reflection 02 - the reflective cause

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  “Four nightlopers,” Jeb whispers.

  “Species?” Slade asks, though he can almost guess.

  “Lion—all.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Merrick flicks the secondary night-vision lenses over the first lenses, where it cups the bulbous shape perfectly.

  “Weapons?” Slade asks.

  Merrick hisses through his teeth. “Flail.”

  Slade gives a low chuckle. “Really?”

  “Yes,” Merrick answers tersely.

  “Do not worry,” Slade says.

  “I'm not worried, Bloodling. I work a flail expertly.”

  Arrogant bastard. “Oh? Well then you should be primed for the avoidance of such a weapon. “Let me look through the lenses.”

  Merrick flips the leather cord over his neck and wordlessly hands the glasses to Slade.

  Slade grips the short handgrips and presses the smooth ceramic bar to his forehead. The pressure depresses the mechanism, and the viewer comes on. The nightlopers approaching the stronghold are all oversized for the species.

  The one in the forward position, directly in front of the twelve-foot solid wood doors, has a flail strapped across his body. The two lions flanking him have smaller flails. Slade studies the largest weapon’s stiff rod with a ten-inch chain, ending in a metal ball covered in blunt spikes.

  “Poison-tipped, most likely.”

  Merrick grunts a response, which Slade interprets as an affirmative.

  “Do all Reflectives train for medieval weaponry?” Slade asks, genuinely curious. No matter how hard he tries, Slade can't picture Beth wielding a flail.

  “Thinking of Beth, Bloodling?” Merrick asks with an intuitive stab.

  Slade senses Merrick's gaze scorching his flesh, and he rattles the snake’s cage.

  “Always.”

  “She could kill any one of those nightlopers,” Merrick says, and Slade hears the pride in his voice.

  “Really? It must grate on you to have a warrior as a soul mate, eh, Merrick?”

  “And wouldn't it bother you to feel as though your protection was insufficient because your declared was in a dangerous occupation?”

  “My mate would not put herself in harm's way.” Slade shrugs.

  “Ah. And you choose your kindred blood?” Merrick makes a low disdainful noise. “Gunnar made that quite clear it is a random selection, very much like our soul mates within the Reflective contingent.”

  Slade says nothing, his lips tightening.

  Beth is kindred blood to Slade. He tasted of her essence and gave her pleasure while he drank. That is only possible between kindred blood. It doesn't always happen, but often it does. Sexual pleasure during blood share is just one of many signs proving kindred status.

  Beth will not be a warrior when she becomes my mate.

  “What's that smug expression for?” Merrick asks.

  You don't want to know.

  “I don't think our kindred blood can be compared to your soul mate.”

  Merrick says nothing, flipping out his palm to receive the field glasses. Slade slaps them in his hand.

  “You're presumptuous, Bloodling.”

  “And you, as well.”

  Merrick stands, ignoring Slade’s rebuttal. “How are we going to do this?”

  “As quietly as possible.”

  “How?”

  Slade rummages in his knapsack and pulls out a ceramic container, which he hands to Jeb. After twisting off the top, Jeb takes an exploratory sniff.

  He gags.

  Slade chuckles in delight.

  Merrick's gold brows drop low. “Fuck off, Bloodling.”

  Slade's expression sobers, but the remnants of a smile hover over his lips. “We apply that to our exposed skin, and the nightloper will interpret your stench as a common animal.”

  Jeb's jaw works back and forth. “Fantastic.” His nose scrunches at the foul odor.

  “And you?”

  “I don't have a scent. My vampire lineage cancels out odor.”

  “Hmm.” More than a hint of admiration rides the fine line of envy in Jeb’s tone.

  Slade ruthlessly shoves aside another pang of regret. He cannot be weak.

  Merrick for Beth—it is the only solution.

  Jeb reluctantly smears the foul rub onto his cheekbones and tops of his hands.

  If Slade's fortunate, Merrick will take the fall, Dimitri will die, and nothing will stand in the way of his mating of Beth.

  *

  Merrick

  The males go wide, Jeb several meters opposite Slade as they edge toward the front of Dimitri's fortress. Slade makes a high-pitched noise that mimics a bird call, and Jeb returns it.

  The nightlopers snuffle, shaking their tawny manes and straightening from their semi-slouched positions.

  The lead nightloper plucks the flail from its tether and moves silently toward a creature presumably as large as he.

  Jeb jogs lightly toward the corner of the building, where he presses the side of his face against the cool stone.

  The nightlopers raise their noses to the sky, nostrils flaring and sniffing the night air.

  Jeb can barely tolerate the waxy substance smeared over his face and hands. He smells like spoiling refuse.

  Suddenly, the leader's face whips in Jeb's direction. Jeb catches sight of Slade sprinting behind the three lions while Jeb's horrible smell serves as a distraction.

  Slade's dark eyes flash at Jeb, and the second the leader is two meters away, Jeb hears a growl that tells him the nightloper has located him. He steps out, revealing himself.

  The nightloper seems surprised his prey is humanoid, but the lion is cunning, nevertheless. He swings his flail in a practiced arc meant to lobe Jeb's head off.

  Not today.

  Jeb ducks, swinging out his arm, and grips the handle of the flail. He jerks it backward, and the sudden backswing of the spiked weapon crushes the nightloper between the eyes.

  He begins to topple, and Merrick pitches forward to catch the flail as the end of another takes a chunk out of his hide. Jeb bites back a howl and spins the borrowed flail with grace, despite the pain. His strike lands between the legs of one of the others.

  He howls, grabbing his ruined crotch, and Jeb strikes the second lion in the throat with the knuckles of his free hand, silencing the beast before he can rouse the entire compound.

  Slade stands, blood dripping from his parted lips. He issues a primal hiss, and Jeb fights backing away, but is paradoxically fascinated by the fangs. They look as though they could belong to a small saber-toothed tiger.

  “That was simple,” Slade says.

  “No. You used me as bait,” Jeb says with clear reproach, his ass in agony.

  “And if I mentioned you carried the scent of the primary predator of the nightloper?”

  “I would have told you to go to hades.”

  Slade grins, cocking an inky eyebrow. “Ah, but look how well it worked.”

  Jeb wonders on that. “Let's get to Rachett.”

  “You go first.” Slade sweeps his palm at the entrance doors a few meters away.

  Jeb turns to study the huge double doors, arched at the top, anchored with hand-forged fasteners. The construction is similar to many doors on Papilio.

  That is where the similarities between the two worlds end, Jeb is sure. He marches toward the entrance.

  He can't wait until he is through this and back with Beth. Rachett will be reinstated, and Beth will be safe—or as safe as he can make her.

  At the door, Jeb slides his fingers through the cold metal loop serving as a door knob and slowly swings open the heavy door.

  The inside of the structure is how he remembers it. Yet, it is quiet like the tomb.

  Too quiet.

  He steps inside, feeling Slade's presence at his back. Jeb moves to ask Slade about the oddity of the building's stillness—then Reflective Ryan steps from the shadows.

  Jeb’s every instinct comes alive. His stomach drops as adrenali
ne floods him.

  “Well, hello, Jeb.”

  Ryan's eyes flick to Slade. “I don't know how you managed it, my Bloodling friend, but I'm beyond happy.”

  Jeb's stomach flips in a hot roil. However, he allows nothing to bleed onto his countenance. No hopelessness. No fear.

  I am Reflective.

  Jeb's eyes narrow as he steps sideways to keep both Slade and Ryan within sight.

  “I am not your friend, hopper.”

  Ryan smiles. “Well, you certainly aren't his.” He indicates Jeb with a tilt of his head.

  “What in Principle is going on?” Jeb asks.

  Ryan clasps his hands behind his back, and Jeb calculates his demise in precise increments. Ryan is as intuitive as Jeb is. He must notice Jeb's study of him.

  “Don't bother.” He snaps his fingers, and ten nightlopers slink out of the shadows.

  Jeb’s odds continue to look worse.

  “What's going on is we're torturing Rachett for fun. And you're going to kill Dimitri. For me.”

  Jeb doesn't stagger at the news but it's so close he can taste it.

  With Ryan in the same sector as she is, Beth is naked without Jeb's protection.

  Slade's a traitor, but he doesn't want harm to come to Beth.

  “Beth!” Jeb yells at Slade as though he’s lobbing a slow-pitch ball toward Slade.

  “Don't worry about our Beth, Jeb,” Ryan says condescendingly. “We'll take good care of her after you're gone.” He gives a smooth roll of his hips, punching them out at the end of his grind.

  Jeb grits his teeth. “Do not touch her.” Rage makes his voice sound like a burning torch.

  “Ah!” Ryan snaps his head back and smirks. “You have declared the little mongrel. Don't worry about the specifics. You can be released from that. You die; she's free. Simple.” He chortles.

  Jeb glares at Slade, who returns his stare with stoic indifference.

  “Slade…” Jeb implores him with the one word.

  “It's out of my hands, hopper.”

  “Even as we speak, a group of nightlopers make their way to her. She will be brought here and brought low. By me.” He rubs his hands together.

  Jeb's stomach churns again. “No,” he grates between his teeth.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Ryan chimes. He flicks his eyes to the nightlopers. “Take him.”

  Jeb doesn’t honor pride; it's not the Reflective way.

  But he kills half the nightlopers who lay hands on him and maims two more before Ryan wades in and beats him unconscious.

  Jeb's last waking thought is of Beth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Beth

  Guilt hides inside Beth like an uninvited passenger as she steers her small group toward the lake. Toward Three. Toward freedom.

  She didn't say goodbye to Gunnar or allow Maddie to. That would have required far too many explanations, leaving too many ways for Gunnar to convince Beth her choices were illogical.

  Besides, sneaking off in broad daylight when the Bloodlings rest is infinitely easier.

  “I don't like it,” Maddie says, her eyes darting around at the shadows in the forest.

  This last stretch of woods reveals the sparkling lake just beyond its border. Beth won't be deterred by nerves. She hops over a fallen branch, its sharp end impaling the forest floor. Skeletal secondary branches reach out like beseeching limbs preparing for an unwanted embrace.

  “Creepy—I won't lie.” Jacky looks around, keeping Beth's brisk pace.

  “You two, quit it,” Beth says, swatting the most offending branch out of the way.

  The gnarled wood snaps back, seeming to cling to her tight wardrobe. All Reflectives uniforms are tight fitting. One doesn't fight hand-to-hand combat in loose clothing unless one wants it used against him as a weapon.

  So says Rachett.

  A somber pang races through Beth at the thought of their missing leader, and she longs for Jeb's success.

  Beth takes a step forward just as Maddie's piercing scream shatters the forest's stillness.

  Beth spins.

  Jacky points behind Beth.

  The branch is attached—and not letting go.

  Enchanted wood. Beth seamlessly puts together.

  Beth looks up. The tree branch is no such thing. The tree is a reverse monster of a trunk. It begins in starts and fits of slender, knotted wood, its “arms” reaching out and up until its canopy creates an end.

  The branch tightens around her shoulder, and Beth moans.

  “That fucking twig's a bruiser.”

  “Jacky, shut up.” Maddie's scared eyes roll in Beth's direction, too wide for her face. All the fear that Beth does not allow herself to feel fills Maddie’s gaze.

  “Beth—don't move,” Jacky says.

  “Like I can,” Beth grits her teeth.

  “What—what does it want?” Maddie asks, huddling against Jacky.

  “Payment,” a voice that sounds like leaves falling says from far above.

  “Oh shit—that sounds bad.”

  Maddie and Jacky stand together. “Listen, Jasper, I'd go all white knight and that, but I'm thinking there's no ass to kick on a tree.”

  Fantastic.

  The “fingers” tighten around her collarbone, and Beth gasps. The pain is akin to a wench being tightened on a Three automobile far past the point of resistance.

  “Reflective,” the tree thing crows. Rustling leaves rake over Beth's sensitive eardrums, thrumming through her as the pain from its hold becomes unbearable.

  “What?” Beth yells. “Release me then tell me what you require!”

  Four horrible seconds roll past, and right before it releases her, the hold tightens.

  Beth drops to her knees when the pressure of the wooden grip loosens, and she immediately throws up from the pain.

  “Oh my God, Beth.” Maddie moves forward.

  “Stay there,” Beth says then retches again. She hangs suspended over her own vomit for a moment then wipes her mouth. She spits out the vilest of her regurgitated food and rises to her feet shakily.

  The tree organism’s veins pulse with the emerald of the foliage all around them.

  Bulbous wood stabs deeply into the ground, feeding it. The “roots” grab at the forest floor, sucking whatever is beneath directly into the creature’s circulatory system. The veins stand out in stark relief against the deeply furrowed, grayish-brown bark.

  “You know—” Jacky starts, and Beth holds up a hand, fighting back another urge to vomit.

  She swallows her pain and fear. Beth's shoulder aches as though it were nearly torn from its socket. When her eyes reach the top of the tree, a sort of face looks back at her from above. Slowly blinking eyes regard her. Eyelashes made of leaves float softly up and down as the tree stares.

  Jacky whispers, “It's like a leech. Yʼknow, it sucks the life out of everything.”

  Beth agrees.

  “Be silent, male of sector Three,” it commands.

  Jacky slaps his hands over his ears and retreats a step.

  The tree's slender neck swivels with deliberate precision toward Beth.

  “Do you know what I am?” it asks Beth.

  I do, and I fear you.

  Beth finds her mettle. I am Reflective.

  Her heartbeat speeds, and her palms are damp. She answers in a powerful voice, “I do. I believed your kind to be extinct,” Beth adds, though it's not strictly necessary.

  She's never wanted so badly for Jeb. Even traitorous longing for Slade's presence enters her mind.

  During Beth's study of the sectors—and she knows the least about One—she had read of the enchanted forests and instantly dismissed their importance. So few had been reported that Beth didn't place value on the small amount of literature and merely skimmed it.

  However, the pockets of magical forests were supposedly the one universal in all sectors. No matter how hard the papiliones searched, they never found one on their home world.

  “We hide in plain
sight, and we are few,” the tree replies, seeming to grow more regal before her eyes.

  “Okaaaay, that's great,” Jacky begins, and Beth's peripheral vision catches Maddie elbowing him in the ribs. “Hey!”

  “Shut up!” Maddie hisses.

  Beth's eyes flick to the sun filtering through the clustered canopy, quickly assessing how much daylight remains. Maybe two hours before nightfall. She can jump them at night; the moon is waning but over half.

  But night holds more danger than she might be able to escape.

  Rows of teeth appear in a split of bark beneath a knothole that serves as a nose. The teeth are such a startling view that Beth recoils.

  “Whoa!” Jacky hauls Maddie behind him protectively.

  “You require safe passage?” it asks.

  Beth nods, knowing just enough to understand that she might not survive the payment.

  “Your arm.”

  “What? No way, Jasper. Remember what I said about the leech thing?”

  “I must have permission, or the pact will not come to fruition.”

  Beth nods.

  “Hair or blood?”

  “What. The. Hell?” Jacky whispers.

  “What does blood give—” Beth swallows, “Give us?”

  The willowy but muscled tree looks at the two Threes and back at Beth. “Blood will buy you protection and passage.” What passes for eyebrows shift high on the trunk.

  Maddie gives a little moan of pure terror in the background.

  Beth knows precisely how she feels.

  “Hair as lovely as yours is worth only safe passage.”

  Jacky steps forward. “Don't hurt Jasper. You can take my blood.”

  “No,” Beth says in a low voice of authority. “I am Reflective. I shield you, not the other way around.”

  “Screw the Reflective shit. Your world's a clusterfuck. Just let me help.”

  “I would not take blood from you, male of sector Three.”

  “Uh-huh,” Jacky crosses his arms. “What? My blood isn't good enough?”

  The tree's lips tilt, making it look as though it's smirking. Bark shavings fall to the ground.

  Jacky stays where he is—a testimony to his bravery.

  “No,” the tree replies as though Jacky is dumb. Beth knows he's anything but. “You are male.”