by Lita Stone
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After promising to cover his shift, Shane convinced Kevin to sleep off his drunkenness. As Birch and Shane cleaned the last of the spilled whiskey off the floor, Gary, the rig supervisor entered the rec room.
Running a paper towel over his head, Shane said, “Kevin’s not feeling well. I’ll take his shift.”
Gary nodded his bald head. Tall and built like a semi, Gary was an intimidating man to most. But Shane found his blunt and crass attitude refreshing.
“Why do you reek of whiskey, Baker?” Gary leaned closer. “You been drinking, son?”
Shane shrugged. “Mouthwash.” He used the paper towel to pat his shirt. “Guess I missed.”
“Mouthwash my ass,” Gary said.
“Do a fucking piss test.”
Gary rubbed his ten o’clock shadow. He waved a scolding finger. “You think the safety meetings are a joke? I’m reporting this. You two don’t return to work until I know whether you’re still on the crew.”
“You’re firing us?” Birch asked.
“Depends on what the big wigs say, but I’d suggest having your crap packed.” He shook his head. “Shit. We’re already running short-handed thanks to five of you assholes failing the last drug test.”
With a grimace, Shane said, “I didn’t fail that drug test and I won’t fail it now.”
Gary shrugged. “Out of my hands.” He left the room.
Birch slammed a palm on the coffee table. “Thanks a lot, asshole.”
Shane frowned. “Kevin has enough to deal with.”
“And ‘cause of you so do we,” Birch said. “I don’t know about you but I got an electric bill that’s three months overdue, a car that needs a new transmission and my AC just crapped the bed. I can’t afford this, man. I need this job.”
In two large strides, Shane closed the short distance between him and Birch. “Look, dickhead, it ain’t my goddamn problem that your brat wife is bankrupting you, but I ain’t gonna turn on Kevin.”
“Fucking hypocrite,” Birch said. “You were about to thrash him and now you’re sacrificing yours and my job out of some distorted moral dilemma.”
“We’ll pass the piss test in the morning. Everything will be okay.”
Without looking back, Birch opened the door and paused in the threshold. “They find out about Kevin, we’ll be fired for covering for him.”
“They won’t find out. He’s going to sleep it off and be good to go by morning.”
“Right.” Birch opened the door.
“Wait a damn moment.” He grabbed Birch by the shoulder. “I'll take full blame for getting us into this shitpie.” It wouldn't be the first or the last time he had dragged his friends into his fuckups. But this was different than them getting hog tied and left naked on the side of a Colorado road. They could, and had laughed about that one. “I fucked up again. I'm sorry.”
With a shrug, Birch pulled away. “You always are.”
Chapter Six
When Rourn failed to show at the evening feast, Atticus assumed he was still training. From his sleeping quarters, Atticus traded his spear for his short sword and went to find Rourn.
His boots scuffed the ebony steps spiraling up the Tower of Tribulation’s twenty stories. He had made the stair run twice a day for as long as he could walk.
This was the third time today.
Cresting the top, he adjusted the dark green bandana keeping his long red hair from his eyes. Across the battlement, he spotted Rourn, head down, hands clasped in prayer. A similar green bandana circled Rourn’s head. His black hair hung to his waist.
“Forgive me, God,” Rourn whispered.
Rourn had the most beloved soul of the Order. Why would he need to ask for repentance? Had he disappointed one of the Elders?
Rourn palmed the parapet, glancing across the vast desert.
An acrid scent hung in the air. Twilight brushed over the compound and darkened sands flowed endlessly around the settlement. A buzzard circled overhead while an ornery jackass fussed below in the barnyard.
“You missed the last feast, brother,” Atticus said.
Sighing, Rourn folded his arms over the stone wall. “I am not hungry.”
“Are you ill?”
Silence.
Atticus clapped Rourn on the back. “Elder Cai made a trip to Red Rock Bluff and saw Old Lady Ebben again. When he got back he was drunk as a crow in the agave garden. I say we sneak into his room and steal us a bottle. Are you with me?”
“That rancid stuff is akin to iguana bile left in the desert sun. Awful concoction.”
Atticus rested his rump on the parapet. He leaned back on his hands. “When the Sacred Inauguration is over I intend to fetch a bottle, with or without you.”
A familiar look of disapproval crossed Rourn’s face. “You best not tempt the brandy. As a Paladin knight you must always remain alert. This is especially true for you.”
“Relax, my brother. A little brandy does little harm. Besides, after all our effort we deserve to live like rogues for a night.”
“We are Paladins. Not reckless scoundrels.”
Atticus, attempting to lead the discussion elsewhere, said, “Rosemary finished seaming that peach dress she’s been working on.” He waggled his brows. “It fits quite nicely, if I may say so.”
Rourn huffed. “You must take your training more seriously. You failed greatly today at your letinyasa technique.”
“That technique is more of a folk dance then a tactical maneuver. I don’t see its practicality in the throes of battle.”
Rourn spun to face him, a strange ornamental dagger in his hand. Fragmented sunlight glinted off its blade. He glared at Atticus then lifted the dagger over his head and stared skyward.
Atticus grimaced. “Bat heads, brother. You are mad.”
With his free hand, Rourn drew his sword. A deep snarl on his twisted lips. “I bring a grave message that you must heed.”
Atticus stepped backwards. “We have trained enough for today. The feast hall will close soon. You need to eat.”
Rourn scowled. He charged.
Atticus drew his saber, deflected Rourn’s blade and parried the next thrusting strike. Swords crossed with a clatter of steel.
Atticus pushed forward, boots gripping the stone, eyes squinting. “Blazing ghosts! What foolishness plagues you?”
“I know you possess more.” Rourn shoved, causing Atticus to stumble backwards. With one long stride, Rourn approached him. “You are but one of the great chosen who can defeat the Beast. You must all be prepared for the Reckoning.”
Blades crossed with another shattering clang. Atticus’ arms trembled from the exertion of holding back Rourn’s broadsword. Searing webs of pain burned his wrists and shot up the muscles of his arms.
What if Atticus could defeat Rourn? The thought evoked a smile.
Atticus charged.
Blades sparked and sang with clamor.
Rourn uttered an incantation, his blade flashed blue and a coil of electricity surged through Atticus’ sword and into his hands and arms.
Atticus jolted backward. He scowled at his the burnt hair on his forearm. “Groveling ghouls! You hurt me!”
“So I did.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not who you think I am.” Rourn shook his head, sheathed his sword and set the strange dagger on the wall. An expression of sadness reached his eyes. “Perhaps it’s only obvious to me and I need to confide in you.”
In frustration, Atticus exhaled. “Confide what?”
“You are as complacent as a fat bullfrog floating on a sea of gnats. Unless you train in earnest, your speed will slow, your agility will succumb to clumsiness and your wit will dull with inadequacy. The sea of gnats will consume the plump frog.”
“I don’t understand where any of this is coming from?”
Rourn stepped toward the tower’s ledge. The last rays of sunlight shone upon him. A bleak expression contorted his stoic face. “Despite your ineptness
, I envy you. You will graduate and go on to great and honorable feats. They will send you somewhere exotic where you will encounter new people of friend and foe. There you will face the grand Beast—who is far greater than the villains we imagined as children.”
“I will not be alone in this slaying. We will draw swords against the Beast together.” Atticus cupped a hand over his eyes, shading his vision from the descending sunlight.
The buzzard that had been circling the tower had descended closer.
Rourn leaned over the ledge. “I would have preferred you not sought me here this evening.”
Atticus looked over the ledge. The ground loomed two-hundred feet below. He gave Rourn a sidelong glance. “Why?”
The shrieking buzzard’s black feathers were cast in twilight’s glow.
“Ortho’s vision of my future is not what it seems,” Rourn said. “The ancient mage is a fool. I am not destined as one of the Twins you and the Order believe me to be. There is yet another path I must pursue.”
“You speak madness!”
“I would have been happier as a healer, or a teacher—not a fighter.”
Rourn a teacher? Atticus would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so distraught. “You are a Twin warrior! It is prophesized. You have believed this to be so since you were of sword-wielding age.” Sighing, he gripped Rourn’s shoulder. “What has brought this affliction of melancholy into your soul?”
Rourn sat upon the wall, his thighs straddled on either side. The dagger lay between his legs. “I now see that which has been blind to me until recently.”
Atticus’ gut twisted while he tried to make sense of Rourn’s rantings. For the first time he felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness. Perhaps it was because many were training in the tower or at the rec hall for the last meal of the day; or perhaps because Rourn, his brother-in-arms since childhood, was—at the least—entrapped in a shroud of sorrow and—at the worst—plagued by lunacy.
Atticus pushed from the wall and took a defensive stance, brandishing his sword. “Battle with me. I will prove I am prepared.”
“You have nothing to prove, at least not to me.”
Atticus lowered his sword. “What must I do or say to save you from this state of sorrow?”
“I will do my part to save all from the coming Beast and I ask you do the same. Take not your duty as a Twin nor your role as a Paladin warrior lightly.”
“You need not ask. I am loyal to the Order. I will offer my life for—”
Rourn held up a hand, silencing Atticus. “I have knowledge of the future, of your future and it is not as their puppet. They make mistakes. Do not offer your life to the whims of the Order, no matter the propaganda they preach.” His voice lowered, eyes darkened. “Promise me.”
Atticus had sworn his allegiance to the Order long ago and he thought Rourn had done the same. Was his Twin a traitor?
“Promise me,” Rourn repeated.
“My loyalty isn’t to myself or you.” Atticus shook his head. “My sword belongs to the Order of Abel and will do so until I take my final breath. I’m sorry, but I must follow my heart.”
“And I must follow mine.” Rourn tossed his other leg over the wall and disappeared.
Atticus stared unblinking at the spot where his blood-brother had sat. “I find no humor in this magic. What kind of trickery is this?”
The mysterious dagger shimmered on the tower’s ebony ledge. Atticus reached for it but it suddenly vanished like a wind-blown mist.
He glanced around the top of the tower. “Elder Cai? Is this a sorcerer's folly? A test?”
Silence.
With careful steps, he neared the ledge and glanced over.
Rourn lay face down in the sand far below.
Atticus’ body shuddered. His chest ground against the stone, his head spun. Vertigo gripped him.
The world slipped sideways.
Then upward.
And the buzzard’s funereal shrills pierced his soul.
A hand latched onto the back of his shoulder and tugged. “Damnation, Atticus. Come away!”
Tears blurred his vision. Atticus stumbled from the ledge, collapsing into the arms of his teacher and trainer, Elder Cai. He gripped the elder’s black robe. “It’s Rourn. Summon Healer Merrick!”
The Elder grimaced. “It’s too late, my son. It’s too late. He’s in destiny’s hands.”
Chapter Seven
After working the morning shift at Roxy’s, and then all afternoon on her family’s chicken farm, Carmen longed for liquor, nicotine and sex—not necessarily in that order.
Well, nicotine had to be first, for hers and everyone else’s sake, because at the moment she had a strong urge to smash a claw hammer through someone’s face.
Outside the last chicken house, she had stripped her smelly overalls off, grabbed the water hose—that was curled around a big heap of chicken shit speckled with white feathers—and sprayed herself down.
No time to waste. Noche Diablo was scheduled to play at the Rising Bull and she wasn’t about to miss that killer set. Thoughts of seeing the front man Bishop Lane in his gothabilly cowboy getup made Carmen tingle. Too bad he was married.
After tossing the filthy overalls into the backseat of her ‘96 Camaro, she jumped behind the wheel wearing nothing but a wet bra and panties, both crimson red. An oversized shirt that her on-and-off fuckbuddy Derrick had left in the glove box served as a temporary gown until she could change into her costume of the night.
Living in a small town, a girl had to devise ingenious schemes to keep things fun. For the past few years Carmen had played the “Guess My Costume” game with all the young—and sometimes not-so-young—men at the local nightspot. Any fortunate potential lover boy who could not only guess her costume of the evening, but also answer a few predetermined trivia questions would win...her.
Bastian, the marionette her mother handcrafted for her sixth birthday, rode shotgun. A painted red smile brightened Bastian’s otherwise gloomy face, his expression caught somewhere between a demented mime and a sad prince.
When she’d first received Bastian, she’d flung him across the room much to her mother’s chagrin. But her mother told her that Bastian would be her anjo sonhar—dream angel. Carmen kept the creepy guy around and eventually he grew on her.
Smiling, she straightened his brown robe. “Hey sweetness.”
He peered at her through sorrowful eyes, eyes circled by blackness. Rosy dots blushed his cheeks. He held a red carnation in a stained wooden hand.
Carmen stopped singing with the radio to thank her lucky stars that the Reap’s general store parking lot was vacant. She raced inside with a plastic Wal-Mart bag containing her fresh clothes.
Reap’s was the local family-owned gas station, general store, liquor store and fried food haven of Buckeye and was only a few blocks from the Bull. Without so much as a cursory glance at Paul Reap, Carmen knew his eyeballs were bulged, as they always were when she made a bat-out-of-hell dash to the bathroom wearing nothing but a long shirt. Paul would overlook the No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service sign every time.
Moments later, she exited wearing a black strapless sequin mini-dress, rimmed-glasses and a black cowboy hat plus her mainstay gold hoop earrings. Approaching Paul, she placed a six-pack of Bud down. She clicked her credit card on the countertop while Paul took his time on the register. It was an old-fashioned metal box circa nineteen-fucking-twenty-something.
“What’s it tonight?” Paul asked. “Disco diva?”
Smudges from his chubby fingers spotted his glasses. His amber, scraggly hair was coated in grease. Probably from the deep fried fish, potato skins, taquitos and whatever else they disguised as food.
“I’m Betty Boop, you idiot,” Carmen said.
Paul loomed over the counter, a heated glance up and down her body. “Betty Boop doesn’t wear a cowboy hat or glasses.”
Carmen sneered. “Tonight she does. A pack of wine, wood-tipped Black and Milds, too.”
Paul reac
hed behind. “My shift is over in ten. Want to catch the midnight showing of Rise of The Mages?”
“Sure thing, Paul. Just let me check outside and see if there’s any pigs roosting in the trees.” She gave him a playful wink and silently admired his determination as she left the store.
Outside, Carmen shoved the beer in the backseat next to her overalls and red high heels. In the front seat, she cracked into the thin cigars as she drove from the parking lot. Her phone rang. Carmen glanced at the display. Shane.
She put the phone to her ear. “What’s up, cockbrain?”
“Suck it, bubbletits.”
She let out a clipped laugh between an unlit cigar. With the phone tucked in the crook of her neck, steering with her knee she fished a Zippo from her purse.
“Love you too.”
Part of her did love the jerk, loved him like that annoying brother who knew how to press her buttons. Shane was the only hot man in her life she didn’t want to sleep with.
“I need a favor,” Shane said.
Holy shit, the man had a super sexy voice. Too bad they were just best buds; a dead canary and a rotten squash had more chemistry. Carmen shuddered at the memory of their one and only kiss back when they were both crazed juniors at Buck High. Skid Row on the radio, pot in the air, and a hot sweaty Texas night near a riverbed.
“Lemme guess,” she said. “Amy’s having another meltdown?”
“I think she’s seriously spooked this time. Drop by and check on her.”
A sigh. “But I was just about to hit the Bull.”
“Take Amy with you. Don’t let her sit around the trailer by herself.”
“You do realize the type of guys who go to the Bull, right?” Carmen tapped the cherry into the car’s ashtray.
From the beginning, she had warned Amy to steer clear of Shane. But that was years ago and, as far as anyone knew, Shane had been true, proving Carmen and most everyone else in town wrong. But sometimes Carmen had her doubts. The man was a hopeless flirt.
“That’s why you’re not going to take your eyes off her.” A threatening edge lined Shane’s tone.
“Don’t trust her, huh?”
“I trust her. I don’t trust them. Do it and I’ll owe you big time.”
