LEGACY
THE GIRL IN THE BOX
BOOK EIGHT
Robert J. Crane
LEGACY
THE GIRL IN THE BOX
BOOK EIGHT
Copyright © 2013 Reikonos Press
All Rights Reserved.
1st Edition
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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To my kids:
No matter how many books I write, rest assured that the stories I most care about are yours.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Works by Robert J. Crane
Chapter 1
Forest of Dean, England
November 1467
Wolfe was on the hunt, sniffing for blood. He could smell prey in the distance, through the trees. The dirt was fresh after a light rain, and he loped along on all fours, following his nose. The chill of early fall was upon him, the low-lying gullies covered in a light mist. The smell of humans was all the same to him, all stink and filth, but under it was the blood. Glorious blood, delicious meat, he thought. Serving one purpose and one alone—to feed me. The pressure on the pads of his feet and hands was subtle as he went springing along, the way he was meant to. His clothes flapped in the breeze, making him long to tear them off. Tear off all this civilization, the stink of the city, leave it all behind. This is how it was meant to be—in the woods, in the wilds, running them down one by one. Though slaughtering a whole houseful at once has its advantages ...
There was only ambient sound around him, the noise of the forest. He heard a faint whistling ahead of him, some farmer’s tune. Yes, tell the Wolfe where you are. He slowed, felt his muscles slacken as he started to creep. He listened, straining his ears to hear. There. Prey. Food. Taste. He ran his tongue over his jagged teeth, letting the points poke at him, savoring the sharp sensation on the sensitive skin of his tongue. Soon we’ll tear the flesh from bones, soon we’ll rip the screams from a mouth. He could smell only one, a man, or possibly a boy. Either would be sweet, but young, soft, supple skin is better than old and rangy, worn down from life. If there were an entourage, then I might have a lordling. They’re always so plump and delicious and scream in all the right ways, releasing the Wolfe’s tension before they die. He felt the throbbing, lower, the excitement of a short hunt about to reach its conclusion and of the relief that would bring. The tension will subside with the thrills of the flesh. And it’s been a long day since the last one ...
He slowed further, now choosing his footing carefully as he made his way through the brush. His clothing no longer whipped in the breeze; his motions were controlled. The surprise was part of the thrill, starting things off right with a good scream. Then more screams, fueled by the anticipation, really—the fear, an opening tease of what would be coming. By the time he was finished, his clothes would be dripping red unless he removed them first. He took his shirt off carefully, listening over the rustle of the cloth to make certain that his prey didn’t escape. The whistling continued, now only a hundred feet away through the brush, unceasing.
Wolfe undressed completely, leaving the clothes he’d taken from a shopkeeper’s window in a small pile on a knotty tree stump. He felt the air coarse over his naked flesh and thrilled to it, felt the smile split his face. Sometimes, in these moments before the torment, he became so excited he could hardly control himself when it began. This time would be different, though. The forest was so large yet so sparsely inhabited everything had to be savored because he didn’t know when he’d meet his next prey. He started forward again, listening to the whistling.
He padded over rough ground, closing the distance. There was a path ahead, and the whistling seemed to be come from it. He came over a short rise covered with new growth, saplings and heavy brush, and caught a glimpse through the branches. There was a man, indeed, hair long and around his shoulders. He wasn’t plump but neither was he rangy, Wolfe could see from the back. A cloak protected him from the chill and the low, mournful tune which he whistled was almost like a dirge; it made Wolfe’s smile dim. It was always sweeter when they were happy before the surprise came. It tasted better, somehow.
Wolfe crept over the rise, careful not to disturb the branches as he passed. He was whisper quiet, not a sound made as he slipped down the slope. His toes landed on the muddy path and he felt the sensation of it oozing around his feet. It made him think of blood, of how he sometimes tracked it after a kill. It heightened his anticipation, made him throb again.
He was only ten feet away, one good leap, when the man in the cloak turned, head cocked curiously. Wolfe froze, and the smile he’d felt building seeped away. There was no surprise on the fellow’s face, but he smiled in greeting until he took in Wolfe’s nakedness.
“Hello, there,” the man said. “You’re a bit underdressed.” Wolfe looked down at his nakedness, his excitement plainly beginning to dissolve. “I say, walking naked in the woods in this weather would seem a bit of an odd choice.”
Wolfe looked up, felt what had been his smile only a moment before turn into a sneer, a snarl. He looked at the man—medium height, brownish hair navy cloak that covered his clothing. He was tanned and had plainly spent his fair share of time out of doors. Not a tender lordling, that much was certain. The disappointment was palpable. Wolfe let out a little hiss.
“Are you quite all right?” the man asked again, head still cocked. He looked down at Wolfe’s chest. “You are a hairy fellow, aren’t you?” His hand came up to indicate Wolfe’s front. “And large, save for ... that trifling area, there. Though I suppose it’s not trifling for everyone, but a fellow as coarse an
d disgusting as yourself likely doesn’t allow for it to see much happy use.” The man’s curious look had turned into a wicked smile.
“It teases the Wolfe,” Wolfe whispered and felt a seething fire run through his brain. “It mocks.”
“Indeed,” the man said with a nod, apparently pleased to see the subject of his jest had gotten the joke. “Yes, I was insulting your manhood with that one, though I wondered if you’d be bright enough to catch it. You have the look of a man who’s been in the woods entirely too long. Perhaps you haven’t heard any complaints because you’ve switched to animals? Because I don’t know if you realize this or not, but running down the King’s deer for unsavory practices is a crime—”
“It shuts its mouth!” Wolfe hissed, holding off the urge to spring. Intimidate. Make him fear us, savor that for a few minutes before we start, regain the sweetness before we start to make him scream ...
The man raised an eyebrow. “‘It’?” He looked down again. “That doesn’t look large enough to have a mouth, now does it? Rather like a caterpillar crawled up your leg, actually, then retracted—”
Wolfe sprang with a howl of rage. Wolfe will make him pay, make him scream, make him suffer for the insult. He watched during his long arc through the air, waiting for it to register on the man’s face that he’d made a horrible mistake. Death was coming for him now, death and so much worse—things that would make him scream and cry before it was over, beg for an end that would be slow to arrive, that would be savored ...
The fist hit Wolfe in the side of the head with enough force to interrupt his landing; he’d jumped and led face first, hands extended toward the man, but his momentum was halted with brutal force. He felt his jaw take the brunt of the punch and break—actually break! A follow-up kick sent Wolfe flying until he hit a tree and snapped the trunk with his back, bringing the whole thing down with him. He landed on his left arm, the shock of the impact making his forearm go numb, something that hadn’t happened in well over a thousand years. His head hit the ground and bounced off an exposed root, stunning him. He looked up to see the tree he’d broken lying next to him; its trunk had snapped in the middle, the jagged splinters of a section of wood two feet in diameter jutting out unevenly from the top of it.
“Manners,” the man said quietly over the ringing in Wolfe’s ears, which sounded as though an abbey’s bells were pealing in his head.
Wolfe snarled and lunged to his feet. Strong. Meta. He felt blood run down his chin and tasted it in his mouth. Wolfe’s own blood. Precious. He held himself back, looking for the opening. The man stood still, regarding him, cloak opened to expose one arm and one arm only. “You ... you’re a meta,” Wolfe said, the low hiss overcoming the still-noisy humming in his ears.
“You really aren’t terribly bright, are you?” The man stood, looking down his nose at him. He wasn't any taller than Wolfe, but that was the way Wolfe saw him; imperious. “I assume in those years of working with your brothers that you were never considered the brains of the operation.”
“Who are you?” Wolfe let the snarl escape and fidgeted, his shoulders moving left and right, his toes keeping him up on the balls of his feet, ready to spring if an opening presented itself.
“Just a man,” came the reply. Wolfe watched calm brown eyes follow him, but the man was still, completely so, absolutely unconcerned about him. Lucky. Had to be luck. Wolfe was slow, too slow, not expecting a meta, that’s all. No one is faster than Wolfe. He clenched his fist, felt the points of his nails dig into his nearly impenetrable skin. The suffering will be even greater for this one ... Healing will allow this to go on and on ...
“Don’t,” the man said calmly, and just the slightest hint of a smile turned up one corner of his mouth.
Wolfe leapt, the rage taking over. He came in lower this time with a perfectly aimed forward spring that was fueled by anger. He saw the stranger’s face so close, his hands extended ...
A fist met him and Wolfe flew again in a low, lazy arc. The world grew dim around him, as if he’d landed in one of the low areas and been wrapped up in the fog. He hit the ground and rolled twenty feet, his ribs slamming into a tree. He blinked his eyes and realized he’d gone unconscious for at least part of the flight and after, as there were now broken branches and leaves matted in his hair. Blood ran freely down his chest. I ... don’t remember that happening ... A face appeared, leering down at him, hovering just above his and almost out of reach. Wolfe’s hand came up but the man grabbed his wrist, putting pressure on it greater than anything Wolfe could recall. The sound of bones snapping filled his ears and an exquisite pain filled the rest of him. Is this ... what it feels like ... when I ... ?
“You won’t forget this, I trust?” The man knelt down, and the sound of fracturing bones got louder for a moment as Wolfe felt his elbow break as well. “I’m going to give you enough pain so you remember it. I don’t know that I’ll ever cross your path again, but I want you to recall, to tell others, in case they do. Tell them I beat you. Tell them I broke you. Let them know that I was the one who did this to you.” The man smiled, and Wolfe felt a sick feeling in his stomach as the man’s hand retracted. He felt the pain—the weakness—shoot through him, forcing him to stay down like one of his own prey. “Time to start building my own legend, I suppose.”
“Who ... ?” Wolfe croaked. “Who are you?” His voice came even raspier than was usual for him, struggling as he was for breath. A searing pain in his ribs flared as the man kicked him, causing him to float through the air again and regain consciousness, this time in a bed of thistles.
“I suppose I should tell you, since I am building a reputation,” the man said when he realized Wolfe was awake again. Is that the look I have when they wake up? It is such a sweet moment ... how ... how am I ... ? This is all wrong, not supposed to be the one being watched, looked at, stood over while in agony ... “You wouldn’t know my old name, so I suppose I’ll need a new one.” The man stood up straight, put his hand over his mouth, tapping his index finger idly upon his upper lip as he thought. “Something ... distinctive. Something that gives me my due, that lets you know who I am.” He leaned over again. “See, I stand apart from all of you. I’m different. I don’t want what you want, or what the others want. I don’t need anything. If you’d left me alone, we never would have met because I wouldn’t have bothered to seek you out.”
“Who ... ?” Wolfe heard himself rasp again, “... are you?”
“Good question,” the man said, and looked around. “Wait. I think I have it. I’m apart from you, from the others, from these countries and monarchs. I’m my own man—a man apart, really.” He smiled. “A man unto himself, independent of all others.” He nodded. “Yes, I think that will do nicely.”
Wolfe blinked at him, and blood slid into his eye, causing him to close it. “What ...?”
The man looked down at him, as though he’d forgotten Wolfe was even there. “Oh, yes. If they ask ...” He peered down, then smiled. “As badly as I’ve hurt you, I suppose it’s more of a ‘when’ than ‘if’ ... When they ask, tell them ...” He slammed a fist down into Wolfe’s ribs, causing him to sit up violently, a noise of shattering bones breaking filling his ears over the sounds of his own screaming. How? How? Wolfe is ... unbreakable ... The smell of his own blood, for once, was thick in his nostrils, mixed with the greenery of the forest. His vision was clouded, and the screams of pain in his own head were so loud he almost missed what the man said next. Almost, but not quite. And it stayed with him for all the rest of his days.
“Tell them it was Sovereign who did this to you.”
Chapter 2
Sienna Nealon
Now
The handcuffs were heavy on my wrists: heavier and stronger than ones I had encountered before. I stirred, moving my hands, and heard the clink of the metal rattling as I shifted position. My chair was made of the same metal, and I was staring at four blank walls of old concrete. Even if I could get loose of the handcuffs, those walls would hold me
in for a time.
I stirred again, rattling the cuffs. There were two pairs on my wrists and two rounds of ankle cuffs keeping my legs from doing much moving. The smell of stale, heated air filled the room, annoying me. An FBI agent named Li had ambushed me at Customs in the Minneapolis airport with a SWAT team arrayed in front of me like a firing line. If I had moved or done anything untoward, he would have smoked me. So I let them cuff me and haul me off in the back of a van, against my every instinct.
I studied the empty room that they had placed me in. I’d been here waiting for at least two hours, according to my internal timekeeper. After years of being imprisoned in much tighter confines than this, I had developed a pretty decent sense of time. I stared at the one-way mirror in front of me, giving it a hard look that I hoped would convey my dissatisfaction with my current predicament without giving away the fact that I was deeply, deeply nervous. I kept my hands still, my eyes as slow in their movements as I could, left my face expressionless, and just sat there like I was at the dullest event I could possibly be attending, all while experiencing a bout of lethargy. I based my performance on the workers I had seen at the DMV when I’d gotten my driver’s license. I hoped it worked.
I kept my breathing calm and controlled and poured my energies into keeping the voices in my head calm and orderly, not in a cacophony.
This was a surprise, Zack said.
Ya think? I asked him in reply, all sarcasm. I didn’t have to speak to do it now, I just concentrated hard on forming the thought behind the words, and I could feel him in my head, receiving it. I had just gotten my metaphorical ducks in a row, had a plan of action, and there I go getting jailed. I’m a regular 24601.
All the Little Doll’s past sins have come home to roost like chickens, Wolfe said, and I could sense his grin. But not as tasty. I shut the mental door on him, not impressed with his attitude. While it was by no means perfect, I had a mental image of holding pens for him and all the others, perfect little boxes that I was familiar with from the time I’d spent in it. I’d built one in my head with a thought and threw the voices in my mind inside whenever I needed a respite from them.
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