ground.

  “I told you,” he said. “Some people here have tails. Others have wings, and some even use magic.”

  “And some are strong enough to lift your taxi.”

  “That’s right. I’m glad you spoke to that boy. I figured out what that ranch is. They keep orphans there. Children from Earth who have the blood of the gods in them. Like you.”

  Oscar wiped his hands against his shirt and sat back. “Can you tell me the story again?”

  “Sure, son.” His father sat back against a tree. “Your mother Sofia was a beautiful woman—a singer who could make men fall in love with her instantly, as well as a wise woman who knew much about the different religions and philosophies of the world. She was a sabio, what people on this realm call a ‘Savant.’ She could put her hands on a person’s face and take away their stress and worries and sometimes even their pain. Men and women came from all over Colombia to see her. When she died, hundreds attended her funeral. They thought she had been sent by God to help our city.”

  He paused and looked away. His face had swelled with emotion, and Oscar thought for a moment that his father might cry. He’d only seen him cry once, at the funeral.

  Oscar already knew the story of his mother’s death. One of her customers, a man named Pedro San Martinez, had gone to see Sofia at her little outdoor shop, which also sold flowers. Oscar remembered the heavy scents of those flowers on humid days, and how his mother had always smelled like a garden when she came home.

  He remembered how those flowers had spilled everywhere, a mess of bright colors like paint being splashed, on the day his mother was shot. She had fallen backward off her stool, a bloodstain over her heart where the man, Pedro San Martinez, had sent his bullet, convinced that Sofia was a witch sent not by God but by the Devil. Oscar remembered the crowd that had gathered on the sidewalk afterward, and the shouts as the men beat Pedro San Martinez to death.

  Oscar had been six years old.

  “She told me all about Astros,” his father said. “She gave me the crystal that helped us get here. I kept it hidden and almost forgot about it until the day you started growing that tail. Then I knew we were in trouble.”

  Another flood of memories. Only a month ago, the men in the green uniforms had come to Oscar’s house in Torices, the neighborhood in which he and his father had lived since his mother’s death. The men had come with guns. One of Oscar’s neighbors—a loud, chatty woman named Diana Morillo Florez—had overheard Oscar and his father discussing his tail. She had been crawling on all fours outside his bedroom window, in the narrow space between their shacks, in search of a few coins her son had dropped on his way home from the store.

  That was how she explained it when Oscar’s father heard her rummaging and went to investigate.

  “Oh, hello, Andres. It’s just me,” she had said, getting up and brushing dirt off her hands. As she explained, she kept her eyes on Oscar, who stood by the door with his hands behind his back and his eyes down. Oscar had sensed the woman’s curiosity, the burning importance of her newfound knowledge. The women of his neighborhood lived for a good piece of gossip.

  “She didn’t hear anything,” his father assured him later.

  The next day, men from their neighborhood came with guns to see if Diana’s gossip was true. Many had begun to believe that Oscar’s mother had, in fact, been a witch. If that was the case, it was possible Oscar was some sort of demon. They would know as soon as they saw his tail.

  Oscar and his father had managed to escape in their taxi, easily blending in with the other taxis filling the streets. His father had used the beacon crystal that night on the beach. The men from Astros came down in their carriage, pulled by four black levathons, and Oscar remembered how the levathons’ eyes had glowed bright red, and how the men in the carriage had worn armor and carried swords. The men had chased him and his father up the beach, and when they caught up to Oscar, they pushed him down into the sand and hit him.

  Watching the hilt of that sword crash down over his eyes was the last thing he remembered before waking up in the forest.

  “When we arrived on Astros, I escaped,” his father said, “carrying you on my shoulder. I ran from those men like I’d neve
r run before. It was during a terrible rainstorm. Otherwise, we might not be here at all. We were very lucky.”

  Oscar listened in silence. The sugar from the berries was making him sleepy. He was tired from spending the day swinging from one tree branch to the next.

  He had discovered over the past month that he possessed a supernatural agility unlike anything he’d ever seen in a human being, except on the superhero films he and his father would sometimes watch at the Castellana mall back home. For weeks, he had rushed through the forest like an animal, breathless and wide-eyed and alive in a way he’d never been but had always dreamed. At last, he had the skills he would need to become a famous soccer player.

  No—he’d never get to play in the World Cup. He was pretty sure players with tails were automatically forbidden. Maybe they had something like it here on Astros—a Feral version of professional soccer (in his mind, he called it futbol). It was the first thing he planned on asking the fat man with the white beard who owned the ranch up the hill.

  He asked his father, “Did you believe Mami when she told you about Astros?”

  “I certainly did. I’ve always had faith. I only wish she had lived long enough to speak with you about it. She could have prepared you.”

  “Prepared me for what?”

  “For this.” He motioned at the surrounding trees. “Your new home.”

  “Papa, when will I be able to turn into an animal like that girl did?”

  His father stood up and motioned for Oscar to do the same. “Maybe they’ll teach you at the ranch.”

  “We’re going?” Oscar sprang to his feet.

  His father nodded. “Now we have to. Maybe they can lead us there.”

  He pointed at something beyond the trees. Oscar followed his father’s gaze and saw the boy from before, Milo, making his way across the field, followed by a blonde girl and the dark-haired one with the tail.

  Oscar fell back a step, eyes wide. “What if they take us to the men with the swords?”

  “They won’t,” his father said. “Trust me. They’re your brothers and sisters now.”

  CHAPTER 42

  M ilo was the first to arrive.

  Calista would have been first due to her speed, but she chose to hang back in case the man and the boy, both of whom wore filthy clothes riddled with holes, were planning something violent. They looked harmless, but her Feral instincts had always kept her from being too trusting of strangers.

  Milo and Emma approached the man and the boy with no fear at all. Calista respected that. There was definitely more to the Banks children than met the eye. Either that, or they were just stupid.

  “Oscar,” Milo said.

  “Milo.” The boy glanced at his father before stepping forward to shake hands. “This is my father, Andres. Papa, this is the boy…”

  Andres gave his son a dumbfounded look. Oscar said something to him in Spanish. The man relaxed, looked at Milo, Emma, and Calista, and nodded.

  “Mucho gusto,” he said.

  “Hola,” Emma said. “Mucho gusto en conocerlo. Me llamo Emma Banks.”

  Calista sighed. “Can we do this in English, please?”

  Andres scratched his raggedy beard, which had bits of twigs and leaves stuck to it.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “Speak very less English.”

  Oscar stepped forward until he was between his father and the rest of the group.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I will translate.”

  Oscar led the rest of the conversation, speaking in both English and Spanish. He explained to Milo and Emma that they had arrived in Astros after being arrested by soldiers driving a carriage pulled by black levathons. Milo and Emma nodded and filled in the holes, explaining that the men worked for the emperor, and that Ferals were not welcome on Taradyn, except as slaves.

  Calista listened. She kept her eyes on the man and the boy, but mostly on the boy, Oscar. He was a Feral, like her, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to think that he was anything like her at all. He seemed comfortable with himself. As he spoke, his tail swished from side to side.

  Calista had never liked her tail. Even now, she kept it coiled up behind her back, where the man and the boy wouldn’t see it. The boy—Oscar, a strange name—had the brown eyes of a human. He was still changing, going through the sort of second puberty that every Feral must endure. Soon, he would have orange eyes and the ability to phase into animal shells.

  She didn’t know how she felt about that. Calista was content to be the only Feral at the ranch. And what if this boy started coming to her with questions? She didn’t want to be anyone’s mentor.

  Or anyone’s friend.

  “It’s getting late,” she said.

  The sun was below the tree line now, straddling the horizon. It was getting darker, and colder, by the minute.

  Andres said something in Spanish. Oscar translated.

  “My father want to know if we can go to the ranch. He want speak to the man with the white hair. The big man.” He lifted his arms around his chest to show just how big Ascher was. “If is okay.”

  Milo and Emma spoke at the same time. “Of course.”

  Calista rolled her eyes. They had that annoying habit of responding at the same time and finishing each other’s sentences. She guessed it was something about being twins, like they were telepathic or something.

  Oscar looked at Calista and smiled.

  “My name is Oscar,” he said. “No have to be scared. I am nice.”

  The boy’s accent, and his crude grammar, made her lips curl upward the slightest bit. Had he just made her smile? She hoped no one had noticed.

  Oscar stepped forward and reached out to shake her hand. Calista backed away a step.

  “Follow me,” she said, turning and running toward the ranch.

  She phased into her cat form—exhilarating, as always, like standing up in a cool waterfall—and crossed the field toward the hill, not once looking back to see if the strangers were following.

  Oscar, she thought as her paws lashed out again and again, lightly tapping the earth. He looked to be about her age, and yet his eyes were still brown, which meant he wasn’t even a mature Feral.

  She twitched her whiskers. He’s got a lot to learn.

  CHAPTER 43

  When the light turned on inside the shack, Kovax and his soldiers froze.

  They heard footsteps against wooden floorboards, the sounds not as heavy as one would have expected from a fully grown man. The steady tap-tap, tap-tap they listened to for about five seconds brought visions of a little old man with a cane shuffling toward the door.

  It opened with a groan, throwing yellow light over their faces.

  But there was no one there.

  “Ahem.”

  Kovax looked down to see a small man with arms and legs like those of a rag doll. He had a narrow chest and the face of a mole, and wore a dusty green vest over brown clothing, a dwarf librarian by the looks of him. Kovax was stunned. The man was mostly bald with ears like the wings of a small, fleshy beast and a bulbous, lumpy nose that took up most of his face. His eyes were two black marbles pressed into the skin, expressionless because he had no eyebrows. He stared straight ahead at Kovax’s knees, apparently not registering that there was a fully grown man in front of him.

  “Ahem, yes?” the man said in a nasally voice.

  Kovax frowned at him. “We’re looking for the sorcerer, Iolus. Be a lord and tell him an old friend has dropped by to visit.”

  The little man began to swing this way and that, hands joined behind his back, making him look like a bored child standing in a room full of adults with nothing to do.

  “Pray tell, how did you get by the defenses?” The man swiveled, his rounded belly sticking out. Kovax gritted his teeth—the dwarf was enormously pleased with himself, that much was clear.

  “My magic was stronger,” Kovax said simply. “Tell Iolus I’ve arrived. My name is Kovax Leonaryx, and my cousin Corgos is king of these lands, in case he
’s forgotten, which I’m sure he hasn’t.”

  Coscoros, Basher, and Leticia stood behind Kovax. They exchanged looks of utter confusion.

  The dwarf made a sharp whistling sound and clapped. His hands were large and floppy, with bony knuckles sporting tufts of curly brown hair.

  “A magician,” he said. “Oh, lucky me. I was getting quite bored of sorcery. Sorcerers have nothing but elemental spells, but a magician—oh, you could make some pretty lights, couldn’t you? I so desire to see the pretty lights.”

  He stopped swiveling and looked up at Kovax.

  “I can show you lights,” Kovax said, holding out his staff, blue crystal forward. The crystal began to glow, emitting a fine mist that captured and held the light. The mist shaped itself into a glittering levathon and galloped silently away.

  The dwarf put his knobby fists up to his mouth and wheezed. His black eyes twinkled, moist around the edges.

  “Oh, how dazzling! A real magician.”

  Kovax twisted his features into a frown so deep it hurt the muscles of his face. He wanted to pick the dwarf up and bite a chunk out of his neck.

  “You’re wasting my time, imp. Get Iolus, or I’ll show you a pretty light that’ll be the last you ever see.”

  “My, my,” the dwarf said. “He’s angry. Maybe we should give him some vitamins”—he pronounced it viddamins—“and put him to sleep. What do you think, Master?”

  Kovax took a step back. He looked into the shack—it was featureless and empty other than a few pieces of crude furniture—and then he looked at his surroundings like he expected a hungry wolf to leap out at him and attack.

  “No more games,” Kovax said. “Where is he?”

  The dwarf smiled at each of them.

  “Leave him to me,” Basher said, approaching the dwarf. He spun his warhammer in one hand. As he walked over, the dwarf pulled a glowing shard of blood ether crystal from his breast pocket.

  Kovax reached out to stop Basher. “Get back!”