Wil shifted his gaze to the scar lumping about his wrist, scoring down the back of his hand. Remembering how four sets of greedy eyes had gone feral, the want and need slicing him to bone, overwhelming him, and so he’d screamed and flung it all back at them. Remembering the snarls and the blood and the thick, squelching sounds of violent death. Remembering the livid, searing pain as the metal had bit into his skin, flayed it right down to the bone as he’d wrenched himself free like some kind of wild animal chewing itself out of a trap. Remembering the stench and the fear and the fever, as he’d stared about at the carnage, taken his first weak, wobbly steps away from captivity.
“You need us, Aisling,” the man whispered, smooth and seductive. “All will be forgiven, if you’ll only—”
“Shut up,” Wil hissed, louder than he’d meant, and too shaky, but he couldn’t help it.
“He is not your answer, he is only your path to destruction—he will dragoon you to the Cliabhán, make of you a sacrifice to feed the Mother’s famine. The Guardian is no more, he is false, a trick, he will bind you and cage you, and all will—”
“Shut up!” A shout this time, high and thin.
“—be lost, you will be shunned from the Father’s sight, cast naked into dark dreams and left alone, forever alone, friendless—”
Wil was on his feet now, charging the cell, only remembering at the last second that he couldn’t actually walk through walls, and instead pressing himself against the bars, an impotent snarl curling his mouth. “Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up, you lying son of a whore, shut your bloody mouth!”
Unbelievably, the man did. Wil stood there, ears ringing with the silence, and watched helplessly as the man smiled. Looked at him, eyes roving like he could see Wil’s end and it made his mouth water, like it pleased him, and smiled.
The subtle clearing of a throat to his right, and Wil jerked his glance to Brayden, peering back at him over the heads of the two boys. The boys were staring at Wil now with wide eyes and too obviously trying not to smirk. Wil almost snapped at them, too, but the near-smirks were directed past his shoulder and into the cell, so he choked it back.
“Want help?” Brayden asked calmly.
Wil didn’t know what to make of the offer, so he said the first thing that came to his tongue: “Please—can’t we just kill him?”
He was dead serious, but Brayden’s eyebrow went up, like he was amused, and the boys snorted. Kenton reached over and smacked one of them on the back of the head, but that only made them both duck their heads and snigger into their collars. Wil didn’t know what to make of any of that, either. He just stood there, staring, gripping the bars in a fist so tight his hand was going numb. If he could rip the bars off himself, he wouldn’t have even asked the question, and he was pretty sure Brayden knew it. Damn it, why had he let himself be pulled off the man in the first place?
Brayden grimaced a little, shook his head. “Why don’t you wait on the porch,” he told Wil. “We shouldn’t be much longer.”
Wil stared for a moment, wondering if Brayden meant to let him walk out the doors by himself, unwatched, but then he remembered the militia. He nodded, shot the prisoner one last hateful glare then spun about and pushed through the splintered doors.
The sun was thin and bright, the cold not so terribly noticeable beneath the protection of the new coat: wool-lined suede, a little big in the shoulders, but the sleeves were long enough, and the fit otherwise good. He’d slipped it on when he’d been readying for flight only a little while ago, and though the flight had been short-lived, he’d been loath to remove the coat. It still had the smell of another—something a little bit spicy and smoky—and he wondered if this was from the same Esmond of the boots, the same Esmond who had left behind Mistress Afton. Wil wondered if he’d been her son or her husband or her father, and if he’d be pleased or dismayed to see the use to which his coat and boots had been put.
He sucked in a great lungful of cold morning air, watched the thin plume of it mist from his mouth then lowered himself to sit on the porch steps. One of the men who’d been helping Mistress Slade was out there—either Hal or Mal; Wil didn’t know which was which—and he turned when he heard Wil’s boots on the step, gave him a pleasant nod. Wil nodded back, and the man turned again to watch the street, rifle gripped in both hands, at the ready, across his middle. Several more made slow circuits around what Wil could see of the square—of which, now that his vision was no longer fuzzy, was pretty much all of it. It was a very small village, now that he was getting a real look. People still milled about like it was market day, stopping in little clusters to natter about the recent goings-on, no doubt, once or twice turning to point surreptitiously at Wil, but he didn’t pay attention. His gaze instead wandered to the splintered holes in the wood of the porch. Bullet holes, of course. If he still had his knife, he could probably dig out the slugs.
He reached out, dipped a finger into one of the jagged little cavities, until his fingertip butted up against solid metal. It couldn’t really still be warm, but it felt like it.
He’d heard the reports when Brayden had barreled out the doors, heard them clearly, even through his panic, and knew exactly what they were and at whom they were aimed. It took him quite a while to figure out why he’d been so anxious—besides the obvious reasons, like who was shooting and how long before they got to him—why he’d started to panic even further until he’d crept to the window behind Locke’s desk and seen Brayden’s shape sprint from one building to the other. It made more sense now. At least he was bound and determined to shove into a shape that looked like sense.
He’d thought yesterday that if he made it through all of his confessions, every last one, even the worst, he’d either end up dead or with Brayden as his misguided protector. And he hadn’t woken up dead. Even if Brayden had intended to take him back to Ríocht—and Wil believed now that he hadn’t—it wouldn’t have been to hand him over to the Guild. Beyond any sense or reason, he had an ally now, even if that ally was still somewhat uninformed, and until Brayden decided to start believing in his own religion, Wil thought he was probably safer with Brayden than out on his own. Brayden was right—they’d caught his scent, all of them, they were catching up too quickly and their numbers were growing, and Brayden knew a lot more about reconnaissance and survival than Wil did. Except for the fact that Brayden was dead set on Putnam, Wil was probably a lot better off with him than he would be with Brayden joining the hunt.
Anyway, there was the whole matter of shamans and Gifts and things Wil didn’t understand and was afraid to believe, but if any one of them offered even the smallest chance of him getting out of this alive and with his freedom, he’d embrace it without thought or hesitation. If the morning had held no other lessons, it had shown him that Brayden was a killer, but he wasn’t a murderer. Wil still might find himself dead at Brayden’s hand one day, but it wouldn’t be because he’d been knifed in the dark or strangled in his sleep. Death by Brayden’s hand would be an honorable one. Still, honor meant nothing to the dead, and Wil had no use for it. He’d run from it if he saw it coming in time, take it standing in his boots if he didn’t.
Although, if it got to the point where he did have to run again, escape from the man who now thought to redefine the Guardian’s purpose, he was going to have to make damned sure he got away clean. Brayden was a little too good at this sort of thing. Then again, there was always the possibility that Wil wouldn’t want to run. A death by Brayden’s hand wouldn’t just be honorable—it would be clean. No Siofra, no Brethren. There may come a day, he reflected darkly, when he’d beg the Guardian to fulfill his purpose. And he’d already proven he wasn’t above begging.
Odd, how Brayden was the only person Wil had encountered thus far who didn’t react to him with those basic, core impulses, those extreme emotions that Wil seemed to elicit from everyone else. He thought he was beginning to understand the reactions now, and it had taken him longer than it should’ve done, but he’d been rather… busy
. Locke had been the one that had got him thinking, because she hadn’t liked him—he knew she hadn’t liked him—but she’d been kind to him anyway. Almost against her own will. She’d been too good a person not to be. So had that man back in Kenley, and Miri and Tom, and dozens of others.
It was simple, but it wasn’t: good people were kind to him, even if they didn’t mean to be or didn’t know why; bad people wanted to use him, even if they didn’t understand their directionless desire. Wil could turn that desire into lust, if he tried hard enough, because giving to lust would generally get him out of a threatening situation, and the person doing the threatening would walk away thinking they’d got what they wanted. The kindness he merely accepted when he could, skirting away from it before it dipped down into the darker wants.
Brayden seemed immune to either end of the strange spectrum. Brayden didn’t look at Wil like he wanted to eat him alive, and he was only as kind and respectful toward Wil as he was toward anyone else. There was nothing… lurking. The Guardian Brayden may be, but he was also the first person Wil had encountered—ever—who treated Wil exactly like he treated everyone else. Half-trusting Brayden, for as long as it lasted, seemed like the smartest thing right now.
“Well, Mother,” Wil murmured to the ground, “whoever you are, if you are, it appears I am accepting your Gift, such as it is. You’ve not exactly left me much of a choice.” He snorted a little, shook his head. “And if I’ve just somehow endorsed my own grisly end, I’m going to be really pissed.”
He was still sitting there, scrunched down in his warm coat, staring at his comfortable boots, musing how strange it was that hope could be so depressing, when Kenton and the young men emerged from the office behind him. The boys each gave Wil a small smile and a wave, sauntering down the steps hand-in-hand, as he squinted up at them; Wil lifted his eyebrows and returned a bemused one of his own. He supposed he had seemed a bit bloodthirsty to them—he was probably their new hero—and he couldn’t help but wonder if they’d be disgusted or titillated if they knew he’d spent a good chunk of his morning up to his elbows in a man’s brains. Young men were strangely impressed by gore.
“…can likely hand him over to the contingent from Putnam when they arrive,” Brayden was telling Kenton. “I don’t expect to get much out of him, but I’ll leave a report with you to pass on to them.”
“I would like to repeat my opinion that you should wait for your men,” Kenton put in seriously. “You don’t know how many more there are out there, and you’re only one man.”
Wil deliberately ignored the way Kenton had deliberately ignored him.
Brayden blew out a heavy sigh. “We can’t wait for them any longer—the longer we’re here, the more danger we bring to Dudley. Perhaps, if we’re gone, the danger will follow us.”
“I can’t say I wouldn’t prefer that, considering, but…” Kenton hesitated.
Brayden took advantage of the pause: “I acknowledge the wisdom of your concern and I appreciate it,” he assured Kenton. And then he changed the subject. “How long will you be, d’you think?”
Kenton thought about it. “I want to see the lads home, and then I’ll need to arrange a few things.” A mirthless snort. “I’ve not even told my wife yet that she’s married to the new Sheriff of Dudley.” He sighed. “If she doesn’t kill me, I ought to be… say an hour, maybe two.”
“We’ll be finished with our business by then and ready to go,” Brayden told him.
Wil’s stomach dropped a little. He really wasn’t looking forward to that ‘business.’
“And you’ll wait ‘til I get back?” Kenton wanted to know.
“We will,” Brayden replied. “Wil?”
Wil jumped a little. He’d deliberately kept himself turned away, like they didn’t know he could hear every word, and being addressed directly like that startled him for some absurd reason. Slowly, he peered over his shoulder, raised his eyebrows in question.
Brayden gave him a little nod. “Ready?”
Wil looked from Brayden to Kenton, found no help there, and nodded. With a subdued sigh and the renewed curling of his gut, he stood, nodded a polite goodbye to Kenton then walked past Brayden and into the office.
***
He’d sort of expected to be bustled into the man’s cell with Brayden pushing him from behind, saying, “All right, go.” Instead, Brayden silently stepped past Wil, past the cell, and on down to the stove.
“You’ve no idea what I’d do for a cup of coffee,” he muttered as he poured two mugs of what Wil was pretty sure was the spiced cider he’d wished for before. “What kind of forsaken hole doesn’t have coffee?” Brayden went on ranting quietly, mostly to himself, then he looked up, saw Wil still standing by the door and gestured him over.
Wil shot one quick glance at the prisoner, snatched it away again just as quickly, and complied. He accepted a mug gratefully, took a cautious sip of the steaming cider, and leaked a little sigh. Heavily laced, the familiar heat blossomed through him, took some of the jitters and calmed them beneath a warm, cinnamon-scented haze. He leaned a little closer to the stove. Locke had always kept it stoked high so its heat reached every corner, even down to the cells, but Wil had noticed that Brayden often forgot about feeding it unless he wanted tea. It was burning high and hot now, and though he wasn’t cold, Wil soaked in its heat like a cat on a hearthstone.
“Now,” Brayden said, leaned himself back against the desk, “we haven’t much time, and I’ve seen this man’s sort before. It would take days to break him, and we’ve got less than two hours. Have you got something to tell me?”
Wil’s eyebrows shot up. “Tell you?”
“Well, I assumed by ‘help,’ you meant you had some information that would make prying something out of him a bit easier.”
“And I would assume that he knows a lot more about all this than I do,” Wil replied, frowning. He saw Brayden’s teeth clench, shook his head. “Look, I’ll tell you what I know, I’m not trying to be difficult, but… well, I don’t know a whole lot. You probably know as much as I do by now.”
Brayden sighed, placed his cup on the desk. “All right,” he said slowly. “You said you could help. How? And bear in mind, I’m not much for pulling fingernails, but if you’ve got a brilliant idea, I could certainly use one.”
Wil took another gulp from his mug, mostly to stall, and shrugged. “I said I think I can help. And I’m not sure how. I mean, I know how, but I don’t know how, and it’s… well, it’s rather difficult to explain.” He tried to look sane and reasonable, but thought he was probably lucky if he managed slightly twitchy. “It doesn’t involve any fingernails,” he said, subdued. “Except maybe my own.”
Brayden’s expression was vaguely disappointed but not at all surprised. He puffed out something between a tired snort and a growl. “Don’t know why I was expecting a straight answer,” he muttered into his mug.
Miffed, Wil scowled. “There is no straight answer,” he snapped. “Or if there is, I don’t know what it is. Sometimes I can… I don’t know how to explain it, and I doubt I’d want to if I could. I can’t tell you—I’d have to show you.”
“Does it involve anything sharp or explosive?” Brayden asked suspiciously.
Wil rolled his eyes. “It involves you opening the cell door and letting me in, then not leaving me in there alone. I don’t know how it works, I don’t know if it’ll work, but you want answers and you don’t want to pull fingernails, and I want to get out of here, so I’ll try.”
He paused, blinked. Shit, had he just argued his way into this?
Brayden was staring, calculating, as usual. Wil stared back, no expression except perhaps a small bit of challenge and a touch of impatience. He didn’t want to do this—would probably sacrifice a vital body part not to do this—but he did want to get out of this little death trap of a village, he did want to see the very last of that man in the cell and all others like him, and the sooner this was over, the sooner he could walk out those shattered doors
and never look back. It had occurred to him only a little while ago to ask Brayden if they couldn’t perhaps leave by way of Garson’s, so that Wil could see Miri one last time. So he could see if maybe he could catch a glint of blame or absolution in her open gaze so he’d know how he was supposed to be feeling about everything that had happened. He didn’t even want to do that anymore. He just wanted to be done and gone.
This quest of Brayden’s for answers—it was bewildering and infuriating. Who bloody cared who they were, why they did what they did? They were a bunch of lunatics who thought the Father spoke directly in their ears, thought He’d enlisted them to imprison His Dreamer and take away his dreams. They were a band of blackguards who had no hesitation over wiping out dozens of people at a time, and all so that their secret Brotherhood would remain secret. They were a gang of thugs who wanted him, and they wanted him willing, but if they couldn’t get him willing, they had no reservations about force, any more than Siofra did.
It was more than enough for Wil to know he had to keep several steps ahead of them. What more did he need to know?
“All right,” Brayden finally said, straightened and waved toward the cell. “Let’s have at it, then.”
The Aisling Trilogy Page 25
