The Descendant: Baltin Trilogy (Book 1)

by Melissa Riddell

  “She’s only got a scratch, she ain’t gonna die. Her damn dog”— the man’s eyes fall upon the robot then widen—“Made sure—” The words in his mouth dry up, and he swallows long and loud. Glassy, bloodshot eyes stare at the alien for a second, wild with confusion. “What—what in the hell is that?”

  Jimbo twists his head in Jareth’s direction. “It’s one of them, isn’t it? Oh, Jesus.” A wet spot, the size of a nickel, emerges and expands in the crotch of his pants. “You and that bitch are working with them, aren’t ya?”

  “Is that urine?” The answer to my question penetrates my nose and makes me gag.

  “Fuck. Oh, Lord.” His eyes, now in danger of popping out of his head, bob around the room like a ping-pong ball in full play. “Holy fuck. They’re gonna kill us—every last one of us.”

  “Who knows? But not today, though I wish they’d gotten to you sooner.” Jareth smacks the butt of the gun into the back of the man’s head. “That’s for the dog.”

  Dirty hands reach up and around to cover his head in anticipation of another blow. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry already.”

  “This—” Jareth glances in my direction for a moment. Anger flashes across his face at the blood on my neck and collar. A pulse in his temple throbs. Black, furious eyes turn to the man. “—is for putting your hands on the girl and cutting her neck.”

  This time, he slams the butt of the gun against the top of the man’s ear. Blood gushes from his head.

  Ouch. I cringe a little. He deserves it, though. That jackass was up to no good and would’ve killed Kodiak if Jareth hadn’t been here.

  Jareth’s deep, quiet voice sounds as if he’s straining to find calm. “Count yourself lucky for receiving a few bumps on the head, considering what you were planning.”

  “I didn’t plan”—

  With one hand, Jareth grabs the collar of the man’s shirt and drags him, so their noses are half an inch apart. He lifts the creep’s feet from the floor by several inches. “Shut up. I know exactly what you planned. A few knocks on the head would be the least of your concerns right now if that knife went any deeper.” Jareth fixes his attention on Sparky.

  I’m not sure what I feel in this moment. Gratefulness for rescue is a given, but there’s some other vibe I can’t define. Emotions stir underneath the surface, like unseen currents cutting through the depths of a calm lake. On the top layer, I’m angry and embarrassed I was so weak and stupid for allowing this situation to unfold. The feeling in Jareth’s words confuse me and push the anger and shame deep down into the bottom of the lake.

  Pleasant heat curls around my heart and zips through my veins from his speech. Knowing he has my back causes something strange to bloom deep inside, and alarm wars with gratitude. I’m treading dangerous waters to keep my head—and heart—above the dark, seductive depths of Lake Jareth.

  When the egotistic façade drops, this is the man lurking underneath the attitude. This Jareth I want to know—strong, brave, and passionate—with no drive to impress those around him. He said he wasn’t nice, wasn’t good, but I see bravery and determination to survive. This whole world is no longer nice, and if a person wants to live, they can’t be nice, either.

  But how is pining over a man going to help me survive and find Sissy? What if part of surviving and finding your sister entails giving trust to others when the shit hits the fan?

  This would qualify as one of those times.

  Jareth shoves the man closer to the screen door.

  Jimbo tries again. “I’m sorry. I won’t tell nobody you’re working with them if you let me go. Please. I don’t want nothin’ to do with you or the stupid bitch. Promise, so I do.” He holds his hands in front of his unkempt shirt like two claws.

  That blue vein stands out on Jareth’s temple, pulsing with his heartbeat. “Shut up and stop calling her that.”

  The smell emanating from fetid Jim is overpowering, and I wrinkle my nose.

  Jareth’s face could kill with a stare. From my point of view, I watch his profile. The corners of his mouth turn down, dark eyes narrow, and his eyebrows draw together. He covers his mouth and nose with a free hand.

  A laugh tries to rise from deep within my stomach. Don’t laugh. If you start, you may never stop, because it’s not going to be a laugh of humor, but of horror.

  The half-laugh, half-sob disappears with an audible swallow.

  Jareth pushes the man through the squeaking screen door.

  I follow the procession. What to do with Jim? Do we let him go his way and worry he’ll return during the night? Or should Jareth try to scare more sense into him, knock him around a bit more—or worse?

  I must admit, I’m kind of liking this idea. Normally, I’m not a violent person, but this guy was going to hurt my dog, and who knows what else. The thought of his dirty mouth and fingers on my body makes me shiver, and I remind myself to look for some bleach later tonight for a thorough disinfection.

  If Jareth hadn’t been here, and Kodiak and I had been alone—I tremble at the returning thought and banish it from my mind.

  Are there any good people left anymore? It’s a depressing thought. Do humans deserve what we’re getting?

  Sparky follows Jareth and the man onto the porch.

  Kodiak and I bring up the procession.

  “What’s the plan?” Even though I’m not comfortable with the thought of him loose and free to do as he pleases, I also don’t want him as a captive here with us. He’s much too dangerous, not to mention the god-awful stink.

  A line of three humans, a robot, and a dog climb down the wooden steps of the porch. While the march takes everyone into the front yard, the blue sky starts to darken to purple dusk.

  Kodiak and I linger five or six feet away from the others. I’m still a bit leery being this close to the asshole.

  My furry-faced companion hovers near, pushing his body to my leg and licking my dangling fingers.

  “I’m okay, boy.” I reach a hand to stroke his head but keep my attention on the two humans and Sparky.

  The moaning and pleading begin anew. “Please, I’m sorry. If you let me go, I promise I’ll never bother you again, no Sir. Ole Jim here will go on his way—” he licks his lips while he stares at Sparky “—and never come back to this area. Swear it.” A bead of perspiration rolls down his cheek, snaking its way along skin weathered by the sun. Or his neck is so dirty it only looks tanned.

  A purple-blue arc of electricity leaps from a gloved hand. Tendrils of energy fan out to the man’s head, caressing him like a lover when they swirl across his cheeks and forehead.

  The lightshow shooting from Sparky’s hands is at once fascinating and sickening, like driving by a car wreck and seeing dead bodies sprawled on the road, but powerless to stop viewing the morbid scene.

  A scene from Star Wars, where Palpatine tries to force Luke to submit to the dark side, comes to mind. Bluish flashes of light shine from the robot’s helmet, which is the first time the surface reflects—instead of absorbs—illumination.

  Shock causes my chest to constrict. Can anyone live through that kind of voltage? Don’t be an idiot, Tilly, of course they can’t. You think the robot wants to play with the human and then let him go? No, he’s programmed to do what he does best, and that’s murder.

  Five seconds later, Jim’s body stiffens and falls to the grass, electricity still wrapping itself around his form. Spires of smoke billow up into the air from his eye sockets. His old, leather cowboy boots shoot across the yard and smolder. One lies in dead, yellowed grass next to the fence. The other boot lands in an overgrown bush and dangles from a branch like a seesaw.

  Sparky’s hands stop their freakish lightning display.

  There’s no sound for the beat of a few seconds, and I hold my breath, brain trying to process the horror scene that’s played out.

  “Holy shit.” I clasp a hand to my mouth, shock and disbelief merging with one another.

  My gaze moves to the dead face, and I know I’ll nev
er be able to cleanse the image from my mind. The lips freeze in an O of surprise. Globes of what were once eyes melt, and goo slithers down his temples like broken eggs cooked sunny side up.

  The flesh of his cheek splits. Clear fluid and blood ooze out of the skin and flow toward the ground. His arms and neck blacken then bubble, with faint hisses of steam rising into the evening air.

  Through my covered mouth, words continue to pour out. “Sweet Baby Jesus. What—” I can’t finish the thought.

  The dumpster diver smell dissipates, and in its place, the scent of rotisserie chicken wafts. I can’t get the horrifying image of the burned man or the cooked meat smell out of my head—or nostrils.

  Underneath the barbeque odor, a faint trace of feces mixes itself into the cooked meat smell.

  Nausea wells up in my stomach, and I gag. Look away and breathe through your mouth.

  I take my advice and peer down the gravel path. The setting sun paints everything in a pinkish-purple light.

  Kodiak wraps himself around my leg. A tremble vibrates the length of my limb, and I’m not sure if it’s coming from me or him.

  The dog’s dark-rimmed eyes stare at the smoking body on the ground.

  Kneeling, I stroke his head, giving—and taking—comfort from his presence. “Here, focus on me, boy.”

  At the sound of my voice, his head whips toward mine and whines.

  I take his face into my hands and lean into his fur. Bent down at the dog’s level, I chance a quick glance up to Jareth, silent throughout the lightning show.

  His hands rest at his sides, clenched and stiff. Instead of surveying the corpse on the ground, he stares at the robot by his side. Face pale and eyes large, his mouth hangs ajar. He reminds me of a gasping fish out of water.

  My stomach dips when a light breeze carries the meat smell on the wind. Dry swallowing, I let out a breath and pinch my nose. “I’ll never view barbequed chicken the same way.”

  Our guest breaks his silence. “Human female.” His monotone voice is too loud for such a hushed evening. “He will bother you no longer. You are safe. I helped, yes?”

  Incredulous, my head twists from the tall, dark form of the robot to the charred body on the ground, then back again.

  “Oh, my God.” The image of the sparks shooting out of his hand replays in my head and causes me to shiver. “What. The. Fuck?” My hands break out in a cold sweat.

  Sparky could’ve done this to us at any point today, but he didn’t. I don’t know if this reassures me—or terrifies me.

  Jareth takes a deep breath then exhales, slow and steady. “Yeah, man, you took care of the problem. Listen, umm, next time, why don’t you talk to us before you go Tesla on someone.”

  Sparky’s head tilts in a quizzical motion, eerily reminiscent of a human’s confusion. “The parameters assigned to my current programming assessed all possible outcomes and determined there was a ninety-percent probability the human would reappear to steal supplies or cause irreparable damage to this unit. The most logical course of action was taken and eliminated the probability.”

  I grab my head and press my temples to stave off a sharp pulse beginning to pound. “Your self-righteous, perfect logic at taking a human life isn’t a matter of statistics. It’s obvious you have no regard for the people of this planet.”

  My rising anger causes my blood to boil. “You can’t go around killing people because they’re bad. You don’t get to make that decision while you’re with us if you want help finding a hub thing.”

  “This does not compute.” The helmet snaps in my direction. “Did he not put a knife to your throat? Did he not try to hurt your canine companion? Did he not cut you, human female?”

  Frowning, I try to figure out the best way to explain the nuances of determining bad behavior, and the consequences of everyone’s actions—both good and evil. It feels like I’m having to explain a life lesson to a four-year-old child, which deflates some of the fury.

  Letting go of my head and holding my hands palm up to deflect his perfect logic, I keep my words calm but firm. “You’re right. He did all those things and was a terrible person for it. But it doesn’t mean we as a group—unit—have the right to go in all guns-a-blazing and kill everyone deemed as bad. It’s not my call or anyone else’s, alone. Yes, people should defend themselves against thugs doing horrific things, but Jareth already had things under control.”

  I pause and pat Kodiak, who sits on my feet. His ears twitch opposite of each other, and his whiskers straighten. Black nose points in the direction of the crispy body and sniffs. He curls his body back in my direction and lifts a paw. “Woof.”

  “You’re such a good boy.” Kneeling to Kodiak’s level, I smother his neck. The scent of his fur, musky with a hint of wild grass and autumn leaves, offers a familiar sensation of home—he’s my talisman.

  “You helped, too. Thank you.” At this field of vision, I spot Jareth’s lean frame shift closer. “Forget it, pretty boy.” I pull my four-legged friend closer. “My hugs are for the dog.”

  To bring the point home, as if he understands my words, Kodiak rubs his muzzle on my chin and sniffs the blood on my neck.

  “Lucky for him.”

  Kodiak thumps his tail on the ground and places a massive kiss on my cheek and jaw.

  A gust of wind blows. My face, fully bathed from the doggie embrace, chills, and goosebumps erupt. “None of us knows if the guy would’ve come back—not for certain, anyway. Just because your programming tells you someone may do something—doesn’t mean it’s absolute.”

  Wait. Why am I still explaining this to him? His head’s full of wires and electronic pathways. programmed with perfect logic, no emotion.

  Bolts for brains stands motionless. A flash of my mother’s robotic vacuum cleaner puttering along the floor and pulling into the charger docking station—a hub—comes to mind. I can’t believe I fell for Jareth’s plan to milk the robot for information because this tin can is as dumb as a stump.

  “And besides, not all of us are evil. Sometimes, good people do bad things, and sometimes bad people do good things. You can’t go around trying to predict what’ll happen and make a judgement based on an educated guess. Understand?”

  I take a deep breath and regret the backyard barbeque scent that enters with the inhale.

  The knife-wielding lurker made my skin crawl, but it didn’t mean I wanted him dead—just gone, well away from here.

  Sparky’s head still faces my direction in a stare—at least I think he is—and makes me wonder if he’s processing my little impromptu speech.

  “Shit, don’t think too long.” I shake my head. “Wouldn’t want ya to short-circuit something in there.” Turning, I make my way up the steps, cross the porch, and enter the house, hoping to evade the terrible, yet familiar, smell of death.

  When I close the torn screen door, I stop and finger the small wound at my neck. A shockwave of pain, which produces more of a searing heat than a dull throb, makes me wince. The skin puckers a bit, but overall, the laceration doesn’t feel too deep. It needs cleaning, and I should be fine. The last thing I need is an infection to set in. Who knows what kind of germs were on that blade?

  The sound of Kodiak’s toenails on the floor clicks behind me. Before I take two more steps, he darts in front to sniff a closed door.

  “What are you doing? Making sure there aren’t any more bad guys hanging about?”

  He blows a puff of air through his snout and trots ahead to sniff the bottom of the next door. Woe be it to any other hidden fool who tries to put the jump on the group.

  A search of the home’s layout reveals a bathroom at the end of the hall. Hoping to find some first aid supplies, I enter the small room and shut the door, relishing the privacy. After what transpired outside, my emotions need a few minutes to sort themselves out.

  It feels so strange to be in a house after all the months of being on the road. If it weren’t for the waterless toilet bowl, I could pretend things are back to the
way they were before.

  The medicine cabinet does indeed have a small first aid kit, complete with antiseptic wipes, bandages, and other items to stow with my supplies.

  Unwrapping a sterile package of gauze, I pour alcohol on the cloth and prepare for the sting that’s about to come. The cut doesn’t even need stitches, it’s little more than a flesh wound. On second thought, it’s not even deep enough to call for a stinging disinfection.

  Stop being a pansy, Tilly.

  As I’m working up the courage to douse myself with pain, the door flies open and in walks Jareth.

  No polite knock at the door, no May I come in? —just a rude invasion of my sanctuary.

  “Uh, hello? What’re you doing?”

  He scopes the room before settling on me. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

  “Well, I’m fine.” Flustered, I reach for the hateful bottle of alcohol and pour more onto the sterile cloth, desperate to keep my hands busy and eyes away from his face. “It’s just a scratch.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the cut. I’m referring to the guy jumping you, the live electrocution—all of it.” His tone softens, normal arrogance replaced by concern.

  “You know you can talk to me if you need to, right?” He rubs his temples like he’s in pain. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, Red, but”—he scratches at his head—“Ah damn, forget it. I’m no good at all this talky-feely crap.”

  That rakish grin reappears. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay, you know, see if you needed a shoulder to cry on, or a good spooning.”

  Just knowing he’s trying to show his feelings warms my heart a tad, even if he can’t resist throwing in a sexual innuendo in the process.

  “There he is.”

  “Huh?”

  “The Jareth that likes to strut.” I smile to take the sting from my words. “Nah, I’m fine. I’ve seen worse.” Watching Mom and Dad die in each other’s arms is the worst thing I’ve ever seen. Jimbo’s death is bad, but nowhere near as painful as seeing the misery and agony my parents went through on their deathbed.