The Vine Eater (The Magic Eaters Trilogy Book 2)

by Carol Beth Anderson

  Cellerin’s quiet, dark streets brought up plenty of memories. Nora figured into all the best ones. Ovrun missed her, but he couldn’t be happier she’d run for help and avoided getting caught.

  Was she behind the faked message and the rescue attempt he was certain was coming? Probably so. He smiled into the darkness. She’s capable as hell.

  Walking was a little easier, now that his arms were uncrossed. To give him a break, Krey and Zeisha had offered to walk with their shackled arms stretched across their bodies.

  “I’ve been in this part of town,” Krey said, his voice quiet but casual.

  Behind them, Lars said, “Thought you weren’t from the city.”

  “I’m not, but I lived here for a little while.”

  At once, Ovrun realized why Krey had made the statement. This was the neighborhood where they’d twice stayed in a stinky, abandoned house. Nora was sending them to a place they knew. Someone would be waiting there to rescue them; Ovrun knew it. He let a grin spread across his face.

  Sure enough, Lars led them to the tiny, boarded-up home where they’d stayed before. He brought the group to a halt and, in the light of a streetlamp, checked his note one more time. “I don’t like this,” he said. “I understand the king wanting us to be private, but I don’t think he’d send us to a place like this.”

  Ovrun’s breaths were shallow. Just take us in there.

  “This place gives me the creeps,” Lars said. He again pointed the gun at his captives. “We’re not going in this place unless I confirm that note was from the king. Turn around.”

  Ovrun tried to keep his expression placid, even as his jaw clenched.

  Lars led them farther into the city and onto a quiet street, full of businesses that were closed for the night. “I know a guy who owns a restaurant over here. He lives above it. He won’t like getting woken up, but he owes me a favor. He’ll bring a message to the palace for me.”

  A lamppost down the street shed dim light where they stood. “Sit,” Lars said. “I gotta write this note.”

  We can’t let him send that message to the king. We have to act, whether I have a good plan or not.

  Aloud, Ovrun said, “One. Two. Three. Sit.” But he didn’t sit, he squatted—feet flat on the ground, knees up, weight forward. Like a predator ready to pounce. Gaze flicking to Ovrun, Krey did the same. Zeisha sat on her backside, legs folded, her body angled toward Ovrun to relieve her stretched arm. Ovrun tapped her knee, hoping she’d see his position and mimic it. All she did was give him a weary smile, before dropping her eyes to the ground.

  Lars sat in front of them. Still holding his gun, he wrestled with the big buckle on his pack. At last, he put the gun next to him so he could undo the buckle.

  Ovrun almost leapt forward then, but instinct told him to wait. His heart pumped wildly. He opened his mouth, trying to keep his breaths deep and quiet.

  Lars reached a hand into the pack, muttering, “I swear I had a pencil.” He used both hands to hold the pack wide open, repositioning it to bring it into the lamp’s wide pool of dim light. His head dipped as he searched deeper inside the pack.

  Krey’s elbow caught Ovrun in the ribs, but Ovrun didn’t need anyone to urge him on. His leg muscles, strengthened by hours of calisthenics, kept limber by his walks and runs while hunting, were already springing to life. At the same time he leapt, he pulled forward with both his arms. Krey was already jumping with him, but Ovrun was forced to yank Zeisha forward by the hard shackle on her wrist. She shrieked in pain.

  He didn’t have time to regret the action. Tackling someone while shackled to two others felt awkward. Unnatural.

  And absolutely fantastic.

  Just as Lars looked up, Ovrun’s chest slammed into the man’s legs. A split second later, his shackled arms connected with Lars’s gut, shoving him down. From the corner of his eye, he saw Zeisha pick up the gun with her free hand.

  But this clearly wasn’t their captor’s first fight. With one hand, Lars tried to shove Ovrun off him. With the other, he yanked his gun from Zeisha’s grip.

  Ovrun pushed himself forward, bringing more of his weight to bear on Lars. Zeisha and Krey pulled at their shackles and, in turn, at Ovrun’s hands. His instinct was to pull his own hands back, but when his gaze flicked to Zeisha, he saw her again grabbing for the gun, with both hands this time. On Ovrun’s other side, Krey was trying to capture their abductor’s other arm.

  Roaring in frustration, Ovrun gave Zeisha and Krey control of his hands. Zeisha’s grip closed on the gun barrel. Krey grabbed Lars’s arm.

  Even as Lars fought for control of both the gun and his arm, he continued bucking and squirming beneath Ovrun. With a growl, he wrested his right arm from Krey. His hand scratched Ovrun’s face, then caught his hair, ripping out a clump of it. He pulled at Ovrun’s ear. It felt like he was ripping it off.

  Ovrun shook his head hard, breaking loose from the man. “Krey!” he shouted.

  Lars continued to claw at Ovrun’s face until Krey grabbed his arm again. This time, Krey brought his knees down, pinning the man’s muscular arm to the dirt.

  Ovrun took a half-second to assess. Zeisha was still fighting for the gun. He felt a pulling movement under his belly. Krey was using both hands to retrieve the pack that had been on Lars’s lap.

  “Key! Front pocket!” Ovrun shouted. He left Krey to that task and returned his attention to Zeisha. He tried to use his shackled hand to grab for the gun. In that moment, Lars nearly threw him off.

  Ovrun forgot about his hands and focused on one thing: keeping this guy down so his friends could fight. Both his wrists scraped painfully against the shackles as Zeisha pulled at the gun and Krey searched for the key.

  Using the strength in his core and his legs, Ovrun pushed himself farther up onto Lars. His big chest pressed against the fighting man’s chest, then against his face. Maybe he could smother him.

  But Lars was big too, and he still had plenty of energy to thrash around. Without control over his arms, Ovrun slipped farther down again.

  Then, above the sounds of groans and loud breaths, Ovrun heard metal scraping against metal. The shackle that had captured Krey’s hand was suddenly hanging off Ovrun’s wrist. Krey had retrieved the key.

  Ovrun swung the newly released shackle into Lars’s face. The big man cried out. Swinging the shackle again, Ovrun shouted, “Krey! Gun!”

  Krey leapt up, which freed their enemy’s left arm. Lars reacted with swift strength, grabbing the shackle and ending Ovrun’s attack.

  Zeisha was still fighting for the gun. Krey joined her. Within moments, he had the weapon. But Lars’s gun hand was now free. Quick as a blink, he grabbed Zeisha’s hair and yanked her toward him.

  That didn’t go over well with Krey. His boot slammed down on the man’s bicep. With a cry, Lars released Zeisha.

  Krey unlocked her shackle. Heavy chains and shackles hung off both Ovrun’s wrists now. He tried to hit Lars with the shackle on his right hand, but the man had learned his lesson the first time. He grabbed the heavy metal as it swung toward him.

  Lars kept thrashing. Ovrun struggled to free his arms and hold the man down.

  But Lars was outnumbered and disarmed now. Krey fell to his knees next to their abductor’s head. “You’ll regret ever touching her!” he growled, smashing the gun into Lars’s face. Blood poured from the soldier’s nose. Shoving the muzzle of the gun into the man’s forehead, Krey said, “Give me one reason not to shoot you right now.”

  Lars stopped fighting and released Ovrun’s shackles. Tense silence fell over the group. Lars broke it by gasping, “I didn’t want to hurt you at all. I could’ve killed you, all of you; I wouldn’t have even gotten in trouble. Please—don’t shoot me.”

  In the dim light, Ovrun saw Krey’s trembling finger find the trigger.

  “Wait!” The cry came from Zeisha. She’d been huddled in the dirt nearby. Now, she leapt forward, grabbing Krey’s shoulder. “He’s right,” she said. “He could’ve hurt us. He
didn’t.”

  “He abducted you!” Krey’s eyes, dark with murder, remained fixed on Lars. “He attacked you! He deserves a bullet!”

  “Please,” Zeisha said, her voice soft but desperate. “We can . . . we can take him back to Deroga. Hold him captive. But don’t—please—”

  Ovrun couldn’t watch his friend kill a man in anger. “Give me the gun, Krey,” he said. He was willing to kill if necessary, but at least he’d think it through first.

  Seconds passed, each one interminably long. Below Ovrun, Lars’s chest rose and fell with panicked breaths.

  At last, Krey held the gun out to Ovrun. “Take it.”

  Ovrun did. Krey scampered back, breathing heavily.

  Lars squirmed. Ovrun used his knees to pin the man’s arms, then aimed the gun at his head. The heavy shackles hung above Lars’s neck.

  “Please,” Lars said, suddenly still. “Don’t kill me.”

  Ovrun’s mind raced. Lars was subdued. Ovrun and his friends had won this fight. A killing now would be in cold blood.

  But a prisoner would complicate everything. Traveling would take longer. It would be tougher to get rest, which they all needed. If Lars somehow escaped, he’d tell Ulmin about the failed abduction. The king would send someone to find them . . . sooner rather than later.

  We can’t let him go. Ovrun didn’t see a way around it.

  Despite his disgust at what he was doing, Ovrun pressed the gun’s muzzle between the man’s eyes. His chains clanked in the night air. One of the shackles knocked against Lars’s ear, the other against his cheek.

  The man’s chest shook with sudden sobs. “I just—I only did it because—don’t! Don’t shoot! I’ll tell you—I’ll tell you everything!”

  Ovrun’s breaths were coming almost as quickly as his captive’s. He pushed the gun down harder. “I’m listening.”

  Lars spoke between his sobs. “The army—they’re marching—in ten days. They’re marching—to Deroga—in ten days.”

  Ovrun’s eyes widened. Ten days. With knowledge like that, they could actually prepare. Have everyone ready. Days of notice instead of hours . . . It might make all the difference in the world.

  And no matter what his logical brain told him to do, he couldn’t stomach the thought of killing Lars now. Not after he’d given them information they desperately needed.

  Ovrun looked up at Krey and Zeisha, silently asking them if they agreed with him.

  That moment of distraction was all Lars needed. He heaved and twisted his body, throwing Ovrun off him. Ovrun let out a shout as he landed hard on his side. The gun flew from his hand and into a shadowed gutter at the edge of the street.

  Krey dove to the ground, groping for the gun. Lars and Ovrun were right behind him.

  One thing Ovrun had learned in his guard training was that no matter how prepared you were, every fight included an element of luck. Three people searching the darkness for a gun? That all came down to luck.

  Lars went still, crouching low over the ground. Ovrun could think of only one reason the man would’ve stopped: he’d found his weapon.

  Luck had favored the wrong person.

  In his gut, Ovrun knew another fight over this gun would result in someone getting shot. After nearly losing his own life, Lars wouldn’t take any more chances.

  Plus, lights were on in two nearby businesses. People lived in some of these buildings. This fight had been loud. Someone might come outside at any time.

  Ovrun grabbed Krey’s arm, yanking him to his feet. His other hand found Zeisha’s arm. “RUN!” he shouted.

  Thank the stone, they did.

  Shots followed them. One—two—three earsplitting pops. But in the chaos, their former captor’s aim was off.

  Ovrun, Zeisha, and Krey sprinted into the darkness.

  The Seer: 9

  Sarza woke with pressure in her head. “No,” she groaned in a hoarse, exhausted voice. “Not another—”

  The vision began. It was a simple scene, just a few trog children playing a game with a ball. Nobody died; none of the kids needed rescuing. All they were doing was playing and laughing, looking remarkably cheerful despite their dull, neutral-colored clothes.

  In no time at all, Sarza came back to herself. “Listen,” she said aloud to whatever mysterious power might actually be paying attention to her. In other words, no one. She spat out the words anyway. “I’m sick of all this. All I want to do is sleep. Can’t you just let me sleep?”

  She wadded up the dirty jacket she was using as a pillow and squeezed her eyes shut. It was no good. Her mind was racing too fast for her to relax.

  Sarza was desperate for rest. Two nights ago, she’d lain awake, dreading the abduction she knew was coming. Last night, she’d tossed and turned, fighting regret over not stopping it.

  Why couldn’t she let it go? She’d never be friends with those people in real life. So why had she held out hope her vision would somehow be proven wrong? Why had her stomach twisted when she’d watched that man take them away?

  And the biggest question of all: after living eighteen years with a blissfully stunted conscience, why was Sarza now tortured by the double-bladed sword of guilt and regret?

  All that stress and sleeplessness had led to way too many visions—several every hour, starting before sunrise. It was now the middle of the night, and the visions hadn’t stopped. About half were scenes of trogs living daily life—playing, grieving, working, and arguing. Being normal people, in other words.

  The remaining visions had shown her glimpses of the army she was part of. These scenes, too, took place in Deroga. Sarza had watched her fellow soldiers setting fires, shooting fleeing trogs, and taking children prisoner.

  She was doing her best not to care about the people of this city, but her visions made such a resolution impossible. In fact, she found herself drawing one highly uncomfortable conclusion:

  I’ve been on the wrong side.

  A full day of quick, frequent visions had left her a wreck. Her head was pounding, her stomach empty from vomiting.

  I’m so ready for this to be over.

  Like the giver of prophecies had heard her and wanted to dig the knife deeper, another vision took over her mind.

  This one was longer, consisting of two detailed, contrasting scenes. They offered her a choice: help the people you’ve been living among, or let them suffer.

  She came back to herself and vomited before she could grab the bowl she used as a chamber pot. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she started crying. “I don’t want to help!” she wailed. “I just want to go back to my life! I’ll find a job; I don’t have to be in the army. I get it, okay? The army is doing bad things. I’m not trying to get a promotion anymore. But I’ll never get to go home if I change sides!”

  Her crying turned to laughter. That argument—that she’d never get to go home—couldn’t be more ridiculous.

  Sarza hated her home. She hated her parents. Her siblings.

  She hated the little store on the corner with the clerk who always stared at her. She’d once been overtaken by a vision in his store and had knocked glass jars off a shelf. He always said she’d done it on purpose.

  She hated the kids she’d grown up with, who’d laughed at her “fainting spells” and accused her of faking it. Who’d called her weird or stuck up when she spent all her time alone.

  She hated her neighborhood and Cellerin City and maybe the whole country, come to think of it. And she was whining about wanting to go home?

  “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll consider helping these people. But I’m not promising anything.”

  She used a towel she’d stolen to clean up the mess she’d left on the floor. Then she rested her head on her jacket-pillow.

  At last, she slept.

  29

  Flexscreens are robbing teenagers of their sleep. According to a recent study, teens today get an hour less sleep, on average, than teens who lived before the invention of handheld devices.

&n
bsp; Parents are banding together, encouraging each other to take away their teens’ devices at night. My question is, why? We teenagers are achieving greater goals than ever before. Sure, we’re tired . . . but that’s what coffee is for.

  -“In Your Dreams” by Genta Ril

  The Derogan Chronicle, dated Cyon 21, 6293

  Krey heard rapid, heavy steps. Lars was following them. The soldier was in good shape. Would he catch up? Did he have more ammunition? Would he shoot if he got closer?

  We’ve gotta lose this guy.

  Ovrun was in the lead. Krey took Zeisha’s hand and forced more power into his legs. When they pulled alongside Ovrun, Krey said, “Turn! Here!”

  They all turned right at an intersection. “Come on!” Krey said again. He led them into the shadowed space between two buildings. “Shh,” he said. “Walk.”

  Their steps were silent and painstakingly slow. Krey had hoped to reach the rear of the building before Lars turned onto the street. No such luck. He heard the soldier’s pounding steps approaching. “C’mere!” he hissed, darting to crouch behind a trash can shoved against one of the buildings.

  Zeisha and Ovrun crouched next to him, pressing their backs against the wall. Their panting breaths, along with his own, sounded as loud as a thunderstorm. There was no way Lars wouldn’t hear them . . . unless he was making enough of his own noise to drown out their breathing. Krey allowed himself a smidgen of hope.

  The footsteps got louder . . . closer . . . and passed by. Thank the sky.

  Krey jumped up and led them into the alley behind the building. “We have to go back to that abandoned house,” he whispered. “I’d be willing to bet someone’s waiting there to help us.”

  “We can’t!” Ovrun said. “Lars knows just where it is!”

  “Yeah, but he’d never expect us to go there, for the same reason you just said. We gotta go now, before he figures out he’s lost us.”

  He turned and sprinted toward the back of the buildings, not waiting for approval from Ovrun and Zeisha. They all clambered over a short fence. The house was about a clommet away. They jogged, their gasps bouncing off the surrounding buildings.