by L. S. O'Dea
“Oh, yes. Sorry. Your message. Hugh wants you to find and capture the escaped Producer. He wants you to come to his house to discuss the job.” Birdie paused, looking at her. “It shouldn’t be too hard for you to complete this task.”
“Gaar?” Birdie obviously knew she was a Producer, but who was Hugh?
“Don’t worry, Little One. I won’t turn you over to the Almighty,” said Gaar.
So, Hugh was an Almighty. Did he work for Benedictine?
“Well, now,” said Birdie. “You may want to reconsider. She’s a kind, young Producer. I’d hate to see her captured by the wrong group. Two Almighty’s want this one. Can you hide from both? If not, which one should get the prize? Hugh may not be my favorite but he is better than Benedictine.” Birdie shivered for effect.
Well, that answered that question. Hugh didn’t work for Benedictine. So, why did he want her?
“Shut up, Avian,” said Gaar.
“Well. My message is delivered.” Birdie huffed and spread his wings. Then he stopped and looked eagerly at the bread in her hand.
She held it out for him. He flew down and took it.
“Thanks again.” He sat in the tree and finished her food. “If I were you, Handler, I’d consider what I could get from this meeting. You’ll have to turn her over eventually. Get what you can and make sure she goes to the right one.” He paused. “I won’t mention seeing her with you. Miss Sarah did not ask that of me.” He nodded farewell and flew off.
Gaar climbed the tree and retrieved his knife. When he was back on the ground, he said, “Come. I’ll teach you about water dangers as we fill our bottles.”
She was following him to the river when he stopped suddenly. She drew her knife, scanning the area for danger.
“The Avian’s right. I don’t know if I can keep you safe.”
Fear skipped down her spine. The Almightys would kill and eat her. She couldn’t be less safe than that.
“Benedictine is one thing. He’s cruel but not smart. Hugh is intelligent and relentless. I need to meet with him or he’ll get suspicious.”
“Why would he get suspicious?” She sheathed her weapon.
He walked over to a rock near the water and sat. “We work for him, Little One. That’s why.”
“I don’t understand. You hate the Almightys.”
“I told you that I watched the Finishing Camp. It was on Hugh’s orders. Mirra’s not aware of this.”
Her throat tightened. She’d been in the hands of the Almightys this whole time. All it took was for the right one to ask and he’d hand her over. The bread sat heavy in her stomach. “What has all this training been then, a joke?” She fought back the tears. Troy had turned on her and it seemed so would Gaar, but she would not cry, not this time.
“No. No,” he said, truth in his dark gaze. “Believe me. I had no intention of turning you over to Benedictine.”
“But you will turn me over to Hugh.”
He stared past her at the river. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” His eyes met hers. “I have to go and see him. Let him think that I’ll take the job.”
“When will you decide if you’re turning me over?” She couldn’t go back, not now that she knew what they did to her kind.
“I won’t do anything without discussing it with you and Mirra.”
The constriction around her chest eased. Mirra wouldn’t let her go.
“Plus, I don’t trust the Avian to keep his beak shut. He thinks I’ll owe him a favor if he doesn’t tell, but it will be too tempting to squawk about it. Especially, if we disappear.” He stood. “We need to head toward the Lake of Sins.”
“Are you going to leave me alone again?” She might get to see Jethro. She shouldn’t even want to since he was an Almighty and he ate meat, but she did. He’d been a true friend when he’d helped her escape the Guards. He may be willing to help her again if Gaar decided to turn her over to Hugh.
“Not this time. There are too many Guards looking for you.” He bent, filling up their bottles.
“Are you going to take me into the village with you?” She’d never seen a town or village besides her own.
“No. We’ll wait until Mirra finds us. Then you’ll go back to the Finishing Camp with her.”
She frowned. That didn’t sound like any fun at all.
CHAPTER 7
JACKSON WALKED DOWN the hallway toward the cell where the female Producer was being held. The male had already been transferred. Yesterday, Benedictine had ordered the two Producers locked up and then had left for home. It was now almost noon the next day. The prisoners had been given no food or water.
He stopped at the cell door. Thankfully, this was not a normal part of his duties. He didn’t like this facility or anything that happened here. It wasn’t right to keep the Producers in this cold, concrete environment. He pounded twice on the door before turning the key and opening it. The female sat, cowering in a corner, her wide brown eyes blinking as the light filtered into the room and sent shadows skittering across the walls.
“Come.” He waved her forward.
She hesitated and then rose, walking to him. He held out a collar. It stank of mustiness and death.
“Is that necessary?” she asked softly, turning her head away from the smell.
“Benedictine’s orders.”
“And you always follow his orders.” She tipped her head, giving him better access.
If he didn’t he would pay, perhaps with his life. He snapped the lock shut a little more forcefully than necessary. The weight made her small shoulders sag. He enclosed her wrists in the metal cuffs attached to long, heavy chains which hung down to her knees. She tried to hold her arms at her waist but the weight was too much and she let them drop to her sides. He stepped aside and motioned for her to precede him down the hallway.
“Where are we going?” She glanced back at him. “Please. What’s going to happen to me?”
You don’t want to know. “Keep moving.” Conversing with her would do neither of them any good.
She stumbled. He grabbed her arm, steadying her.
“Thank you.” She smiled.
She had kind eyes and a nice smile. He was a Guard; she was a Producer. They both had to pay for their place in society. He clenched his jaw and focused over her head as they continued walking. When they reached the end of the hallway, he nudged her to the right. There was a stairwell with a flickering light. Everything was painted gray, the stairs, the walls and the hand rails. It was a depressing color for a terrible place.
She moved slowly down the stairs unable to use her hands due to the chains. She stumbled again and this time he wasn’t fast enough. She fell forward, head first, rolling down three stairs until the wall at a corner stopped her descent.
He hurried after her. She lay still. Benedictine would kill him if she were dead. He had to calm down. He tipped his head and there was the soft sound of her heart beating. He bent and gently shook her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
She trembled as she leaned on her arms. She gasped. “My side. Ribs.”
“May I?” He showed her his hands. She could be bleeding internally. It wouldn’t matter in the long run, but he couldn’t help offering this small act of kindness.
She nodded and lifted her arms as high as she could. He gently felt along her ribcage.
“I don’t feel anything broken. Probably bruised.”
She lowered her arms. He placed his hands on her waist, helping her to her feet. She took a deep breath, wincing.
“Come. Benedictine is waiting.” They needed to get moving or he’d be in trouble.
She looked into his eyes again, fear heavy in her gaze. He glanced away but took her arm, guiding her down the stairs. They walked the remaining way slowly and carefully. They stopped at a door and he pushed it open. She glanced at him again, her eyes pleading.
“Come on.” She needed to stop looking at him like that. He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t even help himself.
They stepped into a
large room with concrete walls and floor. A cage sat to the right, partially blocked by a long, rectangular table covered with a tarp. In front of the cage were three chains hanging from the ceiling. Two were half suspended between the ceiling and floor; the other lay on the ground coiled like a snake. Two staircases, one on each end of the right side of the room, led to a balcony. On the balcony were padded chairs arranged in small groups of two or four with a table in each group. There were also two doors on the opposite side of the room. Both were closed. On the left side of the room were several large, closed coolers. On the wall were panels of switches and cranks.
He directed her up the stairs to the balcony. He couldn’t help her this time, not in front of Benedictine. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and slowly climbed the stairs. At the top he led her to a large table with two chairs. Except for them, the balcony was empty. Benedictine liked to make the victim wait. It increased the tension. She looked back at him. He stared straight ahead, keeping his face impassive. It would be bad for both of them if he showed any emotion.
“Remy!” she called out as she peered over the rail into the cage.
Benedictine’s heavy trod pulled the Producer’s gaze away from her mate. The door flew open and Benedictine strolled over to the table.
Jackson eyed the full bottle of whiskey in the Almighty’s hand. This was not going to be quick. He shot a sympathetic glance at the Producer, but luckily, she wasn’t looking.
Benedictine sat at the table and opened the bottle. He filled his glass half-full and took a large swallow. He sighed and took another smaller drink. His gaze ran up and down the Producer. “Sit.”
She pulled out the other chair and sat, her chains clanking together.
“You’re small for a Producer. Why did we breed you?”
“I...I’m good with the earth.”
Benedictine inhaled sharply. “Yes, now I remember. We had some issues with the land over there. Not surprising, really.” He peered down into the cage. “I don’t understand why none of your offspring took after their father.” He nodded toward a pitcher of water and two glasses which sat on the table. One glass had about an inch of water in it; the other was empty. “Are you thirsty?”
Jackson shifted. Of course, she was thirsty. She’d been left without food or water all night.
She nodded.
“Please, help yourself.” Benedictine motioned toward the glass with water.
She used her left hand to support and lift her right arm as she grasped the glass. Those damn chains were too heavy for her. He glanced at Benedictine to see if he could remove them but Benedictine smirked as she raised the glass and lowered her head to meet it halfway. She drank in huge gulps until it was gone. She set the glass back on the table, eyeing the pitcher.
“Well, then. Enough with the niceties,” said Benedictine.
Jackson clenched his jaw, biting back his words. Allowing a creature a small drink of water was not a nicety.
“Let’s get on to the business at hand. Your missing offspring,” said Benedictine.
The Producer stiffened but her face remained blank.
“She has eluded us. Hard to believe, I know.” Benedictine drummed his fingers on the table.
She closed her eyes for a moment, relief flashing across her features. That was not a good move on her part.
“I can see you’re relieved,” said Benedictine kindly. “But don’t worry. That doesn’t anger me. I’m a reasonable fellow. I expect you to love and care for your offspring.”
She relaxed a little and looked back at the water. Jackson stiffened, waiting for the blow. He wanted to scream at her that this was not the time to relax. This was when Benedictine struck.
“However, if you really cared for her you’d want her returned to the safety of her home.”
She stiffened and tried to stare straight ahead but her gaze kept going back to the pitcher.
“Please, have some more water,” said Benedictine.
She reached for the pitcher, her hands shaking from the weight of the chains. She attempted to lift it but ended up dropping her arms back at her sides, her throat working as if it had the water.
“Too heavy?” Benedictine picked up the pitcher. He held it over the glass.
She stared eagerly as the water almost made it to the spout of the pitcher.
“Not so fast.” Benedictine tipped it away from the glass. “You do want your offspring back at the encampment. Right?”
She nodded, staring at the water.
“Perhaps we can help each other. Tell me who helped her escape? We found the hole under the fence.”
“She was taken,” she said, licking her dry lips.
“Who is with her now, in the forest?” Benedictine shook the pitcher, the water sloshing inside.
“I, I don’t know.”
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Rise of the River Man
CHAPTER 1
MUTTER WAS IN TROUBLE. No one wanted a Guard like him. He was too big, too strong and too ugly. He stretched out on the concrete floor and winced. His ribs were definitely broken, but he’d fought and won with broken bones in the past. He started coughing. It was this sickness that had cost him the match. He sat up; the coughing subsided. He’d pleaded with Vickers, his Almighty master, not to make him fight but the money had already switched hands. He leaned his head against the bars of the cage. He’d lost the fight and now he’d lose his life.
The door opened and a male Almighty around thirty years old with blond hair entered the room followed by Satcha, the House Servant who ran this establishment. The Guards’ Shelter didn’t allow visiting at this hour but Almightys did whatever they wanted. Mutter didn’t bother to stand up. He’d learned his lesson. Right after he’d arrived, he’d trimmed his beard and had tried to look pleasant, but it had done no good. Every time that he’d run to the front of the cage and had smiled at the Almightys, he’d smelled the fear on them. Most had tried not to look at him, but he was big and scarred and hard to ignore.
They stopped in front of his cage.
“Ableson, this is the one I told you about,” said Satcha. “Looks like he was a fighter. So, he should be used to obeying. I thought he might work for you, but he does have a bad cough.”
“Just a little tickle in my throat from this damp, rotten place.” He hated Servants. They didn’t know when to keep their big mouths shut.
The Almighty remained quiet, his blue eyes never leaving Mutter.
“Come here,” said Satcha.
Mutter wanted to stay where he was to annoy the Servant but Guards like him didn’t get many chances for a home. He stood slowly, letting the Almighty get used to his size and appearance.
“How old are you?” asked Ableson.
“Not sure. Been around for a while but not too old.” That was the safe answer. He had counted nineteen winters but that might be too old or too young. He never could tell what an Almighty wanted.
“By his teeth and body we estimate around twenty-five to thirty years,” said Satcha.
Ableson twirled his finger. Mutter understood that signal. Before the fights had started, when the betting happened, he was often sized up by the gamblers. He turned in a circle, giving the Almighty time to study him.
“I’m strong and healthy.” That was a lie but he would be healthy again. He just needed a little time and some food.
“I need an obedient Guard.” The Almighty’s eyes roamed up and down his frame.
“Won’t find one more obedient than me.”
“Let’s see if that’s true.” Ableson walked down the aisle. “Is there another Guard who he’s close to?”
“Him?” Satcha laughed, following the Almighty. “He’s so big and ugly even the other Guards stay away from him.”
Ableson stopped
in the hallway. “Take this one out.”
The Servant opened the cage and slipped a rope over a young Guard’s neck. Mutter’s chest pinched. Typical. The Almighty’s always chose the young ones. His only chance was gone. They would walk out and soon he’d be executed. He started to sit back down, when the three of them stopped in front of his cage.
“Put her in with him,” said Ableson.
“Ah, we keep the younger ones separated from the older ones, especially the older males,” said Satcha.
The Almighty didn’t say a word, but his look was enough. The Servant muttered an apology and opened the door, shoving the young Guard into Mutter’s cage.
He glanced at the little Guard who stood as far away from him as possible. She couldn’t have been older than nine. She had russet hair and large, frightened, brown eyes.
“Hit her,” said Ableson, his tone conversational.
“Wait,” said Satcha. “That one’s young and attractive. I can find a home for her. Let me get—”
“I’ll pay for both.” The Almighty’s eyes never left Mutter.
Mutter kept his face a mask but his stomach clenched. He didn’t want to do this. He’d fought females before but they’d all been experienced fighters.
“I need an obedient Guard,” repeated Ableson.
The girl trembled in the corner, tears running down her soft, round cheeks. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
Pleading never changed anyone’s mind. He knew the game and it would be her or him. He stared into the girl’s scared brown eyes. “Bruised, broken or dead?”
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
When L. S. O’Dea was six years old, she read a story her older brother had written for a school assignment and realized two important facts. First, stories were written by ordinary people and second, she was going to be one of those people.
She currently lives in the Central Florida woods and is putting the final touches on the second book in the Lake of Sins series while also writing the third and fourth books.
