The Turner Chronicles Box Set Edition

by Mark Eller

  "This," Aaron told them, "is too much information at once. I think it's time to get some sleep. If I stay up any longer the two of you will only depress me more."

  "Do you want me to tuck you in?" Sarah asked sweetly.

  "Will you be staying?"

  "No dear, not without Cathy. I won't even let us be seriously tempted. That's why I had Miss Hawks put our beds so far apart."

  That figured. She and the world conspired against him.

  Sarah turned serious. "Aaron, you do know that if things become too difficult you can always find someone who is willing to give you a quick tumble. Honestly, neither Cathy nor I will have a problem with that. Jealousy over other women is just not in us. It isn't in any woman. We can't afford it because it gives our men a reason to leave."

  "You told me that before."

  "Perhaps if you were to ask Miss Hawks?"

  "I suppose I could have sex with him," the indicated lady reluctantly said. "After all, he has done enough for me." Her enthusiasm was warm enough to freeze lava.

  "Maybe another time."

  "Offer's there." Miss Hawks shrugged and finished the dregs of her drink. "To bed then."

  "To bed," Aaron agreed. Leaving the women, he stood, headed up the stairs, and crawled into his bed. After he lay down he wondered if he should have accepted Miss Hawk's offer after all. The way things were going, he was probably going to be this world's first twenty-five year-old male virgin. That thought gave him pause. After doing some quick figuring he realized that he had made a mistake. His birthday had been yesterday.

  Damn. That meant he really was a twenty-five year-old virgin. Uh oh, thinking of birthdays, he had come very close to making a huge mistake. Cathy would turn sixteen in another week. He needed to find her a nice present.

  But that was for later. This was now, and right now he really wanted another one of those very strong drinks. In fact, he wanted several.

  Rising, he left the room, went down the stairs, and into the dining room. Though the ladies were in bed, the bottle was still out.

  "Fine," he said out loud as he poured himself another drink. Because he did not want to just sit and drink, he pulled a sheet of paper and a pencil from the writing desk and started doodling. Before he knew exactly what he was doing he had drawn up a speculative perspective of how a canning factory would best be laid out. He even put in rail lines. He drew the size and shape of his projected rail cars and designed the type of harness the horses would need to do the pulling.

  Gods No! He looked at what he had done with disbelief. With near panicky movements he picked the paper up and tore it into shreds. Taking the pieces, he went over to the unused fireplace and threw them in it and then used his lighter to ignite them.

  No way, there was no way he was going to get himself involved in another project. Stress reduction was the only way to go. If Miss Hawks sank her teeth into this project it would give Aaron nothing but two years of headaches.

  With that potential problem avoided, he poured himself the rest of the bottle and took his glass when he went back to bed.

  * * *

  Aaron woke the next morning to an otherworldly, disjointed, washed out sort of feeling. From behind his closed door came the faint sound of voices, and then masculine laughter.

  He had a headache, but that was not a real problem. After the amount of alcohol he had drunk he more than deserved a headache.

  He manfully pulled himself upright as the laughter faded away. Clumsily fumbling, he fuzzily pulled on the clothes he had dropped beside the bed the night before. Feeling a lump in his front pants pocket, Aaron reached in and pulled it out. He smiled and laughed at himself. It was the refrigerator magnet that had become his unofficial mascot. He thought about throwing the thing away but decided not to do that here. Most likely Miss Hawks would find it and then he would have to spend an awful amount of time explaining to her exactly what it was and why it said Keefer Custom Knives on its front. After shoving the magnet back into his pocket, Aaron took stock of his room since he had not paid it proper mind the night before.

  He had a dresser with a mirror, and there was, yes, a chair before the dresser. The mirror told him he had serious appearance problems so he looked through the dresser drawers until he found a comb. Of late, keeping his hair straight and neat was getting harder. He really needed that haircut soon. He had made a sort of promise to Mister Golard weeks ago that he would come visiting.

  The comb did wonders for his hair but nothing for his glaring red eyes. He needed to find cool water and a rag to help those.

  Aaron left his room, wishing he had brought aspirin but a small chaser might put his head back in order. He walked halfway down the hall before stopping to check out his surroundings.

  Something seemed different. Things seemed--unnatural.

  Remembering the sound of laughter, a chill settled into his bones. His head throbbed and something tangy filled the air. He walked again, taking slow, measured steps that did not jar his head. Gods, his brain felt fuzzy. A man ought to know better than to suck down so much alcohol when he wasn't used to it.

  Reaching the stairs leading down to the main floor, he stopped and stared while his heart thumped a heavy beat. Pain shot through his skull. A cold freeze ran across his spine and beads of sweat broke across his forehead.

  A man lay on the steps. Thin wisps of hair partially covered a sunburned head. Thick gray beard. Mister Moorehouse.

  Aaron's head pounded as he gingerly walked down the stairs one unreal step at a time. Drops of blood gleamed wetly on the center of the stairway and a small pool lay on the third step up from Mister Moorehouse's head. Blood surrounded the handyman. The sick feeling in Aaron's stomach said Moorehouse was not sleeping. The man was dead.

  He approached slowly, knelt by the body, and saw that Moorehouse had not died by accident. A series of jagged tears ran along the entire front and left side of the handyman's neck. Blood lay black on the bare wood floor, sticking in congealed globs to Aaron's shoes. More blood had shot over the stair railing to land on the floor several feet away.

  Nostrils quivering at the stench of blood and defecation, Aaron looked around slowly. His stomach lurched eerily, and his knees shook. A figure appeared in the open end of the hallway.

  "This way, Storeman. You better follow right along with me because your girlfriends need you." Eric, the escaped murderer from the bank, gestured expansively. "Follow me, Storeman, an' I might not kill them. Then again, maybe I will."

  The madman's grin grew huge and friendly. His eyes glistened with insane joy. "I've been watching you. I looked through your luggage last night while you slept. You lay there on your bed, snoring while I rummaged through everything you have. Guess what I found; you don't have one of those boomers. You don't even have a knife." He shook his head sadly. "Really, Mister Turner. I can't believe you brought nothing except that bow. Seems a rich man like you should take better care of himself. There's no telling what kind of people you might run into."

  Mind tumbling, Aaron rose slowly. "What have you done with them?"

  Could he jump the man? Eric was larger and stronger than Aaron, and he was undoubtedly a much better fighter since he had not spent the better part of his life as a cripple. Enough time had passed since the robbery that Eric's bullet wound was probably not bothering him too much anymore, so that was not a consideration.

  A weapon? The body had nothing near it that he could use. Could he make it back to his room? Probably. Then what? He would have a chair he could throw or blankets he could wrap the madman in. Aaron somehow doubted a thrown chair or thin blankets would intimidate Eric.

  "Me?" Eric asked innocently. "I haven't done a thing to them. Don't know what the others are doing though. Sometimes my brother, Gregory, is hard to control. Truth is, he isn't as reasonable as I am."

  Others? If Aaron somehow escaped or killed Eric, Sarah would be murdered or worse. What about Miss Hawks?

  Eric's expression turned nasty. "Come or not. I'll have
my fun either way." He turned and left. "Sometimes they last for hours," he shouted over his shoulder. "Sometimes they die real quick. I've been making a study on the matter. Been thinking that I might even publish my research someday."

  Mouth dry, Aaron followed.

  Eric, another man who from all appearances had to be Eric's brother, and a heavyset gargoyle of a woman waited in the dining room. The woman's hungry eyes shredded him with their intensity, weighing him, testing his mettle with her spiteful stare. She saw something in him and began chuckling a low contemptuous laugh--and then Mister Haarod Beech, stepped into view.

  Eric held a bronze and bloody knife in his hand. Closely watching Aaron with wildly challenging eyes, he slowly licked it clean.

  The buttons of her heavy work shirt torn away, Miss Hawks lay unconscious on the floor, one side of her freckled face purpling. The top swell of one breast, visible from where her shirt had been pulled aside, rose and fell with her breathing.

  Sarah sat, bound. Ropes tied her hands behind her and fastened her feet to the heavy oak dinning chair. A gag was shoved into her mouth. Face flushed, she tried to suck breath through a broken nose. Blood trickled over the bloody gag, onto her chin and dripped onto her shirt. Her eyes fumed.

  Lovingly holding Sarah's new sword in his hands, Beech stepped forward.

  "Mister Turner. I find it difficult to believe I lusted for one of your pretty knives when this beauty waited for me. Your girlfriend's sword is everything I wanted and more than I hoped for." He pointed the sword at the dining table. Soundlessly, the table vibrated and shifted, and then it dissolved into fine grains of powdered wood that dispersed thickly into the air before drifting to the floor. Aaron coughed when dust entered his lungs, coughed again, and then held his breath until the cloud dispersed slightly.

  "Do you realize how much effort that would have taken me before I had this fine beauty in my hands?" Beech finally said. "A while back I would have strained so hard that my skin bled. Why, I bled a lot just a few nights ago when I had a little argument with a late Clan Chieftain over some future plans of mine. Now, with this..." Beech held up the sword. "Nothing is beyond me. Having this in my hand increases my power more than I ever dreamed possible. Thank you--Mister--Turner."

  "Now can I kill her?" Eric begged. He knelt down by Miss Hawks and reached out with his knife. Two twists of his wrist flipped open her shirt, completely baring her breasts to his view. Giggling, he pressed its tip beneath her bare sternum and licked his lips.

  "Eric," his brother admonished, holding out a delicate, almost manicured, hand. "I told you it's better if they are alive. You draw blood and hear them scream, and when you are done you can still kill them. It's a rush." He laughed. His laugh started low and rose in intensity and volume until it shook off the walls. It was the laugh of a madman, the laugh of insanity. He laughed, and then he cackled without drawing a breath for a full minute while Eric patiently waited to reply.

  "Too warm, Gregory," Eric said emotionlessly when his brother finally ran out of air. "I like them cold. I like them ice cold."

  Aaron couldn't take anymore. His nerves were shot, and the little courage he owned felt like it had run out of his toes. "Tell me what you want!" he demanded. "Leave them alone and I'll give you what you want!"

  The Gargoyle slugged him in the heart.

  "Gahh." Aaron fell over backwards, hit the floor hard, bounced twice, and landed in a loose sprawl. His back protested where his knife wound was healing but he did not care about that. A sliced open back and ripped stitches was a small matter when he fought so hard for breath. His heart stopped as he tried to suck in a hint of air. It stuttered, stopped, stuttered once more, and then began beating in a painful, irregular rhythm.

  Looking disappointed, the gargoyle turned to Gregory "Only two."

  Gregory shook his head sympathetically. "Are you sure?"

  "Couple of the others bent, but I only broke two."

  Gregory sighed sadly and ran red wet fingers through his short dark hair. "Melissa. Are you getting old on me? You've always been good for at least three ribs. I remember one time when you busted four."

  "As you can see," Beech said politely, "we don't really want anything from you." He paused. "Well, maybe a little revenge. Yes, that would do us well. Can you understand how much I hate you? You frightened me in that store when you stood up to me, and you had all that steel in front of you. I thought it was all tuned to you. I thought you were the most powerful Talent Master alive. Now I find that you are only an impotent little man with a little Talent, less courage, and very good connections."

  Leaning forward slightly, he gestured with the sword and part of the floor dissolved beside Aaron. Dust drifted up and sifted into his gasping mouth as Aaron tried to suck enough air into his lungs to keep himself going. His chest hurt like a demon, and his damnable head throbbed and pounded like it wanted to explode. The dust caught in his throat, was sucked into his gasping lungs, and he bent double in agony.

  "Ka--Ka--Ka."

  "Oh stop that coughing Turner," Beech scolded. "It's irritating. It's almost as irritating as discovering that I was afraid of a nothing. I was frightened of you. OF YOU!" He laughed loudly. "I don't like being afraid. If I don't kill you for no other reason, I will have to kill you for that."

  Aaron caught hold of half a breath. "Let them go," he rasped. "They--"

  "They die," Beech continued. "Miss Townsend helped kill my men when they were innocently trying to raise money to buy your knife." He paused and then released a big grin. "Of course, there was a little matter of needing funds for a conquest. We can't forget that. I have an empire to win and a bunch of savages who are so stupid they will follow anybody with a plan."

  Unbelieving, Aaron watched the man gloat.

  "The redhead is going to die," Beech continued, "because Eric has never killed a redhead before. Besides, sweet little Melissa wants to eat her heart." He shrugged. "You know how it is. Sometimes you have to allow unpleasant things to keep your people happy."

  Melissa smiled widely. File pointed teeth gleamed. "I like it all," she said in a grave-loving voice. "I like the heart best."

  "Eric, leave her be. I want her first." Gregory cat-walked over to Eric just as Eric started sawing away at Miss Hawk's bare nipple with his knife. Blood, running from the cut, turned her breast red. Laughing, Eric lowered himself down so he could bury his face in the bloody breast. His lips fastened over the half severed nipple, and he began suckling like he was a hungry child. Red fluid pooled on Miss Hawk's stomach, running from lines Eric had carved into her flesh.

  Cackling gleefully, Gregory started cutting away her pants. He wasn't careful to only cut cloth. Blood spurted from Miss Hawk's right thigh when the knife bit too deep. Mouth open in a wide grin, Gregory set the finger of his left hand in the blood, and then used those fingers to draw crimson lines across his cheeks.

  "Wait!"

  Knife edge once again pressed against Miss Hawk's thigh, scowling Gregory paused at Aaron's shout. "What now?"

  Eric raised his bloody face, his features twisted into an unrecognizable mask.

  "A question," Aaron gasped, sick and hurt and disgusted. He thanked God that Miss Hawks was unconscious, and he prayed he could find a way to get her out of this. Gods, let this prayer be different from so many of the others. Please let this one be answered. "What is this conquest? Maybe I can help somehow."

  Shrugging, Gregory continued his self-given chore. He jerked the rags of Miss Hawks' pants away, showing that she wore nothing underneath. Her thighs bled from several wounds where his knife had cut deep. "I don't care anything about that."

  "I do," Beech said. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a small stone. His fingers fondled it like it was a lover. "I've been given the gift of this nice wonderful Talent Stone, and now I have my new sword. A man needs to take advantage of gifts like those. He needs to think of his future and--."

  Suddenly stiffening, Beech turned alarmed eyes to Aaron. "There is another
Talent Stone here! I feel its resonance."

  "Talent?" Aaron suddenly realized that he had his own Talent. He could transport to another world, except there was no way he could accomplish that now. He had never been able to backtrack this soon after returning to Isabella--but--his ability was increasing, and it had acted strange the last time he used it, and he sure had one hell of a lot of motivation. Maybe. Maybe.

  Damn. Was this the answer to his prayer?

  Could he leave the women?

  Eric inserted his finger into the hole he had cut into Miss Hawks' breast. His face became ecstatic, and his pants bore a huge bulge. Grinning, he wiggled his finger deeper into the wound.

  Gregory leaned low and slowly licked at Miss Hawk's inner thighs, drawing her blood into his mouth like it was the finest of wines.

  "The heart," the Gargoyle whispered. "Give me the heart." She leaned anxiously forward, eyes fastened greedily on the bleeding flesh. Miss Hawks groaned but remained unconscious while Eric dug his fingers deeper.

  Aaron had to try taking the women with him even if he had strained his resources carrying just a few extra coins the last time he transferred over. What would Cathy do if she did not see Sarah and him again? Could he pull them with him? What would it do to the women if he only partly succeeded? It could kill them. No, it would kill them because their mass was too much for his ability. Still, he had carried more supplies back over here than he had ever carried before. Maybe he was strong enough now. Maybe.

  He had no choice but to try. He would not leave his friends to these madmen. The women would come with him or they would all die. There was no other way.

  Do it.

  Eric began peeling skin away from Miss Hawks' breast, ripping it free with a wet sound that made Aaron's skin crawl. Eric's insane laughter matched that of Gregory's. Miss Hawks tossed her head and groaned.