“What?”
“Where are you going?”
“Out,” Samuel said. “Away from you.”
The sheriff threw his bottle across the room, the glass bursting with a loud crack. “Stay away from that shop. It’s guarded. Heavily. To keep idiots like you out. Stay away from the jailhouse too. You’re not allowed in there until further notice. You hear me? That’s an order.”
“Are you going to beat my ass?”
“Please,” The sheriff tsked, brushing the air. “You’re so soft. I mean, if it wasn’t for that little girlfriend of yours, I’d be sure you were playing tunnel buddies with that little mayor.” He spat on the ground. “You want to die, kid? Fine. Go wherever you want. And you can pack up your shit in the morning and get out of my house. I’m done with you. Knock that Litten girl up and live with her. Or go stroke that little mayor’s cock. Suck him off until he gets his daddy to buy you your own house. I don’t give a shit. You know what? You are a real—”
Samuel slammed the door behind him.
Samuel ambled around the outskirts of the square, keeping his distance from the blacksmith’s shop. From far away, he could count four patrolmen guarding the front door.
Samuel drifted farther toward the eastern woods. His eyes were heavy, worn down from the constant tears and stinging cold. He didn’t know how late it was. The darkened sky had all but snuffed out the starlight, and the moon was barely visible through the thick waves of gray clouds. A cold wind was gusting, gaining bite, and the animals had all retreated into their burrows and nests. Random snowflakes fell, foreboding a larger storm on its way. Summer had made an early exit. Winter was here now.
Samuel’s muscles scrunched from the sting of the wind. He wanted to go to the jailhouse, to tell Zei about his father, to tell her what he had to do next. Seeing her there, he might have even set her free from the shackles, giving her the one thing she wanted most. Freedom. But more patrolmen guarded the jailhouse than before. He couldn’t risk getting caught there. Not if he had any chance of making his plan work.
Samuel pictured Zei curled up by the barred window in her cell. How would she do without him? Who would tend to her? He liked to think the mayor would be bold enough to waltz into her cell. He wouldn’t mind if Zei tore him to bits. She probably hated the mayor as much as he did.
The wind whistled as it pulled Samuel’s hood from his head. He yanked it back up. He couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. What if he got caught? Would he only make things worse? What if he did it, but then they got caught on the way to the border? Even if they made it, what would prevent the mayor and his rage from coming into the greenlands? Besides, why would any citizen willingly aid and abet a refugee cleric and his bastard son?
Samuel picked up speed, crunching his leather boots harder into the dead grass. He knew his plan wasn’t the best and that he might be making things worse. But he knew the mayor, and he knew what Charles and the sheriff wouldn’t admit. His father was a dead man if he didn’t get him out of that shop.
He thought of Claudette and what it would mean to leave her behind. He cared for her. A big part of him wanted to marry her, to live with her, to kiss her and touch her in ways he never thought he would be able to touch anyone before. But he knew he could never do that. Not after what had happened to Harold. Samuel watched her father die. He wouldn’t make the same mistake with his father.
For so long he’d been terrified of becoming like his father, but now, more than anything, he didn’t want to be like the sheriff. If being hard meant that he had to sit back while people died, then he’d rather be soft. And if being a patrolman in Haid meant turning into an apathetic drunk, he’d rather take his chances elsewhere.
The pine trees creaked, their bristles rustling in the darkness. Samuel stopped near the edge of the woods. He bent his neck down, his glasses lowering. He looked to the hard and dying grass, which was now peppered with white flakes.
“I don’t know if you’re there.”
Samuel’s breath fogged.
“Because you’ve never been there before. Not for me. But, if you’re there, I need you. If not for me, then for my father.” He paused. “He’s done nothing but serve you. He’s a good man. You know that. Help him. Please. Help me.”
Samuel looked up, despite himself, pushing his glasses into the space between his eyes. He needed to move.
He returned to the sheriff’s house. He opened the door quickly yet quietly. He scanned the room before stepping fully inside. The sheriff was passed out by the kitchen table, his head buried in his arms, his snores muted.
Samuel tiptoed to the dresser and began packing things into his backpack. First, he put in all the money he’d saved. It was a little over four hundred coins, enough to help them make do for a while. He put in an extra pair of jeans and a shirt, as well as the peacoat Charles had given him. He made sure to leave all his uniforms. He never liked them anyway.
He snuck into the sheriff’s room, which was littered with unwashed clothes and empty bottles of liquor. He watched his footsteps as he rummaged through the sheriff’s things, looking under the mattress and inside the closet until he found the prosthetic arm hiding underneath a spare pile of bedsheets. The mechanical arm jingled as he lifted it. He cradled it tight against his chest to mute the noise. He wrapped an extra shirt around the prosthetic, covering it, before packing it inside his bag. Samuel draped the backpack over his shoulder and slipped on his gloves. He felt his coat pockets, making sure he had his two throwing knives and his hunting knife. His feet treaded lightly as he went to the door and eased the handle back. The sheriff never stirred. A small wave of white powder forced its way inside the house as he took his exit. In a matter of minutes, the snowfall turned aggressive. He crept to the square, careful not to make too much noise with his footsteps. His nostrils burned as he sucked in freezing air and bits of snow. He wasn’t bothered. The snow, while a nuisance, would give him more cover in the darkness. What if Azhuel had heard his prayer?
He went to the back end of the main row’s shops, making sure to avoid the sight of the nearby patrolmen. As Samuel suspected, they had only posted guards in front of the main entrance.
Samuel wiped his glasses, cleaning off the snow. He squinted, but he didn’t see any figures. He approached the window, and when he was directly underneath it, he got on his knees. He hoped it wasn’t locked. He got on his tiptoes and gently put his nose on the cold glass, gazing inside. Everything was blurred and distorted. The flames inside the blacksmith’s furnace danced wildly, but he saw no moving figures. He could make out some of the metal tools mounted on the walls. In the center of the shop, he spotted what appeared to be the blacksmith’s main table.
Samuel pressed his face against the window, peering harder. In the left corner, a human-sized shape was hunched near the glowing fire. It was hard to be completely sure, but the figure seemed to be dressed in nothing but black.
Samuel held his gloved hands against the window, and when he tugged up, the glass moved with his palms. Everything inside became clearer. He scanned the room hastily, and thankfully found that the figure in black was his father sleeping in the left corner, his head drooped against the wall. His arms and legs were bound with rope, and his face and beard were caked with dried blood. His jacket was nowhere to be seen, and the sleeves of his shirt appeared to have been ripped off, the ragged edges crooked and torn.
Samuel tightened the straps of his backpack. He pushed his glasses farther up his nose before lifting himself through the open window. He slowly writhed his way inside, his backpack gently scraping across the top frame. Samuel got low, eased out his hunting knife, and crept to his father. He tapped his shoulder softly.
His father stirred, his eyelids fluttering. Samuel grabbed his father’s bound wrists, aligning the blade over the strands. He’d made it this far, and his risky plan seemed to be paying off. His courage grew. He was going to sneak his father out of the shop, and they’d be a few miles deep in the woods befor
e anyone noticed he’d gone missing. They’d keep moving, not stopping until they’d crossed over into the greenlands. They could start new lives down south, perhaps in a smaller town where the riots weren’t as prevalent. Or maybe only he would start a new life. Samuel had learned enough to be a butcher, and he wasn’t opposed to becoming a farmer or some unskilled laborer. Anything but a patrolman. He couldn’t imagine his father willingly choosing any other profession than the clergy. Maybe they would separate as soon as they made it to safety, never to cross paths again. His father would more than likely want to go and plead sanctuary with a sympathizing cleric. Perhaps their destinies were always meant to be apart, but at least that one didn’t involve death.
His father groaned as he woke. He stared at Samuel, the confusion visible on his face. Samuel sliced into the ropes binding his father. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m gonna get you out of here.”
“You’re not very good at stealth, are you?”
The hairs on Samuel’s body jolted up. He tightened his hold on the knife’s handle, drawing it away from the nearly broken strands. He turned to face the voice behind him.
The redlands foreigner was tucked near the back-right corner of the room. He had his right hand pressed against his cheek. He nearly looked humored, his dark eyes gazing like a spectator. “To your credit, you did manage to slip past the guards outside.”
Samuel rose to his feet, the knife level by his side.
“No,” his father uttered, his large body shuffling. His voice was deep and choked.
The foreigner arched his shoulder back. Hatchets and knives dangled from the wall behind him, their handles fastened with strings and kept in place by nails. The light from the furnace flickered, forcing the shadows in the room to dance.
“I’ve been bored since I’ve arrived. The people in this state are too stiff. Too dull. Too cold.” He nodded to Samuel. “But I like you. You have spirit. Aren’t you the lad from the train station? I do suggest you put that weapon down. Else you’re going to have to kill me.”
“No,” his father said again, fighting to get himself up on his knees. “Samuel.”
Samuel gripped the knife harder. His father was too weak to be of any help, and it was up to him to make a decision. He wasn’t strong, but he was quick. He’d learned that much. His jaw twinged as he pressed the knife’s side across his thigh, hoping to force his hand to remain steady. He’d come this far, and there was no turning back. He had one shot, and it had to be perfect. He whipped the knife behind his back and flung it forward, aiming it at the foreigner’s heart.
The foreigner, as if expecting the blade all along, dropped low and spun to the side, dodging the knife as it whizzed by him and stuck into the wall. Samuel lost his breath for a moment, unable to recover from the shock. His aim had been perfect. He’d felt it in the release. He couldn’t think about it. He had to move. He rushed his hands inside his pockets, fumbling for the other throwing knives he still had.
The foreigner darted across the room and pounced on Samuel, knocking him onto his back. The air left his lungs with a violent thud.
Samuel couldn’t see his father, but he could hear him trying to scuffle to his feet. The foreigner remained steady, his knee pressed onto Samuel’s sternum. He reached out and shoved his father back hard. His father fell with a thud, his bound ankles crippling him from having any sort of balance. The foreigner snaked his hand underneath Samuel’s back and flipped him over. Samuel’s face smacked into the dirt, his glasses plunging hard into his nose. The foreigner worked Samuel’s arms back into his backpack, turning his wrists up in the same way the patrolmen had done before.
“Intruders!”
Samuel forced his neck to turn. One of his lenses had cracked. A jagged line squiggled across the center of the left lens, splitting Samuel’s view from that eye into two parts. The doors to the shed swung open, and in rushed four patrolmen. Two of them darted over to Samuel’s father, ramming him harder into the wall. One of them punched him in the jaw, forcing his head to ricochet.
“No!” Samuel cried.
“Get more rope,” the foreigner ordered as he rummaged through Samuel’s pockets. He took out the knives, tossing them away. “By the anvil. Move.”
One of the patrolmen went to get the rope, but the other stayed close by, hovering over Samuel. He looked up and was able to make out the man’s face. Jax left his mouth open, exposing his crooked teeth. He bent down, glaring at him with wide eyes.
“You have some balls,” he said stiffly. “I was there that day in the woods. I heard what you told that logger. You said you weren’t a cleric. But here you are. With him.”
Jax spat on Samuel’s cheek. Samuel cringed as foreign saliva dripped near his lips. He grunted and writhed his body as he felt rope being tied around his wrists.
“We knew better than the sheriff and the mayor. We knew we couldn’t trust you.”
The furnace burned steadily, the heat causing Samuel’s body to sweat underneath his coat. It might have been snowing outside, but it mattered little in the confines of the blacksmith’s shop. The foreigner sat with crossed legs near the furnace, unfazed by the excessive warmth. He twirled one of Samuel’s throwing knives around his fingers jovially, his motions fluid and natural. Patrolmen stood guard outside of the shop’s doors, and Jax had elected to stay inside. He fondled the blacksmith’s tools, grabbing a pair of tongs and snapping them open and closed.
Samuel sat beside his father, his legs and wrists bound tightly together. For so long he’d been the spectator of the captive, but now he was the one trapped. His father’s broad shoulders touched his left side.
“You shouldn’t have come,” his father said. He sounded so weak.
Samuel sucked in more air, his ribs aching. He’d failed, and all he could do was wait for the mayor’s judgment. He wasn’t sure if he’d be executed. How much did the mayor value his services with Zei? He continually spoke of her needing to be controlled, but so far, he’d never released her from the confines of the prison. Would he merely be content to unleash her? Would he try and unleash her on him and his father?
The foreigner yawned loudly before rising. He pointed the knife at Samuel’s father. “You’re the boy’s father, are you not?”
His father lowered his head.
“He’s a bastard,” Jax said matter-of-factly. He tossed the tongs aside and took up one of the hammers, examining the craftsmanship.
“How interesting.”
The furnace flames crackled. Samuel closed his eyes, wishing to slip away into the darkness. He listened to his father’s unsteady breaths, regretting everything. A part of him didn’t care if the mayor would have him killed. Maybe he could sleep in peace.
“I’d been ordained,” his father said feebly. “Stationed in the redlands by the high council. I worked in Charos. A small town near the outskirts of Vayler.”
Samuel opened his eyes, looking at his father through the cracked lens. Drool and blood leaked from the corners of his lips, and his face was so swollen it was hardly recognizable. What was he doing?
“A redlands town,” the foreigner repeated. He smiled. “Quaint little place along the coast. Clear ocean. Beautiful sand.”
His father craned his neck, his bloodshot eyes falling on Samuel.
“I was a man barely grown. A few years older than you. Charos was a quiet place. Small population, so death wasn’t a frequent visitor. My hut was a mile away from the town, in between a row of dunes. I spent many days alone in prayer.”
“Quiet,” Jax said. He playfully struck the hammer on the anvil. “Or I’ll gag you.”
“I first saw her,” his father continued, “when I was returning from the sea with my catch of fish. She stood by my hut, her hair flowing in the wind. She wore glasses, but you could still see the beauty in her dark eyes from a hundred meters away.”
Samuel pulled his bound hands farther into his gut. He’d fantasized this moment as long as he co
uld remember, the day his father would explain the young woman in the photograph. He wanted to ask questions, but was afraid any interruption could halt the story. He remembered the last time they spoke. His father was a man of his word.
“She … had this little leather bag with her. She came up to me, unafraid. Told me she was a runaway. She needed a place to stay. She told me she would pay whatever I wanted. She also told me she kept a hidden blade with her at all times, that she’d already killed a man the day before, and she would gut me if I tried anything.”
“That’s enough,” Jax ordered. He slammed the hammer down harder, the sound of striking metal ricocheting across the walls. “No one wants to hear your sobbing love confession.”
“I told her I was a cleric. I showed her my mark. I told her I couldn’t help her. But she was relentless. ‘Are you a man of faith?’ she asked me. ‘If you are, what would your god have you do? Ignore the request of a young woman in need?’ She fascinated me.”
Jax draped the hammer over his shoulder as he leisurely moved to Samuel’s father. Samuel balled his hands into fists. He didn’t have much strength, but he wouldn’t allow his father to take another blow. He couldn’t.
“Let the man be,” the foreigner said. He lifted a knee to his chest, his fingers continuing to dance the knife between them. “I want to hear his story.”
Jax turned. “I don’t.”
“Then go outside. You really are an unpleasant fellow.”
Jax scrunched his large nose. His eyes reflected aggravation, but he didn’t care enough to do more. He tossed the hammer onto the table and toyed with the blacksmith’s handcrafted knives.
Samuel’s father coughed violently, his voice dry. The foreigner meandered over. He gave his father a drink from his thermos. His father coughed once more, but the liquid had cooled the itch.
The foreigner took his seat. “What was her name?”
Samuel knew the answer.
“Atia.”
“Lovely summer name.”
Demon in the Whitelands Page 21
