“Do you always bring everything back to sex?” he asked.
Scorch huffed, amused and disconcerted by the pious man’s brazenness. “I try to give the people what they want,” he replied with a shrug.
“I don’t want you,” Julian deadpanned.
“Of course not,” Scorch allowed, “but everyone else in this room does.”
“Are all guardians as cocky as you?”
“No,” he said, considering. “But then, they’re not all as good-looking as me either.”
Julian blushed again and found solace in the bottom of his mug. “You really are a heathen. But I don’t believe you.”
“I look a lot better once I’ve cleaned up. You’ll see,” Scorch assured him.
“I meant not everyone in this room wants you,” Julian corrected and Scorch frowned. “That man over there hasn’t looked over here once.”
Scorch followed Julian’s squinty gaze across the room where a man was sitting at the bar.
A wave of warmth hit him fast and he chugged his spiced wine. “Excuse me,” he mumbled, standing up and making a quick path to the bar. He slid onto the wobbly stool beside a slight man and let his eyes graze indulgently over the dark hair and moon-pale skin he thought he’d never see again. After waiting several heartbeats for the other man to recognize his existence, Scorch dove in with the cleverest of openers. “Hi.”
The man ignored him, staring straight ahead, but Scorch could see his nostrils flare. He tried again, angling himself closer so, were the man to look, he would be treated with the enjoyable landscape of Scorch’s broad shoulders, even though they were spattered with blood and dirt. “Fancy running into you again,” he said, but his voice wasn’t its usual smooth loll; it was laced with something else he couldn’t quite identify. He cleared his throat valiantly. “Can I buy you a drink?”
The man’s head turned, barely, and Scorch was met with cold, amethyst eyes. “No.”
Scorch opened his mouth, but no sound came out, and the man returned to staring straight ahead. Scorch stole a glance back at Julian, who was watching the strange scene play out with some interest, and then he fidgeted on the barstool and looked back at the other man disbelievingly. He lowered his voice and affected his brand of surety that had led to the successful bedding of half the Guild’s apprentice population. “Is there another way I can pay you back for saving my life?”
Scorch winced. His words had come out more desperate than debonair. He examined the man’s profile—pleasant angles and lush curves—but failed to catch a single flinch or twitch save another minute flare of his nostrils. Finally, after what felt like years, the man answered. “No.”
“Right. Well.” Scorch clawed his mind for something, anything to coax the man’s attention. “Sorry, but don’t you recognize me? You straddled my face, pretended to choke me to death, and then fought by my side. That was you, wasn’t it?”
There. The man turned his head, his eyes flashing. He stared at Scorch for a stretch of uncomfortable seconds before speaking in a bored drawl. “Your assistance was necessary for my escape. There’s no imbalance of favors between us. But if you’re bent on gratifying me, you can go away. I’d find your absence suitable repayment.”
Scorch floundered beneath the man’s glare and stood from the stool. He hovered there, uninvited, even as the other man reverted back to his natural state of ignoring him. Scorch’s feet were stuck. He couldn’t make them move. It was only when a hand came to rest on his shoulder that he was startled from his immobile befuddlement.
“Scorch?” Kio asked. She was clean and carried with her the scent of roses. “I’ve had the bath filled with fresh water.” Her eyes fell on the dark-haired man for a moment, and Scorch knew she must recognize him from the cages, but she made no effort to speak to him. Instead, she gripped Scorch’s arm and led him away. Scorch did his best not to look back at the bar as they climbed the stairs, Julian laughing smugly behind him.
****
The inn room was small but clean, and it may have boasted several amenities and charming furnishings, but the only thing Scorch had eyes for was the large, round tub in the corner, the water steaming hot. It lured him close and he dipped his fingers into the heat, closing his eyes.
“Since Scorch has the stab wounds, he should bathe first,” Kio instructed, seating Julian at the edge of the bed and dumping a hefty sack onto the mattress. She pulled out a heap of bandages and creams and suspicious looking herbs. “Julian, how does your eye feel?”
Scorch zoned them out and stripped immodestly from his clothes, starting with his boots. His jerkin came off with little effort, only making him ache when the material brushed against the wound in his shoulder. The trousers were more difficult, as the blood from the stab wound in his thigh had sealed to the leather. He gritted his teeth as he pried them off his legs. The wound wasn’t nearly as inflamed as he’d suspected, but there was horrific bruising surrounding the point where the knife had gouged. It looked much worse than the twin wound in his shoulder, but neither appeared infected. That was a mercy. It would be much harder saving the High Priestess if he had to hobble up the mountain one-legged.
He slid off his underclothes last, toeing them into the pile of bloodstained, dirt-cracked clothes. The water was scalding, but Scorch’s skin acclimated easily as he lowered himself into the tub on shaky arms. He bit his lip to keep from crying out when the water hit the wound on his thigh, and then on his shoulder, but when it lapped up against the multiple burns and cuts on his neck, he couldn’t contain the soft hiss of pain.
Kio and Julian were polite enough to pretend they hadn’t heard, and Scorch took several deep breaths to collect himself. Everything hurt, but the hot water was soothing the aches in his muscles from being cowered in a cage for two days, and before too long, he was able to relax past the throbbing pain in his shoulders and thigh. He was resting his head against the rim of the tub when Kio reminded him to clean his face and hair, as well. He dunked his whole head beneath the water and scrubbed at his hair. When he breached the surface, his eyes were blurry with tears, the scratch down the side of his face lit with pain. He shut his eyes and saw the boy’s manic eyes as he clawed desperately at Scorch’s face. Kio summoning him from the bath a moment later was a welcome distraction.
She helped him from the tub, handing him a thin sheet to wrap around his waist. “You can get dressed after I see to your injuries,” she said, and he snuck a wink to Julian.
The bath was left murky from Scorch’s scrubbing, but fresh water was already on its way. In the meantime, Julian went to wait by the window, looking out at the village street below, and gifting Scorch all the privacy he could afford.
Kio sat Scorch on the bed and tucked her fingers gently beneath his chin. “That’s a nasty scratch,” she said, carefully directing his face left to right. “It will scar.”
Scorch sighed. “Guardians are supposed to have grisly scars.”
She didn’t comment, only dabbed a minty-smelling cream over the scratch with the pad of her finger. She worked silently down his body, smoothing the cream over his various cuts and scrapes. He hissed in discomfort when her fingers glided over the rope burns on his neck. When she began poking at the stab wound in his shoulder, Scorch attempted an unsuccessful flirtation to distract himself.
“You have talented hands,” he commented, voice husky with hurt.
“Thank you,” she brisked, sticking a clean strip of bandage across the wound. “If you were my type at all, I’d put my talented hands to better use.”
Julian didn’t try to stifle his laughter from the window, and after an embarrassing moment, Scorch laughed, as well. Kio just kept working, and when she kneeled in front of Scorch and scrunched up the sheet to mend his thigh, he swallowed every joke, innuendo, and proposition that flitted through his brain. After his body was approved, Kio examined the back of his head.
“Head injuries are serious,” she said softly at his ear. “Since you haven’t died yet, this probably wo
n’t kill you. But I’d advise against getting hit in the head in the future.” She applied a generous amount of minty cream to the back of his skull, and then ruffled a hand through his clean, damp hair.
“I’ll be sure to ask future bad guys to be more considerate.” Kio started digging around her pile of medicinals and putting aside fresh bandages for Julian. “Sorry to disappoint,” he said, standing up with a stretch, “but I’m going to get dressed.”
Julian and Kio looked elsewhere while Scorch slipped into his fresh clothing. He sighed enthusiastically and smoothed the soft undershirt over his chest. His newly tanned jerkin was next, falling shorter over his hips than his Guild initiated one, but Scorch wasn’t terribly bothered by the way the cut accentuated his backside in his leather trousers. He wished he had a looking glass to check his hair, but a sweep around the room told him there was none. He pulled his boots on and settled for a quick comb with his fingers.
“Hoping he might be more responsive now that the smell is gone?” Julian asked.
Scorch was scraping together an appropriately nonchalant response when the innkeeper barged into the room with two buckets of water. He sidestepped the sloshing water and slinked through the doorway with a brief wave to Kio and Julian, and a promise he’d save them a table downstairs.
The atmosphere of the inn had changed. It seemed the length of his bath had carried the inn’s business from late afternoon into thriving evening. Most of the tables were full and several people were placed at the bar. Scorch’s eyes raked over the patrons in search of a surly, dark-haired man and quickly found him in the same place as before, stationed at the bar and nursing a mug in his hands. Adamantly ignoring him, Scorch cozied up to the end of the bar, several seats away and separated by five different patrons. He summoned the barkeep with a smile. If his fellow escapee didn’t want Scorch to buy him a drink, Scorch would buy one for himself.
A few people wandered over to him while he sipped at his ale, but he politely declined each request for company. His hands shook around the handle of the mug as he remembered a barmaid’s weight in his lap and her blood on his hands. He flexed his fingers and took a deep breath before wiping the sweat from his brow. When he took the next sip of his drink, it was warmer than room temperature, and he decided to stand up and stretch his legs. He paced to the back of the room, by the stairs, trying to calm himself, but he still saw them when he closed his eyes: a woman’s neck destroyed and a boy’s body sprawled in the rain. Scorch was so preoccupied with managing his nerves that he almost missed the conversation happening at the table beside him. Fortuitously, the men were speaking just loudly enough and their vocabulary was just crude enough to snare Scorch’s attention.
“I don’t mind a cock if he’s got a nice mouth to go with it.”
“And hair to pull on. Turn the little thing around and it’s all the same.”
Scorch’s ears pricked up at the exchange and he leaned casually against the stair rails, glancing up as if waiting for someone to descend.
“Did you see him up close? Eyelashes like a girl and a plump ass.”
Scorch scanned the group of men. Four of them. Late thirties. Muscular. Empty, cruel eyes. They reminded him of Ebbins and he clutched his stomach warily. They continued on in their vulgar prose until one among them stood, his chair screeching over the floor.
“Looky there,” the man said. “I spy a serendipitous occurrence.”
“Guv, I wish you’d stop teaching him new words. He’s used that one five times today.”
The other men stood from the table and Scorch followed their lecherous gazes toward the bar, where the dark-haired man was setting down his mug. Scorch watched him stride for the front door, and after he disappeared outside, the group of men went after him.
Scorch followed.
When he stepped outside, he saw no one, but that didn’t deter him. He stepped away from the inn door and listened. Besides the anxious buzzing in his ears, he heard what might be construed as a grunt, so he followed that sound where it led him, to the mouth of an alley between the inn and the stables. He arrived just in time to see one of the four men flying through the air.
Scorch’s sword was lying in its scabbard in the inn room, but he didn’t need it. He rushed into the alley, ducking a second body as it was thrown in his path. Scorch dodged, rolled, and popped back to his feet behind the third man, who was reaching to get his hands around the smaller man’s waist. Scorch grabbed the morally skewed patron by the collar and hauled him back, punching him in the jaw, then he let him take a swing, blocking it with his forearm and a smile. The heat was already subsiding and his skin felt cooler as his fist sailed through the air and into the man’s nose.
They wrestled for a moment—the bar patron was tall and built, but no match for Scorch—and then he finished it, knocking the man against the alley wall until his eyes slid shut. Scorch released him, letting the unconscious body collapse to the ground. Before he could even turn around, he heard a thump and a crack, followed by another, heavier thump, and then the dark-haired man was standing in front of Scorch. His hair was mussed, a thick strand falling over his eye, and his face was stormy, his stance a threat.
“Who are you?” he asked in that deep voice that sounded more thunderstorm than human.
“Who am I?” Scorch held a hand to his chest indignantly. “Other than the man who leapt into battle to protect your virtue?”
The man was on him impossibly fast, pushing Scorch against the wall with a hand pressed to his wounded shoulder. Scorch cried out.
“Are you following me?” his aggressor asked, pushing harder into his shoulder bandage.
“What? No,” Scorch stammered, his vision prickling white around the edges from the pain. “I was trying to help you. Gods, please stop doing that.”
The man let him go and stepped away, crossing his arms over his chest. Night had fallen at last and the brightest thing in the alley was the white glow of his skin. Scorch bent over when the pressure eased off his shoulder, trying not to vomit.
“Let’s try this again,” Scorch breathed. “I’m Scorch. I saw those men following you and I wanted to help.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Evidently,” Scorch replied, straightening his back and wincing.
The man stared at him unblinkingly for a time before asking, “What kind of name is Scorch?”
Scorch puffed out a breath of laughter. “A nickname. What kind of name is yours?”
That earned another beat of silence as the man considered him. “Vivid.”
Scorch looked at Vivid and decided the name was entirely fitting. “Vivid,” he said, testing the shape of it in his mouth. “Hi.”
Vivid was a statue of stillness until, abruptly, he wasn’t. He turned away and began a brisk walk down the alley. Scorch didn’t hesitate to walk after him, tripping over the bodies splayed on the ground.
“Wait,” he said, his long legs bringing him to Vivid’s side in a few strides. They rounded the corner, returning to the front of the inn, but when Vivid walked past the front door, Scorch’s forehead scrunched in confusion. “You’re not staying the night?” he asked, jogging to catch up with Vivid as he continued down the road.
“I shouldn’t have stopped here at all,” was Vivid’s prickly response. After Scorch walked at his side for several more steps, Vivid stopped, shooting Scorch an irritated look. “Go away.”
Scorch held his striking glower as long as he dared before taking a step back. Vivid’s shoulders were flexed with tension and his mouth was severely straight. Scorch had made him look that way, and the realization made him ill. Why was he following someone who didn’t wish to be followed? “Right,” he said stupidly. “Sorry. Happy travels.”
Vivid watched his retreat, he was sure of it, but Scorch made himself not look back until he reached the inn door, and by then, the other man was already swallowed by shadow.
Kio and Julian were there when he came in from the night, and they gathered around
the one free table by the stairs. Scorch assured them its former occupants wouldn’t be an issue. He did not say that was because they were in a pummeled pile outside. They ordered more food and drinks and enjoyed their mutual cleanliness. Julian was in high spirits because Kio told him his eye was looking much better, and if either of them noticed that Scorch’s mood had darkened, neither of them mentioned it.
Scorch scratched at the scruff of beard thickening on his jaw and pondered his next move. He would remain at the inn with Kio and Julian for the night, but in the morning, he would need to part from their company and continue with his task. There could be no more dallying at taverns or being taken prisoner or dark-haired distractions. He would head east, find the path to the temple, warn the High Priestess, and finally be worthy of the Guild. The difficulty of said path he would worry about later. First, he needed to reach Viridor’s Heartlands. If he kept to the main road and didn’t take any unnecessary breaks, he could be there in a few—
“Oh no,” Julian gasped.
Kio touched Julian’s hand, and then Scorch’s. “We need to get upstairs. Now.”
Scorch could hear the dread in her tone, even beneath its usual calming hum. She and Julian were both staring at something behind Scorch’s back, and he twisted in his seat to look. He shouldn’t have done it, because the sudden movement drew the attention of those whose attention he did not want: five men around the bar, with masks hanging loose around their necks. As Scorch saw them, they saw him, and it took no time at all for them to place why he looked so familiar.
He turned back in his seat with wide eyes. “Oh, fuck.”
Kio made the first move, standing from her chair slowly, but as soon as she was up, the masked men charged forward, tossing their drinks on the floor and hollering obscenities. Scorch yanked Julian out of his chair and the three of them took to the stairs, running as fast as they could to their room. As soon as Kio slammed the door shut, an onslaught of bangs started shaking the cheap wood in its frame. Julian helped her keep the door closed, throwing himself up against it.
The Sun Guardian Page 8
