Cia Rose Series Box Set

by Rick Wood

  And what?

  Just killed a kid for no reason and left his body to rot?

  “No creature did this,” Jacey said. “A person did. Who would have done this?”

  Dalton kept his mouth shut.

  He dreaded the thought, and he refused to acknowledge it to himself, but he was fairly certain he knew exactly who’d done it.

  NOW

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The water washed Cia’s body upon the shore, throwing her out of the lake like a discarded wrapper or piece of plastic.

  She rolled onto her back. Groaning. Groggy. Staring at the sun punching back at her.

  She rolled onto her front. Pushed herself to her knees. Her arms hurt from the impact of the fall, the smack of the water; as did her face, her neck and her ankles. Any part of her skin that was exposed. She felt heavy, her clothes thick with water, drenched to exhaustion.

  She removed her top. Screwed it into a long thin line, twisted it, and rinsed it. Water collapsed and thudded against the bank. She rinsed it some more, until all the water was gone, and unwrapped it. It was still wet, still creased.

  She took off her shoes, which were just as heavy.

  She took off her trousers, rinsed them too then put them back on.

  She carried her shoes in her hand as she trudged into the trees, making her way beneath their overarching twists and turns, the branches obscuring her from anything flying overhead.

  Then she fell to her knees.

  Deliberately, yet unintentionally.

  And she finally let herself feel it.

  Boy.

  Dalton.

  Boy…

  Dalton had slit Colin’s throat. Had killed him, right there and then. Something she never thought Dalton could do. Even in his terrible state, she never imagined him capable of killing an innocent man for no reason.

  Was this her fault?

  If she had never destroyed the Sanctity…

  Then things would be much worse.

  Her father would still be alive.

  She fell to her knees. Not sure why, but finding herself suddenly incapable of walking. She rolled onto her back, sinking into the soil, wincing at a stray nettle scraping her arm.

  Boy…

  Dalton…

  Boy…

  Now Dalton had Boy.

  If Boy was even still alive.

  And she was far below them, far away, and no idea of where they were.

  Dalton may well have slit Boy’s throat just like he did that man’s. Boy may well be lying dead beside Dalton’s feet, glee across his face, manically happy at achieving his revenge on Cia.

  But she didn’t feel like that was right.

  She remembered what Dalton said. His adamant intentions.

  He wished to make Cia suffer. He wished to kill Boy in front of her. He wanted Cia to witness Boy’s torture. He wanted her there to see his agony, to feel it herself, before he turned on her.

  Surely he wouldn’t kill Boy yet, or harm him yet, because she wasn’t there to witness it.

  But if that was the case, where on earth would she find them? How would she willingly arrive to be his audience?

  She closed her eyes.

  Man, they were so tired.

  Her eyelids met comfortably, feeling nice, feeling warm.

  But she couldn’t keep them closed.

  She had to open them.

  She had to find Boy.

  But how? It was no good. He was lost.

  She’d found him before…

  And now she was without him again it was as if part of her body was missing. Like her side, or her leg wasn’t there, and she was going to have to limp and struggle to find it and reattach it and–

  She sat up.

  “Oh my God,” she gasped.

  She knew where he was going.

  At least, she had a pretty good idea.

  But it couldn’t be that simple.

  Did she even know how to get there?

  She leapt to her feet, almost giddy, before realising the hard part was still to come.

  Still, this had potential.

  She cast her mind back to a conversation she had, barely a week ago. When they were on their travels, toward the Sanctity, and they passed a cottage.

  She recalled Dalton’s words:

  If we get separated while we’re down there, or if we get separated any other time, then that cottage will be our rendezvous. That’s where I will meet you.

  The farm they had passed. The dainty little cottage. The dream home.

  That’s where Dalton would be.

  And that’s where Boy would be.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Cia had to be prepared.

  She couldn’t just run in there, waving her arms about, beseeching Dalton’s better side to surface.

  She needed weapons.

  Unfortunately, neither the river nor the woods were a place to find guns or knives. She’d had a large knife, but she couldn’t find it anymore. It had probably floated far down stream by now. All she had left was a small blade tucked on the inside of her belt.

  If something chose to attack, she was exposed. Completely and totally open and vulnerable to any creature that sought her out, any predator that decided she could be their meal.

  But when it came to wrath, she had a heavy arsenal.

  And she had an idea as to how she may acquire more weapons.

  She trudged between trees, searching out the right one. Boy’s recognition of all the different tree types had somehow sunk in, as she somehow found herself deliberately identifying the different trees, trying to find what she was after.

  She came to a large trunk, surrounded by acorns.

  She pulled down the branch and studied the leaves.

  She recalled what Boy had said as he handled the branch of a tree not too long ago…

  Lobed, these leaves are lobed, rounded or pointed.

  She ran her thumb across the centre of a leaf. He was right. The leaf was rounded, extending out from its centre line.

  She let the branch go and reached her hand out to the trunk, resting her hand on it, brushing her palm down gently, feeling the surface.

  Small. Scaly. Just as Boy had said.

  Surrounded by acorns.

  This is an oak tree.

  Then she recalled Dalton’s words spoken so soon after Boy’s, as he carved an arched piece of wood:

  It’s best to use oak.

  She took her tiny blade out, grabbed the thickest branch she could reach with one hand, and sawed it from the tree with the other.

  She began carving. Curving and scraping the blade, quickly, roughly but precisely. Remembering the image of Dalton doing it, and mimicking as exactly as she could.

  She created a slightly curved stick of around four-foot in length, using her thumb to figure out the thickness. It wasn’t done as easily as Dalton had managed. She’d had to use all the strength she could muster, running on pure adrenaline, but she created a bokken just like he had.

  And, just as Dalton had, she rounded its end and narrowed it into a sharp point – then she made it sharper still. She even rested her thumb on its tip so she could feel it prick, and watched a tiny blob of blood form in a bubble.

  With the rough edge of a discarded piece of the tree, she sanded the surface of the bokken down, particularly focusing on its handle.

  The tsuka, as Dalton had told her.

  She paused.

  Watched the Japanese sword she had somehow manufactured sit neatly in her hand.

  What was she doing?

  What was she planning to do? Just go and stick the end of this into Dalton?

  Stick the kissaki in – that’s what Dalton had said the end was called.

  How would she manage that?

  She wouldn’t even know how to create this if it weren’t for him.

  She lifted the wooden sword. Gripped it. Felt its weight. Spun it in a circle. Waved it to the side and back.

  She could use this
.

  It could kill.

  It could.

  Really…

  She allowed herself a deep breath.

  Looked up at the hill she had to climb.

  Thought about how much she hated this, how much she didn’t want to do it.

  Could she even stand a chance against Dalton?

  She’d had her opportunity. She’d swung the knife to his throat.

  And she’d stopped.

  Her body had made her physically unable.

  Just as she completely doubted herself and decided the venture was pointless, she pictured Boy’s face.

  Remembered all the nasty things Dalton had said he was going to do.

  She took the first step.

  And the next.

  And the one after that.

  And she kept stepping forward, climbing the hill, pushing herself against her body, ignoring the weight of her legs.

  Until, eventually, she knew where she was, and she could begin the short ending to her voyage; to the cottage where she was certain she would find her two boys.

  Chapter Fifty

  A gentle autumn breeze attempted to turn the page of Boy’s book.

  He wouldn’t have it.

  He slammed the page back down, adamant that he would continue to read about the Maidenhair tree. He liked that one especially, partly because of its funny leaves, and partly because of its really funny name. Its leaves were shaped like clovers but silly, and its real name was actually Ginkgo Biloba, most known as Ginkgo.

  What a stupid name.

  He tried saying it aloud.

  “Ginkgo.”

  He chuckled to himself.

  “What’s that?” Dalton asked, standing in the doorway to the cottage’s kitchen. Boy peered across the garden surrounded by a picket fence, watching Dalton as he dried his hands.

  “It’s the name of a tree,” Boy told him. “It’s called…”

  He couldn’t say it. It was just too silly.

  “It’s called– it’s called–” He stifled his chuckle. “A ginkgo.”

  Dalton smiled warmly.

  “That is a funny name.”

  He stepped out into the garden. He stood next to the garden bench where he kept a selection of items that Boy was sure were parts of guns.

  Boy hadn’t wanted to sit on the bench. It wasn’t comfortable enough. The ground, although slightly wet and splodgy, was far kinder to his rear-end than the hard, bumpy, splintering surface of the bench.

  Boy watched, intrigued at what Dalton was doing. Dalton seemed to be taking all of those random parts, sticking them together, again and again.

  There was one weapon that hadn’t been taken apart. It was a knife. A smooth leather handle with a large curved blade. Dalton seemed to like that one the most. He was moving it back and forth, in front of his face, spinning it, ogling at it like it was supremely interesting, which was confusing, as it wasn’t interesting. It was just a knife.

  Dalton turned to Boy, noticing him staring.

  “Like my knife, huh?”

  Boy shrugged.

  Like he’d thought, it was just a knife. He’d seen lots of them.

  Dalton tucked the knife into the reverse of his trousers and sauntered over to Boy, where he crouched, still smiling, as if he was about to say something but was taking ages to say it.

  “When’s Rosy getting here?” Boy asked.

  Dalton sighed.

  “You said she was coming. That she was okay. That she would have survived the fall, and that she would know to meet here.”

  “She would have, and she will.”

  “So when is she getting here?”

  “You really want her to get here, do you?”

  “Yes! Of course I do!”

  Dalton sighed again, this time bigger, like he was demonstrating something, but Boy couldn’t tell what. He could never figure out why people kept making strong outward breaths, but he knew that some meaning was meant to be attached to them.

  “I don’t think you do want Rosy to get here,” Dalton said, in that tone of voice one has when about to deliver grave news. “I really don’t.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “But I don’t think you understand what’s going to happen when she does get here. To her. To you.”

  “Why? What’s going to happen?”

  Dalton stopped crouching. Stood up and stretched. Held his arms out. Then he sat down on his knees.

  “Right now, me and you, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

  Boy shrugged. “I guess.”

  “I think we are. I think we’ve been very good friends. Don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Boy couldn’t understand Dalton’s tone of voice. It seemed condescending yet sinister. Why would that be? Why would he be talking like that?

  Boy felt like covering his eyes. Covering his ears. Screaming.

  But then he wouldn’t see Rosy coming.

  Far away, a Thoral growled. Dalton didn’t flinch.

  “Because, when she arrives, you and I – we’re not going to be friends anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to do some very, very bad things. Some very bad things, Boy, do you understand?”

  “Not really.”

  “I am going to hurt you. And Cia – Rosy – but I’m going to hurt you first. Do you know why that is?”

  Boy shook his head.

  “Because I want Cia to watch. I want her to suffer by seeing you suffer. Do you understand?”

  He shook his head. He really didn’t.

  “Cia did something very bad. To me. And to a lot of people. She is responsible for a lot of people’s deaths, see. And for that, she has to pay. She has to suffer.”

  “Are you going to hurt Rosy?”

  “Yes,” he said smugly. “Yes, I am. But that part, I’m afraid, you won’t be around to see.”

  Dalton stood. Stretched. Wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve.

  Boy tried to decipher Dalton’s words. Like a code he had to break.

  Dalton was talking about hurting him but he’d never hurt him.

  Rosy had told him that.

  She’d told him he could trust Dalton.

  Dalton was still watching him. Casting Boy in his shadow.

  “I’d like to say you’ll understand some day,” Dalton said. “But, unfortunately, you won’t live to that day.”

  “I won’t live?”

  “Boy – which, by the way, is a fucking stupid thing that I have to call you – I am going to tie you up.”

  “Why are you going to tie me up?”

  “Because then I’m going to violate you from the inside. Rip your skin open to reveal your disgusting guts. Then slit your throat while I force Cia to stare into your eyes. Has that made it clear enough?”

  Violate… What does violate mean…

  Cut me from the inside…

  Rip my skin…

  Dalton was still staring at him.

  Boy went to close his eyes, went to cover his ears, when to moan and whine and scream and wish it all away, wait for it all to go away, wait for Rosy to show up and take his hands away and whisper to him and make it all okay.

  Then, in the distance, he saw her. Her figure approaching. Limping and weak but approaching.

  And, with her close by, he felt less afraid.

  Then he saw Dalton turn. Saw Dalton look at her. Saw the look on his face.

  And when he saw that look, he finally understood all of Dalton’s words, and began mentally going through all the horrible things that were about to happen.

  THEN

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Dalton watched her.

  The girl from the outside.

  The one everyone was talking about.

  Small. Mixed-race. Bushy, curly hair.

  But pretty. So damn pretty. The kind of pretty that would make your skin hairs stand upright, that would make your belly flutter, that would make your entire ability to form full,
complete sentences falter and turn you to a wreck.

  That kind of pretty.

  She was unconscious. Dalton ran in with her, beside the bed, clearing the way, gun at hand. He wasn’t sure what he was carrying his gun for, but he felt an overwhelming need to protect this girl – this woman – from any straying eyes.

  They reached the lift and the doctor punched in floor 126 – the operating floor – then stood there tapping his toe, agitatedly waiting.

  He was surprised they had let her in.

  But then again, Dalton had known the guard on duty. The man outside the door. He knew that this man would not send someone away for the same reason as their imbecilic president or inept, sheepish prime minister would.

  Her eyes twitched. A breath flicked a hair out of her face.

  Oh God…

  He needed to get a grip.

  It’s like I’ve never seen a woman before…

  Maybe that’s all it was. Used to the same faces for years, the same women who had either rejected him, not appealed to him, or had turned out to be immensely incompatible.

  Maybe it’s that he was impressed. For her to have survived for so long she’d have to be quite the person. Quick-witted. Quick-thinking. Sharp.

  Jesus, now I’m inventing her personality…

  The lift doors opened.

  “Thank you, Private,” said the doctor. “We can take it from here.”

  He stepped out of the lift and gave way, allowing them to push her down the corridor.

  Brooklyn stepped out of a room as he did and managed to get a good look.

  Dalton hated that Brooklyn saw her. Wasn’t sure why. He just hadn’t wanted Brooklyn to know about her. Like he didn’t want the competition, or he wanted her to be his little secret.

  Then he saw the look on Brooklyn’s face and knew exactly why his knowledge of her existence gave him a sense of grave predicament.

  Brooklyn’s lips pursed as if to say, “phwoar!” He held this expression the whole time he walked up to Dalton, walking with a fake limp to… God knows why, trying to pretend to be gangster, or suave, maybe? Perhaps his idea of a joke.

  “She’s a pretty little pistol, isn’t she?” Brooklyn declared.

  Dalton said nothing.