by Jules Hedger
And so it began, the battle of the brothers, until one day it stretched beyond sibling rivalry and blossomed into the stinking flower of revolution. Viva la fucking revolution. The Riders are coming . . .
And for Lucan, the Riders arrived at 5 in the morning after a particularly nasty encounter with a thug named Rod.
"For the love of Painter, Lucan! You might have more muscle than common sense but do you need to take every wrong look from someone smaller than you as an excuse to flaunt your fists?"
Cirrus pushed his brother into his office, or at least tried. Lucan staggered in at his own pace, lurching precariously from side to side and trying to put the kaleidoscope of images together into one sensible idea.
"You broke that man's jaw, Lucan. And a few of his ribs." Cirrus lifted his hand to examine the developing black eye but Lucan jerked his face away with a grunt. Cirrus looked disgusted. "You are honestly a disgrace."
Lucan turned hazily to face to his brother. Why were there two of him? One pathetic suck-up is bad enough. Lucan shook his head to try for some clarity as Cirrus moved around the room.
"Better to be a disgrace than a goody two-shoes," Lucan drawled with a hiccup.
"At least I have two shoes," Cirrus said. "You seem to have lost one of yours." He pushed a glass of water into Lucan's hands and turned him towards the chair in front of a fireplace still smoldering slightly with dying embers. "Sleep it off, brother. We have work in the morning."
"Fuck you," Lucan whispered. Cirrus stared at him for a moment and then, with a slight nod, moved quietly out of the room. The door shut behind him with a click that seethed with disappointment.
Lucan rubbed his eyes blearily and put the water down on the table. That was not what he needed right now. He needed some fucking alcohol, something to burn down his throat to wake him up. And then quickly put him to sleep.
Putting one foot slowly in front of the other, Lucan made his way over to Cirrus's side table. On the shiny, silver plate were three decanters of golden brown liquid. Lucan snatched the smallest one – the stupid prick always preached on quality over quantity - and collapsed in the arm chair.
Well, what do you know? Lucan mused as he took his first swig, It tastes just like candy. Expensive, self-righteous candy. He yanked off his dress brogue, scraped mercilessly from the fight, and hurled it haphazardly behind his shoulder. And he was right . . . I did lose my shoes.
Lucan was about to take another large gulp and start surrendering to the blackness of drunk oblivion when he heard a startled scuffle by the door. He hoisted himself halfway out of the chair, which was exceedingly hard to do in the plush, overstuffed leather, and saw Marty hovering in the door frame looking incredibly conflicted.
"Lucan, I am so sorry," Marty said quickly when he realized he had been spotted. "I had no idea you were in here. It is so early in the morning. Shouldn't you be asleep?"
"I was out," Lucan said bluntly. "What's your excuse?"
"I . . . um, I . . ." Marty gulped awkwardly and seemed to search around for an appropriate answer. Lucan sighed and sat back in his chair.
"Never mind, Shifty. Come join me for a drink."
"I really don't think I should –"
"Join me for a drink or I will tell my brother his Caretaker was snooping around his office in the early hours of the morning," Lucan said slowly. He felt the tension tighten, but from his place in front of the fire he couldn't see Marty anymore. In fact, he was almost sure he had left before hearing him pad softly across the carpet and hold out a hand for the decanter.
"I've never been given a glass of this stuff," Marty stammered.
"What, your boss never drinks with you?" Lucan asked. Marty smiled grimly and took a neat swallow.
"Not this boss. The other does all that and more, but to be honest it's usually a can of lager that does us." He handed Lucan back the whiskey. "This stuff is too good for me."
"Nothing is too good for you," Lucan said, feeling his hackles rise at this minor show of self-degradation. "Nothing is too good for anyone."
"That's very socialist of you," Marty said. Lucan grinned wolfishly and shrugged.
"Nah, I just hate that my brother has fancy drinks and you need to shoot up for kicks." He toasted Marty, who was blushing lightly at the mention, and allowed the last of the whiskey to slip down his throat. He tossed the glass into the fireplace where it shattered with a light tinkle. "You're not the only one. Look at me."
"Lucan, you're a Dream Catcher. A very noble profession."
Lucan made a show of snatching flies out of the air and threw back his head with laughter. Marty shifted embarrassingly.
"Yeah, very noble Marty. Don't fucking deserve it, but here I am."
"Don't say things like that, Lucan."
"They're true! And you know what?" Lucan leaned forward and pulled Marty down to his level. His eyes were dangerously close to crossing as he attempted to center Marty's weathered face in his vision. "Neither does he."
"Who, Cirrus?"
"No, the fucking Painter – yes, of course Cirrus! He eats power. Just swallows it down his gullet like it's fine whiskey." Pushing Marty away, he fell back in his chair and allowed the great weight of sadness to settle down onto his shoulders like a coat. Wrapping himself up in the misery, he looked to Marty like a giant, hopeless grizzly bear. "I cannot even fathom what will happen if that vulture ever gains more power."
Marty moved slowly around to stand in front of Lucan.
"Do you think he will? Soon?"
Lucan shrugged and closed his eyes. He was ready for sleep now. His anger and a half liter of drink had done the job just right. But just as he felt the numbness spread up his neck and into his brain, Marty's hand was shaking him awake.
"You hate your brother, don't you Lucan?" Marty whispered.
"You woke me up to ask me a question as fucking obvious as that?" Marty took his hand and held it tightly. Lucan pushed back against the chair and eyed the addict in confusion. "Marty, are we having a tender moment here?
"If you could assure that Cirrus never took power, either by force or by vote, would you?"
"If you knew what was in my head right now, you wouldn't ask." Lucan stood up tiredly and pointed to the door. "I need to sleep and you need to leave, sorry Marty. Or I'll have to tell my brother you were in here helping me drink his fancy-ass booze."
Marty didn't let go of Lucan's hand. His eyes flashed furiously in the firelight and for a second the power that rose up between them had a heat, a concrete feeling and flow. This man was always so weak, so pathetic. And yet now, there was something in him that refused to let go and Lucan couldn't look away.
"You know why you don't want me to know what is in your head? Because you’re frightened. But I was too and then suddenly, all my doubts were taken over by purpose. By passion and action! The people are yearning for it, practically tearing their nails to the wick struggling past the suffocation and murk of oppression, secrecy and that ridiculous purple cloud. But there are those, Lucan, those who can blow away the cobwebs and stick a sword straight up that spider's ass."
"You are damning my own brother, Marty," Lucan breathed.
"It won't be long until you damn him yourself. You’ll be so ready to damn him you’ll practically choke on it.”
"What do you know about me?" Lucan said.
"I know that a storm is brewing. I know that as the discontent of the people grows, so will the fear. And we need to utilize that fear before Cirrus does."
Lucan dimly felt Marty release his hand, leaving a soft object in his palm, and watched him move quietly towards to the doorway.
"Marty, wait!" Marty turned back around, one foot in the hallway. "Who is 'we'? You and me?"
"If you even remember this conversation in the morning, the Riders will come for you. We'll know." Marty nodded towards the side tables before turning back around to leave. "Drink your water."
And thus it was that when Lucan awoke a few hours later next to a cold fire, his
toes frozen in the chilly air and head banging like a concert pianist, he remembered nothing. Of course, he didn't, not at first. But he saw the broken glass in the fireplace and the spilled water dripping into the rug and groaned.
The curtains around the office let in thin, icicle cracks of morning sunlight. From beyond the glass windows Lucan could hear the sound of birdsong. The house was grounded today and for that, Lucan was grateful. He wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible on his own two feet.
As Lucan rose up, something fell from his lap. It took a moment to register, but after a pause Lucan reached down gingerly and picked up the black piece of fabric that had settled on the carpet in front of him. He regarded it blankly, like one would a discarded candy wrapper, and made to throw it to the side. But suddenly, like someone had just tipped over a bucket of visions from the night before, he remembered.
The Riders will come for you.
A storm is brewing.
It was a handkerchief, jet black and thin as rice paper. And Marty had left it in his hand, a breadcrumb clue on the path towards his great plan. But what plan? And who were the Riders?
Lucan walked absentmindedly to the window and pulled back the curtains to stare at the yellow sun perched above the backyard. His mind didn't register his fingers knotting the black handkerchief around his wrist, but as he heard his brother moaning upstairs, tossing and turning in his jagged nightmares, he gritted his teeth.
Whoever these Riders were, he was damn well going to find out.
You will damn him yourself . . .
"So damn him to hell!" Lucan shouted at the circling buzzard, which had been eyeing him up for signs of weakness. The sudden outburst sent it shrieking backwards and flying up into the sky, in the opposite direction of the still approaching sand storm. Lucan spat onto the ground and then immediately regretted it. He didn't know how these things worked, but he was starting to get extremely dehydrated.
The jug of water that was left, not out of courtesy but out of spite, lay on its side by the base of his post. Cirrus had walked off with his men, giving it a sound backwards kick and staring up at him coldly. There was no laughter or gloating smile; on the other hand, there was no pity, no remorse or sadness that could remind Lucan that no matter what he had done, no matter the betrayal, they were still brothers. The look Cirrus gave him was full of justice. What a heartless bastard.
A sledgehammer of wind hit Lucan smack in the face, knocking the breath from his lungs and filling his mouth with sand. The storm was minutes away. It was hot and blinding and felt like thousands of tiny needles piercing him in every inch of exposed skin. Lucan squeezed his eyes tightly, dipping his head down as far as he could, and with every lull in the gusts he gulped in great breathes of clean air.
This was it, then. The Riders had come for him. He had done his best and failed. And this was how he was to be paid. But despite all of his trials and tribulations, there was only one regret in his mind. Sand and wind he could face. The disappointment of his multiple mistakes was bearable. But as the storm tore around his post like a furious monster, his one regret was softer and only fleeting.
If the Painter was dead, as he had seen in his brother's eyes, he would have liked to have seen the Daughter of Palet, the niece of the Painter and legend of the rebellion he had devoted so much of his passion for.
Tales were told of her beauty and of her wisdom, a girl filled with fury and yet fragile as the wings of a butterfly. Brown hair as deep and dark as molasses, eyes gold as an oak in Autumn and lips like the blood of a fallen warrior. A goddess in her own right and someone worth fighting for.
He so desperately wished he could have seen her, just once.
And then it was gone and Lucan was left with the howling of the Wilds and the bite of thousands of grains of sand . . .
Ready to begin the Reign Walk? Keep reading for an extract of the first book in Maggie's story The Wilds, available now . . .
"The Daughter of Palet. You look so disappointingly normal."
"What did you expect me to look like?" I asked.
"Smoke! Glamor! Fire!" the Ringmaster crowed ecstatically. "You are the heir to the throne. You could at least have washed your face."
"Your friends back there didn't give us much time to freshen up," I answered. The Ringmaster flicked his cigarette lazily towards the door and shrugged.
"Charming ruffians, but they have their uses. Quite the team. And you should see them perform!" He blew a smoke ring into the air, which grew bigger and bigger until it passed through me like a giant hula hoop. "We here are all about the dramatics."
"Obviously."
"Well, at least I can admit it. Unlike you friend Lucan in there." With that he started to move through the tent, and I had no choice but to follow the pool of light. "He is your competitor's brother, did you know that?"
Flashes of cages emerged and disappeared again into the dark, eyes glinting in the torch light as the animals watched us pass. "He mentioned it."
"Funny choice of teammate." His arm pushed aside a hidden fold of fabric and we were suddenly in the light again, a warmer glow of gas lamps. The room was swathed in red cloth and couches and as he fitted the torch into a bracket on the wall, he waved me to sit with his smoking hand.
Perching gingerly on the edge of a settee, I watched him pull out a bowl of marbles and set them pointedly on the table. They were like the ones Marty had and the one I took to enter into Palet. Funny, how something so innocent looking can be so different to your childhood memories. He flicked back his coattails and sat down across from me. His silver rings glinted in the gas light.
"So when do I call Cirrus to pluck the petal from the bud?" he murmured, picking a piece of tobacco leaf from the tip of his tongue.
"I'm surprised you're even asking," I replied. The Ringmaster tsked and shook a finger in my direction.
"Why? Not eager to be reunited with your love?" His smile grew nasty. "Does he suffocate you? Do you yearn to be free?"
"You don't know what you're talking about," I said.
"It's a toxic relationship, and it's him. He clings, doesn't he?" he asked, leaning forward as if to start gossip. I drew back in disgust and he flashed me a knowing smile. "I see, then. You are really Walking, then?"
The Ringmaster reached above his head and pulled a thin string, and the faint toll of a bell rang somewhere far away.
"Please do help yourself," he said suddenly, motioning to the marbles. I shook my head and his face fell a little in disappointment. He considered the bowl and used his long fingers to fish one out from the bottom. Meanwhile, I noticed for the first time the whip he wore on his hip. It clung to his side as a sleeping millipede. I moved my eyes away quickly and found him watching me with sly eyes. His tongue was rolling the marble around in his mouth slowly.
"There are stories flying around Palet, the main rumor being a couple's spat. Two crossed lovers fighting it out for the throne." He wrung his heads mockingly and pulled the face of distress. "If they could only work it out, we would have peace! And they could rule together." He broke out laughing and swallowed the marble in one smooth gulp. "You are really the golden couple to those who don't know better."
"But you do."
"I do," he whispered. Shutting his eyes, he leaned back in the chair and drew a great sigh. He ran his hands up and over his chest as the drugs kicked in and the blood rushed to his brain. And at that point, the crimson fabric of the wall was lifted up by Leof, pulling along Lucan. Timothy followed obediently behind. The Ringmaster stirred and opened his eyes. Upon seeing Leof, his face lit up with pupils the size of the moon.
"Oh what fun! What an absolute hoot. A prize for me!" The Ringmaster rose, teetering a bit, and began to circle Lucan. "Do you recall when I last saw you?" Lucan clamped his mouth shut and watched the Ringmaster stroke his the whip tenderly. "You were gearing up to be quite the protégé. Cirrus had very high hopes," he said. "Too bad they were so high you ended up ten feet off the ground."
Leof laughed and Timothy joined in, but I doubt he understood why. I took in Leof's pistol, Timothy's fists, the Ringmaster's whip. What I wouldn't have given for something to help me fight back. I was beginning to get really sick of being toyed with.
The Ringmaster was delicately rubbing a marble along Lucan's lips. Lucan jammed his teeth together and tensed his jaw, but the Ringmaster was whispering soothing noises in his ear.
"Come now, petal. Open up. It all feels so good, don't you know? We would all have so much more fun." His teeth closed over Lucan's earlobe and tugged gently.
I couldn't take it anymore.
"So now what?" I asked, standing up pointedly and opening my hands. The men turned towards me and I saw Lucan raise his eyebrows. It was a warning, probably a really sensible one. But I ignored it. "It's not the first time I've been kidnapped. You must have a plan. Care to share it?"
Leof glanced uneasily at his boss. The Ringmaster's whip was unrolled and his eyes were only for me as he idly dragged it through the hard packed dirt floor. He casually tossed the marble back into the bowl where it landed with a soft clack.
"Well, I could turn you in for a sizable reward if I wanted." He flicked the end of his whip with a sharp snap that made me flinch. "And I desperately do want to. I want to turn you in, Maggie, for the money; in addition, I would love to see the little bastard brother Lucan put back in his place."
Leof gripped the back of Lucan's neck and gave his cheek a little lick. I could see the effort Lucan was making not to explode.
"And what about Cirrus, Maggie? Something in those rumors must be true. Does he hold a torch for you? For what he wants?" The Ringmaster sucked his needle teeth and winked. "You cannot be so impervious to him, either. But I don't think you know what you want. Yet."
We remained silent, although I wanted to knock the pointy teeth out of his jaw.
