“Alanna...” Vaughn begins softly.
Her eyes narrow at him. “Silence, Vaughn. I know you wish to be with her.”
Vaughn's neck grow ruddy, his ears bursting into flames.
Not awkward, not awkward at all.
Calia moves backward, bumping into the wall of Philip's chest. He responsively wraps his arms around her.
Alanna says, “Someone will take responsibility for Edwin's death.”
Jim notices no one raises a hand so he proves his stupidity. “Listen, Alanna?” Jim asks. She says nothing, and he quickly plunges forward, “The Fragment killed your son. Calia's lost a brother—she didn't want Edwin to die. She wanted to be with Philip, but did as Edwin asked and came here instead. I'm sorry for your loss, but I think you've missed some important issues.”
Her face screws into a frown. “What gibberish is this?” Alanna asks, interrupting Jim.
God damn.
So much for trying to be reasonable when no one else is. “Edwin is gone,” Jim rants, swinging his palm at Calia, “but your daughter is here! Hello!” Jim taps his temple.
Vaughn moves toward Jim, and he scoots out of reach. “Don't, pal. Let's get along here.”
“Vaughn!” Elise shouts, “do not harm Jim!”
Jim really digs Elise, but right now, he's busy getting his clock cleaned.
Jim dodges Vaughn only to have Zaid plow a fist into his gut.
Jim doubles over, panting.
Assholes.
A hand lands on his shoulder and Jim evasively twists, dislodging the hand as he grabs it, promptly bending the finger back and breaking it. Snap, crackle, pop!
These guys can suck it!
Zaid bellows and wraps Jim in a bear hug.
Jim can just make out the fucked up digit, courtesy of him.
There's no getting out of a hold from one of these guys so Jim feigns dropping instead and shouts, “Big guy!”
Philip wades in, and shit runs downhill like shit through a goose.
Chapter 6
Jim
Jim rolls over, groaning. Every bone he has and ones he doesn't hurts. He feels like hell, and on top of everything—he's starving. Still.
Philip stands from his crouch at the corner of whatever pleasant place they're stuck inside.
“Jim.”
“Phil,” Jim says and gasps. “Damn, man!” He clutches his aching ribs. “That bastard Zaid tap danced on my ribcage.”
Philip smiles slightly. “You took quite a beating.”
Jim gives him a long-suffering look. “Yeah, great. That part was kinda unclear, big guy.”
They stare at each other. “I assisted you,” Philip reminds in a bland voice.
Jim nods. “What'd you do, help?”
Philip's face darkens.
“Settle, big guy.” Jim's palm moves up and down and he falls back on the ground, a thin pad underneath him. The cold seeps through into his skinny ass.
“Why did I not go home?” he mourns out loud.
Philip's jaw moves back and forth. “Home?”
Jim comes clean. “Yeah,” he starts, sitting up. His stomach rolls, and he covers it with an arm. “I could have gone straight to my world.”
Philip stands, crossing his arms, and paces to the slit-like doorway. His head brushes the ceiling of the tent.
Jim shoots up, groans, and falls back on his ass. Philip whirls.
“Where are the girls?”
A sour expression comes over Philip's healing face. Bruises pepper most of his body.
I guess he did go to town on the Band thugness.
“Dining.”
Jim eyes him. “You trust those guys to be okay to them?”
“Oh yes,” Philip replies in a flat voice.
Jim freezes. “What do you mean, Phil? I mean, what force of nature would keep you from being with Calia?”
Philip turns a troubled countenance to Jim, and his expression puts the kibosh on Jim's pain, causing him to hold his breath.
“The force of nature that predicates I cannot advocate for her if I am dead.”
An exhale bursts out of Jim and he cringes. “So Alanna?”
“Is clamoring for justice.” An exhausted sigh squeezes out of Philip.
“Wait—what?” Jim's mind revolts. He's no intellectual slouch but he can't wrap his brain around this. “That's not fair!” Jim yells, standing on his feet again.
Jim studies Philip's face, realization shaking him to the core. “Okay, so what's this looney bitch want?”
Jim watches Philip struggle to translate. “I give up my position in the Rite of the Select, and recant any claim to Calia.”
Jim's jaw drops.
“She then agrees to partake in the Rite or be shunned forever.”
Jim wants to hyperventilate. “Okay? So what. Calia never wanted to come here to begin with.” He punches the air with his fists.
Philip turns to fully face him. “And you die in place of the Fragment.”
Jim staggers back, arms dropping.
“Ah—no. I'm not with those guys.”
Philip's eyebrows jerk.
Jim rolls his eyes, making his painful way to Philip. “I mean, I'm from their world. I am a Traveler but I'm the good guy,” Jim jabs his thumb to his chest. “I'm not some lowlife—I'm a doctor of genetics. A lab geek.” With some Karate skills.
Philip looks more and more confused as Jim elaborates.
I should've been a linguist. Instead Jim's got his thumb up his ass trying to explain.
Jim squeezes the hair on his head and howls, “Lame!”
“Jim,” Philip says.
Jim paces back and forth. “Yeah?”
“If Calia partakes in the Rite, you live.”
Jim's pulse tries to leap out of his throat. “What about you?”
“I will not be allowed to mate Calia.”
“No,” Jim denies.
Philip wears the hard mask the Band all seem to put on when shit gets saucy.
After all they've been through together. “There's got to be another way,” Jim laments.
Philip shakes his head.
A sudden idea flashes inside Jim's brain like a lightning strike. His spontaneous grin makes Philip's features come together like a storm.
Jim walks to Philip, and grabs a shoulder. “Don't worry about it, I've got an idea.”
Philip's head bends to Jim's, and a plan is divulged inside the prison of the tent.
*
Elise
Elise cannot stymie the flow of tears that stream down Calia's face. She lifts a rag and blots her friend's cold cheeks.
“Do not, Calia—Alanna does not matter.”
“I cannot believe she is my mother.”
Alanna is wicked.
Both women have been through too much to not survive this.
“Was there even a whisper that the Clan of Massachusetts was of ill repute?”
Calia's fists squeeze against her damp eyes as she shakes her head. “No,” she replies almost too softly to hear.
“We must escape.”
“They will kill Jim,” Calia says, her grief-stricken eyes finding Elise.
Elise sighs. They are a ragtag party, that much is certain, but Jim has become part of her family.
She does not wish to lose him under any circumstance within her control. But to force Calia to partake in a Rite where Philip is disallowed? Where virtual strangers fight over her like a dog with a favorite bone? And her own mother is coercing her—even her excuse of grief is not enough to justify forcing Calia.
“There must be some way.” Elise gnaws at her lip, twisting the soft fabric of the cloth, damp with Calia's sadness.
“There is nothing,” Calia answers in a small voice. “I have lived all my life with freedom—without a male or protection. Yet,” her eyes are liquid gold sadness, “that liberty is soulless without Philip.”
And now she does not even have her warrior of the Band.
“I would rather
die than be imprisoned through threats.”
Elise covers her mouth, eyes wide and achy. “No.”
Calia sits up, swinging her feet to the floor of their small tent. She stands, and walks to the opening. She strokes the ties that bind the flap. Heat from the small wood stove pulses around them.
Beads of sweat appear on her forehead, her lips edged in blue.
“Most decidedly, yes.” Calia's eyes are wild as she looks at Elise. “Think on it. My mother does not care for me. I was a tool for her. Without Edwin—I am nothing. My death will give her nothing to use.”
Elise rushes to Calia, hugging her fiercely, reading the message in her words.
“Do not even think to take your own life, Calia.”
Calia strokes Elise's hair as they hold each other.
“It is too late, Elise.”
Calia's hand opens, and a small pouch rolls from her palm. Herbs spill onto the ground, and Calia's body begins to drop.
Elise softens Calia's fall with her body.
But as Calia's life ebbs, Elise realizes catching her is not near enough.
*
Jim
“This is going to work—don't even think it won't.”
Philip growls as the knife rises from the deep cut of his arm. “I do not take joy in wounding myself.”
Jim sighs.
“Listen,” Jim moves too fast, and whistles pain through his teeth. “The tree guys are like sharks.”
Philip frowns.
“Big fish with lots of teeth that love blood.”
Jim waits.
Philip shrugs.
Right. “Anyway, these sharks can detect a drop of blood in one part per million.”
Philip looks at his bleeding forearm. “You might explain more later. And this will not work if they did not ʻmake a loop,ʼ as you say.”
Jim is taking a gamble that Ulric traveled a bridge within the Pathway that simply circled around in close proximity to where the original portal is located, buying them time.
He's also banking on how tenacious Ulric is.
“Don't sweat that. Just do your thing. You do you.”
Philip translates. “They will be suspicious.”
Of course. “That's fine, just get your mighty ass out there, and fling your blood all over the place.”
“Ulric is our enemy.”
Jim nods. “Yup. But he will come running like the dinner bell is ringing. If my speculations hold true, the tree guys rely heavily on scent. And they know the scent of all of us. The blood will amplify that unique calling card.”
Philip shakes his head. “Ulric will come because he owns our scents,” Philip reiterates.
Jim semi-crouches, jumping into the air with a fist and groans, clutching his aching ribs. “Ouch—shit. You got it. And,” his eyes meet a smiling Philip, “yeah, yuk it up. Anyway, you've got nothing to lose, right?”
Philip inclines his head as a steady stream of blood splatters the dirt floor from his hanging arm. “Except, Calia.”
“Right—” Jim's eyes pierce Philip's. “We need the monkey guys.”
“It is dangerous, Jim.”
“And this isn't?” Jim asks, swinging his palm at their tight little prison tent.
Philip stares at Jim for a handful of seconds then he runs for the flap and bursts through.
He does what Jim instructed, knocking the Band stationed at the door on his ass, and running straight for the sand dunes.
Dark drops of blood fall on sand like pale sugar.
Members of the corrupt Clan of Massachusetts rush after Philip, daggers in hand.
Jim smiles.
“Come to papa,” Jim calls softly, inviting the enemy like the savior they might be.
The Tree Men will give the clan a run for their money.
Chapter 7
Ulric
Surprisingly, Tab and Brom erupt from the “evil tunnel” first, with Ulric getting tossed on top of them in a heap of limbs.
First miracle: no one breaks anything.
Second miracle: It is nighttime where they land.
Though Men of the Tree do not often travel extensively, it is well known that traveling further east brings the sun earlier.
They traveled east, hurtling after the convenient scent trail the Traveler, Jim, had left behind.
Fool.
Soon-to-be-dead fool. Ulric smiles, leaping off the top of Brom and Tab with an anticipatory grin.
Tab falters when he catches sight of his expression.
“What's has put that smile on your face?” Brom asks.
“I but ruminate about how greedy my hands will be to beat Jim into a pulp when I come upon him.”
The males smile at each other.
Then the smell hits them.
Delicious—vital.
“Band blood,” Tab breathes out reverently.
Ulric nods. “Fresh.”
“I know that scent,” Brom says to Ulric.
They look at each other. “It comes from five miles east of our position.”
“Beside the sea?” Tab asks, and gives a minute shake of his head. “That is where the clan by the sea reside. The trees are a half-mile from that position. We would be trapped without the canopy as protection.”
Ulric palms his jaw, moving it back and forth, trying to ease the tension of the last few hours. He is tired.
He needs blood.
His fangs lengthen at the thought and he doesn't bother to cover his hunger—his needs.
“What you say is true, Tabben. However, where familiar blood flows, the women might also be. I remember this one.”
“Philip,” Brom supplies his name and Ulric nods. The scent of blood varies from one being to the next. Very like a fingerprint.
“He was one of the Band who thought he would mate with her.”
Tab snorts in derision. “Is she of the tree?”
“No,” Ulric answers, “the other female has a bit of our lineage, but the other, Calia—she is definitely able to be a mate of an alpha.”
“Pure Select,” Brom states as fact, for it is.
“Yes.”
Tab whistles softly. “That is a treasure—to find two females who can become part of the tree.”
“Yes, it is,” Ulric says, turning sharply to the other male, he bares his teeth.
Tab backs away, throwing up his palms in a warding off gesture. “I am here simply to assist. It is better that one of our clans have more females than none at all.”
Ulric ignores his concessions. “I have heard there are two clans by the sea. One treats their women fairly, and the other cages them in isolation for some ridiculous rite of forced mating.”
Tab cocks his head. “Ah. I have heard that, but the tale goes deeper,” he leans forward and continues in a low voice, “our clan resides much more closely to these sea clans, and I have heard the Rite of the Select is based on Traveler magic. The Evil Ones.”
Ulric's brows knot. He had not heard that. “And what is this for?”
Tab lifts a shoulder. “The Band do not disseminate knowledge willingly.”
Ulric smiles slyly, folding his arms. “Fine, what did the captured Band say unwillingly?”
They chuckle together at the imagined torture of a male of the Band—not an easy foe to capture. There is no love lost from the distant cousin of the Men of the Tree. After all, Men of the Tree are first species. Primary.
“His tale was not many of their women are pure Select, and even those are rarer still. That they protect their Select females as aggressively as we protect all our females. The Fragment are ever-present,” he adds unnecessarily.
“Aye,” Brom asserts softly.
“So there are females who would be open to being outside this misguided clan of the sea?” Ulric presses.
“Not that the male Band would admit readily,” Tab replies dryly.
“But the clear meaning was this rite was...?”
“Something for the males to hold over the females to fo
rce culpability if they do not participate.”
Another wafting fragrance of blood has Ulric's fangs throbbing. He is weak from the two episodes of travel in the bridge. His gut is empty and his mind feral with his anger. A toxic combination.
Ulric raises his face to study the sky where a half-moon shines indifferently down on the males.
“We have approximately six hours until sunrise.” Ulric doesn't elaborate. Brom knows exactly what his words do not say.
“We attack and feed with whatever loose male who roams on the edges of the clan, then find the women?” Tab guesses, looking between the two of them.
Ulric nods. Yet, as an alpha male of his own clan of the tree, he must be clear. “Protection from the sun might only come in the form of a structure not of nature.”
Tab stares at Ulric for a handful of suspended seconds. “I agree.”
Ulric turns to give a curt nod at Brom, but he's already running toward the scent.
The headiest fragrance of all.
Blood of the Band.
*
Jim
It's not really funny. But somehow, the pain in Jim's ribs isn’t enough to stop his giddy ass from laughing.
He runs after Philip as he exits the tent, watching him fling his blood as wildly as Jim had hoped he would.
Awesome.
Three of the Band, (Jim sees that one of the three is Zaid, the douchenozzle), chase after Phil.
Jim shivers. He's fucking hungrier than a hippo and cold as hell. But he can't let the big guy do all the dirty work.
When Jim became brave is anyone's guess.
And perplexing as this new trend is, he's definitely a lover of having his ass kicked, and boy do the Band boys bring it.
Jim thinks of something critical, turns around, and spies his backpack heaved in the corner of the tent.
Jim grunts. Guess some of my brains slid out my ears when I was getting my ass handed to me.
Not only does he have his genetic sample collector, he also has a first rate, high tech healing kit. Which, given the broiling chaos in the world of the spheres, he totally spaced on.
He's only got one get out of jail free card. The kit can only be used for one oh shit injury.
Jim feels like this getting beat up and starvation circle is sort of his new temp life. He cups his chin, deliberating about the merits of using the kit right now.
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