Chosen (The Warrior Chronicles, 1)

by K. F. Breene

  “I need a nap. Join me.” He patted the bed next to him, his eyes still closed.

  He wasn’t smiling but his tone was light. He was telling a joke, she was sure of it. It wasn’t amusing.

  “I’ll just… give you some time. On your own.” And she flew out the door in search of a cluster of trees where she could wait him out. She didn’t miss the dark chuckle as she shut the door behind her.

  Chapter 31

  It felt like his hair was on fire, starting from the follicles. Sanders blinked his eyes and shook his head, trying to rid his head of the constant stream of sweat.

  In the dark hovel where they kept him, they had hit him with pain before even bothering with the first question. Still panting, they’d stripped bare and sprayed him with freezing water. Still no questions came. Next they strapped him to a chair and hit him with more pain.

  And here he sat, clenching his teeth so as not to scream, waiting patiently for eventual death. Part of him hoped Shanti would come. She would strut through the door in a violet-eyed rage, throw her brain around however she did it, and have them groveling to tell her all they knew. He’d seen it. He was positive that what he was feeling was nothing compared to what she could do.

  He sighed in relief as the pain washed away.

  “Now, Sir Commander, we have a couple questions for you.”

  Sanders nodded at the familiar voice, his breath rising and falling, his heart hammering so hard his chest vibrated. “Fire away.”

  “Auh-hem.” It was a throat clear. A small man stepped into view behind the bars. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and gray pants. His hair was muddy brown and his skin was as fair as Shanti’s. Next to him stood a man with a similar stature, though hunched slightly, wearing all black.

  “I am so sorry to do this to you, of course,” said the white shirted man.

  “Oh, of course, yes.” Sanders chuckled darkly. What was the point of being polite when you were torturing somebody?

  “If you answer my questions the pain will stop. If you do not, then it will continue.”

  “Seems straight forward. How will you know if I lie?”

  White Shirt gestured toward Black Shirt. “He will know.”

  “I guess I’ll just take your word for it.”

  A man wearing a brown sack scurried up with a stool and placed it directly behind White Shirt. He then scurried away like a rodent. Although, even a rodent would be noticed. That man had been invisible. This must be the hierarchy Shanti had been talking about.

  “Tell me about this Captain of yours.” White Shirt sat down and crossed his legs, the model of patience. He had all day. Or night. It was impossible to tell time in the belly of a dungeon. That was part of the purpose of the environment—that alone could drive people to madness.

  Sanders pretended to think, angling his head to the dungeon ceiling. “Well, he is a tall man, prone to fits of anger, but really just a soft little teddy bear on the inside—”

  Pain. Like sand blasting his open eye, scrubbing away at the retina, digging into his soft membranes. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t help, the pain so acute he could barely think.

  Sanders’ whole body flexed, trying to rip his hands away from the chair legs where they were tied and so he could shield himself. After a year or a minute, the pain stopped suddenly, the memory of the pain lingering.

  “Shall we try that again?” Rhetorical question. Sanders didn’t bother answering. “What type of person is this Captain?”

  “He likes reading, long walks in the forest, has a warm heart and a soft spot for perky—“ A blast so hot it turned his vision white. Razors scraped across his bare eye.

  When he could breathe again, Sanders said, “—women, but I bet you thought I was going to say breasts!”

  White Shirt stared at him for a long moment. “Full power.”

  Black Shirt answered in a brutal, concise language Sanders had only heard for the first time recently. He wished again that Shanti were here. She would know what they were saying. She had spent a few sessions with their guest speaking his language. That had really rattled him. Sanders should have tried to learn.

  The next stretch of pain wrapped around Time and warped it. Small needles sticking into his retina, then moving out to the whites. Nowhere else, just his eyes. Sanders wondered if they could blind him. He wondered if it would hurt just as much after. He bet it probably would. They weren’t actually touching him, so this was something going on in his head. It would remain even if his eyes were plucked out, he was sure of it.

  “Now, again, tell me about this Captain. What are his weaknesses?” White Shirt was a persistent little fucker.

  “Beautiful women. But then, we all have that problem, don’t we?”

  “Not all. Does he have a particular beautiful woman?”

  “He has a whole list of them, actually.” Sanders panted for a moment, light headed. Then went on. “If you are trying to get in his pants, you have a lot of competition. He is a bit of a ladies man, if you know what I mean.”

  Another blast, but this time much less potent. A mild finger prod instead of a sharp needle prick.

  Black Shirt swayed wildly, falling into the wall. The pain cut off as he muttered something to White Shirt.

  White Shirt waved him away, staring at Sanders with a patient air.

  “Staring contest, huh? Just as bad. I’ll sit this one out.” Sanders hung his head, wishing for another nap.

  A shuffle had him glancing up, noticing another guy in a black shirt, this one the size of a woman but lacking the breasts. He took the place of the first.

  “Oh good, we have enough for a party,” Sanders said flippantly, wondering how many torturers they had. “I hope you guys dance.”

  “How is the government set up?” White Shirt asked.

  “You need a name,” Sanders decided. “I like to get names of those I am intimate with. I will call you Betty. And your friend there will be Martha.” Betty raised his eyebrows, his smile dwindling. “Our government is set up with members who care. Bleeding hearts, some of them. Dull lot of—“

  This time the pain was all around his skull in a throb. It was kind of a dull ache. It was the worst headache he’d ever had, basically. Less awful than the eye scrub. Small miracles.

  “Seems Martha has different talents,” Sanders wheezed. “Not fair taking turns, though. There is only one of me and two of you. But I guess we know who has the most stamina.”

  “Do you have reason to believe your Captain will come for you?”

  “Oh no, why would he? He and I rarely see each other. He’ll probably send some other troop, if he sends anyone at all.”

  Martha said a couple words in their choking language.

  White Shirt smiled in a placating sort of way. “You are lying.”

  “Yup. But about which part? Him coming, or him and I seeing each other?”

  Martha shook his head. There was another exchange and suddenly it felt like his head was being split down the middle. He wanted to reach up and see if his brain was oozing out the sides.

  He missed Junice. He didn’t want to die down in this hovel and never see his baby. The selfish part of him did hope the Captain came. If anyone could get him out, it was the Captain. Or Shanti.

  When the pain receded, Martha was swaying.

  “You boys don’t last long do ya?” Sanders rasped.

  “They will regain strength. Will you?”

  Sanders tried to shrug. He tried not to let his head hang. He managed neither. Thankfully they were out of torturers for the moment. They apparently didn’t believe in physical labor, which was fine by him. He closed his eyes and let sleep take the pain away.

  Chapter 32

  Later that night, Shanti found herself sitting cross legged under a large Elm tree, balanced and relaxed, making peace with the undercurrent of power alive in her body. Cayan sat across from her, also cross-legged, dressed in loose sweats. It was slightly disconcerting having such a large man, mos
tly a stranger, so close without weapons handy, especially after the last year of being alone and hunted, but she was determined to attempt this. She needed to see where her future lay, and he was pivotal in that. Plus, there was no embarrassing personal mess outdoors, and there was much more room to scuffle or run away, so this was probably a better situation.

  Cayan sat peacefully, focused on Shanti, his hands on his thighs. He’d slept in her bed all afternoon while she’d slept in a copse of trees, cursing him. Finally, when he left, she headed back and stared in disbelief at the disturbed sheets. He’d crawled inside. He’d also moved her strip of purple undergarment to the table with the candle supplies. It was crossing the line, but she was too embarrassed to complain to Lucius about it and ask about retaliation protocol. Instead, she’d stripped the sheets so as to have Molly wash them of his smell, which was some sort of mannish musk. It wasn’t unpleasant but…still.

  He’d met her in the trees at dark, as she’d asked. She hadn’t told him where she was, knowing he’d find her regardless. And he had.

  “You need to ground yourself,” she started, not sure where to look but not wanting to meet his eyes. “Feel the trees around you. Feel the ground under you. Feel the air, notice if it moves, notice how it interacts with the leaves. Center yourself in the world around you. Try to clear your mind.”

  A quick glance revealed that he was looking at her.

  “It helps if you close your eyes when you’re learning…”

  He held her gaze for a moment before closing his eyes.

  “Let me know when you feel balanced. When you let go of all your worries, and all the things you have to do, and whatever else that goes on in your head.”

  She could just make out a dimple deepening in the moonlight. It meant he was smiling. Or smirking. Probably thinking she sounded ridiculous. Which she kind of did. She was used to working with kids.

  “Ready,” he said quietly in his deep gravel.

  “Now you need to open your mind like a flower.”

  She watched him, noting a crease between his eyebrows as he looked inward. She took this opportunity to assess him without interruption. His masculine face looked like it was chiseled from stone, then sanded by a great artist. His bone structure was defined and symmetrical, with dark bushy brows that gave his eye sockets a striking depth. When he wasn’t busy being so serious and in control, he had a pleasant vibe about him—a charisma that exuded a sort of animalistic primal quality. He was one well-made, handsome bastard. And judging by all the women batting their eyes at him, he was in demand. Some men just had it all.

  Too rich for her blood, though—as Xavier said about the baker’s daughter, much too high-maintenance. Chocolate was delicious, but when it was too rich, it rotted the teeth.

  “I feel your laughter,” Cayan murmured, his eyebrow crease more pronounced. “Is it me?”

  “I didn’t turn my humor into a physical reaction, so you felt my funny.”

  “Mirth.”

  “Okay, linguist, you felt my mirth. And yes it was you, but no, not your practice. Anyway, what do you feel?”

  “What do you mean it was me but not my practice?” he pushed.

  “I was laughing at your personal life, rather than this specific moment.”

  “What about my personal life?”

  “You are being sidetracked. Return to your practice. Focus.” She waited a beat, then said, “What do you feel?”

  “Can’t you touch me and find out?”

  “Normally I would be in constant contact, yes. But I can’t control the amount of power in me right now, and don’t want your half to excite it.”

  “It, or you?”

  “Same th—“ His dimples dug deeply into his cheeks. He was playing with her again.

  “Give me your hand and we’ll try,” Shanti said warily.

  The humor wiped from his face like dew from a window. His hand, palm upward, reached out from his body. She softly slid her hand along his, marveling at the size difference between them. An electric tingle vibrated her skin and flashed up her arm, but no surge. No whirlwind. No ground dropping away…

  Their sighs chorused.

  “For one,” she said, “your mind is closed up. Which is actually helpful at the moment. For two, I’m glad to see your hands are not soft.”

  She felt confusion softly drift around her awareness. His hand involuntarily squeezed.

  “Sterling’s hand is weirdly soft,” she replied to his unasked question.

  “He uses a lot of lotion. His woman doesn’t like rough hands.”

  “Then she is with the wrong man.”

  “I think he likes that she is delicate.”

  Shanti rubbed her palm around the rough skin of Cayan’s, his callouses screaming out his prowess with weapons. Screaming out safety and protection. “Ah. I’m sure he does with his history—don’t freak out, he told me. It isn’t gossip. I informed him that I killed five of those women. I have an idea what he’s been through. Unlucky.”

  “I remember when he was returned. He is a few years older than me—he was in a higher level of training—but I was home when he was brought to my father. It wasn’t pretty.”

  “Neither was the way I killed the clan I found.”

  “He won’t admit it, but I’m sure he’s grateful.”

  “Let’s get back to it. If we don’t figure you out, then he and many others might end up being subjected to worse.”

  “Many women have tried to figure me out. Haven’t been able to.”

  “I liked you better when you were always serious,” Shanti mumbled.

  “I liked you better when you were naked.”

  “Most men do. Now focus.”

  She scootched a little closer and took his other hand. “You are holding everything so deeply within you. It probably feels like a weight, or a heavy ball, right behind your rib cage. Imagine it…dissolving, bubbling upwards and spreading out, like tentacles…”

  She felt the blockage within curl tighter.

  “Are you afraid of losing control?” she asked quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t be. Hopefully we’ve already hit the ceiling, and we both survived. I think we’ll be okay. I’m more comfortable now; I can be your safety net.”

  He took a deep breath. “Since my dad died, I’m not used to relying on anyone.”

  “I care about that, and later I would love to talk about it in length, but right now I am not interested in excuses. Let go of your hold.”

  He started chuckling. “Is that your default sensitive response?”

  “Not usually, but we don’t have the time. Usually I…” Shanti shook her head, shedding her distraction. “Focus.”

  “You’re tough,” he muttered with a smile, his mind going inward.

  “You do this naturally. How do you normally access your power?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. I think about things I want to know, then I just kind of…know them.”

  Shanti blew out a breath. “I suddenly know why trainers hate starting with talent late. Erasing bad habits… Okay, take off your shirt.”

  Cayan’s eyes snapped open. He stared at her for one long beat before doing as instructed.

  “Okay.” She crawled to his side and kneeled, positioning one hand in the center of his warm back, and one nestled between his pecs. She couldn’t stop a flitted grin, fighting her desire to let that hand roam around his well-built chest. The man was a perfectly defined powerhouse. She hadn’t seen anyone this well-proportioned in useful muscle…ever, maybe. The men from her land were thinner, lithe. He was…not.

  Shanti tried to clear her mind, somewhat distracted by the tingling in both her palms. The warm spicy feeling in her body grew, the effect of extended contact. “You need to stop focusing on that lump of power. Return to balancing yourself. Listen to the night. Feel the trees. Let your head get light. Let me know when you are in that headspace.”

  After about a minute he nodded. The tingle sp
read up her arms and into her chest. Heat kindled somewhere deep, whether from the power merging, or something else. Half of her mind was focusing on the task at hand. The other half scanned the cords of muscular armor for weaknesses. She would eventually fight him again, and hopefully, with a little scrutiny, she could find some weak points. It might be cheating, but she was smaller—it was allowed.

  “Don’t focus on my hands,” she murmured, scanning his body. She couldn’t help it—it was chocolate for the eyes. “Think of the trees. Hear them move in the wind. Hear the small animals flit from branch to branch. Hear the whine of the insects around you. Stay balanced…”

  She drew her hands up his chest and back slowly and lightly, trailing her fingertips across his smooth skin. She spread out her fingers and brushed his skin, hoping he was loose enough that the power would flow. His mind relaxed further as her hands went wide, moving in large circles, working with her mind to release his unconscious hold. They should have done this before now. She shouldn’t have let him lose control before he’d ever tried to gain it in the first place. His personality didn’t respect failure, and now he would try that much harder for control. It made her job so much harder.

  An hour in and energy crackled between them, but nothing more. No progression. His body was brimming with power, his hold thankfully dissolved, but his control not engaged. He was letting her solidly lead, which would have been great if she was dealing with a five-year-old and a tenth of the power he possessed.

  “I want you to envision that flower.” She worked her hands higher up his chest, feeling his power unconsciously following, and his mind focusing on the night and her touch. “A tulip. It is a bulb, planted in your sternum. In the spring it crawls up through the dirt, which is what you are feeling now. The tulip is flowering right behind your eyes. What color is the stem?”

  “Bright, healthy green,” he whispered.

  “What color is the closed bud?”

  “Deep red.”

  “What color is the pollen on the inside?”

  His power blossomed outward, shooting out in all directions. She kept her hands on his body so he had a point of solidity—she didn’t need him grabbing her mind like a safety raft.