As his sire continued unto the ground as deadweight, Syn’s eyes went to the knife mounted upon his father’s wide leather belt. With the beast as yet stunned by the injury, Syn rushed forth and unsheathed the blade. The hilt was too thick for his palm, so he applied two hands unto the gripping. Raising the dagger over his head, he buried the sharp point in his father’s thick coating. He didn’t know whether it went in enough, however. His father, writhing in slow motion, seemed not to notice the fresh assault.
That was when Syn saw the rock. Flat. Broad. About the size of his chest.
It weighed almost too much for him. But fear and fury combined to strengthen him immeasurably. He waddled the stone over and brought it down upon the top of the hilt, once… twice… three times.
He hammered the knife in until its guard prevented any further progress.
Stumbling back, he fell upon the hard dirt patch created by a congregation of hooves around the shelter. He was breathing so hard his throat hurt and his eyes were blurry. When he went to clear them of whatever was upon them, he realized he was crying—
With a groan, his father rolled over and sat up, a ghost from a grave, except very real, and very capable of still doing damage. The injury to his eye was horrific and blood flowed freely, covering his features upon that side with a gloss that made Syn’s stomach lurch.
When it appeared as if his sire would stand up and fight anew, it was clear that he was drunk and did not feel the injuries sufficiently. Or mayhap the soul that animated him was just that hardy and evil.
Terror clutched at Syn’s heart and he jumped up to run—
* * *
Sometime later, much later, centuries later, Syn’s awareness returned unto him. Which was a strange thing as he was not aware of it having left.
Everything seemed quite blurry, so he rubbed his eyes—
A sting made him frown, and as he blinked… he realized he was sitting cross-legged upon the dirt patch in a puddle. Had it rained?
No. It was not water.
It was blood. He was sitting in a congealed puddle of blood.
Syn frowned. Lifting one of his hands, he found that it was covered with more of the same. Indeed, there was blood all upon him, staining his ragged clothes. Was he hurt? Had his father attacked him and—
“Dearest Virgin Scribe.”
Syn jumped and raised his eyes. The figure standing over him was one that his mind told him he should recognize. Yes, he should know who this is.
The pretrans male knelt down before him. “Please . . . give me the dagger.”
“What?”
“The dagger, Syn.”
“I dinnae have a dagger—”
“In your palm.”
It was as Syn lifted his hand to prove to this familiar stranger that he had naught within his grip that his sight informed him he was the one in the wrong. There was a dagger against his palm. How had he not noticed? And abruptly the identity of the pretrans came unto him. It was his cousin, Balthazar. He recognized the male’s face the now.
“The dagger, cousin. Give it to me.”
Syn looked to the left and saw the first body part by the broken handle of the rake. The second was impaled on the rake’s tongs. The next was… over by the fence.
There were many more, and the largest, the torso, had been field dressed.
His father had been torn apart by someone. Who else had been… here?
“Syn, give me the blade. Now.”
His hand was unresisting as the weapon was removed from it. And then Syn looked into his cousin’s eyes as reality began to dawn, an ugly, unbelievable sunrise. “I think I did this, cousin.”
“Yes,” Balthazar said grimly. “You did.”
Syn stared at a severed hand that lay upon ground as a fallen soldier. “He was going to hurt her.”
“Hurt who?”
“It matters not.”
With focused effort, Syn managed to rise his tired bones from the pool of blood. As he weaved on his feet, he lurched toward the river, seeking out the cool, rushing waters. Wading into the current, he squatted down and cupped his hands, splashing his face over and over again. Then he drank of the stream, dousing the fire that ran down his throat and into his gut.
When he tried to stand up once more, he faltered and fell, catching himself upon slick rocks. Lifting his head, he found that his skull weighed as much as his entire body, and fast upon the heels of that reckoning came a wave of dizziness. Followed by a burst of heat that bore no relation to exertion.
“Balth… azar?”
His cousin hitched a hold under Syn’s arm and pulled him up and out of the water. “Oh, no, Syn…”
“What?”
Balthazar looked around frantically. “The change. You’re going through the change—”
“No, I’m not—”
“There is steam coming off your skin, you are boiling up.”
Syn looked in confusion at his arm, at his feet, at his ankles. Steam was in fact rising from his body, and he did feel a strange, certain heat. But…
All at once a vast incapacitation tackled him, sweeping his legs out from under him, taking him from the hold of his blooded kin. As he landed in a heap, the fire in his body trebled, and trebled again, and then his limbs began to hum.
“Dearest Virgin Scribe,” Balthazar groaned. “We need to get you shelter, and a blood source.”
“Nae,” Syn said through gritted teeth. “Leave me. It is well enough for me to go unto the Fade—”
As the bones in his legs strained, and his forearms felt like ropes being twisted, he lost the power of speech and laid his head down. Breathing shallowly, he recalled what he knew of the transition: Without the blood of a female, he was going to die, and he wondered how long it would take—
“I shall help him.”
At the sound of the words, Syn forced his eyes open. When he saw who it was, he shook his head. “No, no…”
It was the female, from the meadow. The one who had always been so good to him.
“Balthazar,” he said urgently. “Take her away, she mustnae see—”
The female walked forward. “I know what he did to protect me and my kin.” She kept her eyes down, as if she were deliberately not witnessing the damage he had wrought. “I know… and I would help him the now.”
Syn shook his head weakly. “No. No, I am unworthy…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Unworthy?” Jo asked as she pulled into a parking space in front of her apartment building. “Unworthy of what?”
As she spoke, Syn did not seem to hear her. He was sitting stock-still in that passenger seat, hands on his knees, eyes staring straight out the front windshield like he was watching a TV. He seemed totally calm. Or… maybe he was dead? He wasn’t blinking.
“Syn?”
Well, one thing was certain. She was not about to touch him as she shut the car off—
Slowly, his head turned to her, and his expression was vacant, as if he were in a trance. But then he cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Even though she didn’t know what exactly he was apologizing for or what precisely she was forgiving him of.
He nodded. Then contradicted himself. “No, it isn’t. None of it was.” s sire continued unto the ground as deadweight, Syn’s eyes went to the knife mounted upon his father’s wide leather belt. With the beast as yet stunned by the injury, Syn rushed forth and unsheathed the blade. The hilt was too thick for his palm, so he applied two hands unto the gripping. Raising the dagger over his head, he buried the sharp point in his father’s thick coating. He didn’t know whether it went in enough, however. His father, writhing in slow motion, seemed not to notice the fresh assault.
That was when Syn saw the rock. Flat. Broad. About the size of his chest.
It weighed almost too much for him. But fear and fury combined to strengthen him immeasurably. He waddled the stone over and brought it down upon the top of the hilt, once… twice… three times.
He hammered the knife in until its guard prevented any further progress.
Stumbling back, he fell upon the hard dirt patch created by a congregation of hooves around the shelter. He was breathing so hard his throat hurt and his eyes were blurry. When he went to clear them of whatever was upon them, he realized he was crying—
With a groan, his father rolled over and sat up, a ghost from a grave, except very real, and very capable of still doing damage. The injury to his eye was horrific and blood flowed freely, covering his features upon that side with a gloss that made Syn’s stomach lurch.
When it appeared as if his sire would stand up and fight anew, it was clear that he was drunk and did not feel the injuries sufficiently. Or mayhap the soul that animated him was just that hardy and evil.
Terror clutched at Syn’s heart and he jumped up to run—
* * *
Sometime later, much later, centuries later, Syn’s awareness returned unto him. Which was a strange thing as he was not aware of it having left.
Everything seemed quite blurry, so he rubbed his eyes—
A sting made him frown, and as he blinked… he realized he was sitting cross-legged upon the dirt patch in a puddle. Had it rained?
No. It was not water.
It was blood. He was sitting in a congealed puddle of blood.
Syn frowned. Lifting one of his hands, he found that it was covered with more of the same. Indeed, there was blood all upon him, staining his ragged clothes. Was he hurt? Had his father attacked him and—
“Dearest Virgin Scribe.”
Syn jumped and raised his eyes. The figure standing over him was one that his mind told him he should recognize. Yes, he should know who this is.
The pretrans male knelt down before him. “Please . . . give me the dagger.”
“What?”
“The dagger, Syn.”
“I dinnae have a dagger—”
“In your palm.”
It was as Syn lifted his hand to prove to this familiar stranger that he had naught within his grip that his sight informed him he was the one in the wrong. There was a dagger against his palm. How had he not noticed? And abruptly the identity of the pretrans came unto him. It was his cousin, Balthazar. He recognized the male’s face the now.
“The dagger, cousin. Give it to me.”
Syn looked to the left and saw the first body part by the broken handle of the rake. The second was impaled on the rake’s tongs. The next was… over by the fence.
There were many more, and the largest, the torso, had been field dressed.
His father had been torn apart by someone. Who else had been… here?
“Syn, give me the blade. Now.”
His hand was unresisting as the weapon was removed from it. And then Syn looked into his cousin’s eyes as reality began to dawn, an ugly, unbelievable sunrise. “I think I did this, cousin.”
“Yes,” Balthazar said grimly. “You did.”
Syn stared at a severed hand that lay upon ground as a fallen soldier. “He was going to hurt her.”
“Hurt who?”
“It matters not.”
With focused effort, Syn managed to rise his tired bones from the pool of blood. As he weaved on his feet, he lurched toward the river, seeking out the cool, rushing waters. Wading into the current, he squatted down and cupped his hands, splashing his face over and over again. Then he drank of the stream, dousing the fire that ran down his throat and into his gut.
When he tried to stand up once more, he faltered and fell, catching himself upon slick rocks. Lifting his head, he found that his skull weighed as much as his entire body, and fast upon the heels of that reckoning came a wave of dizziness. Followed by a burst of heat that bore no relation to exertion.
“Balth… azar?”
His cousin hitched a hold under Syn’s arm and pulled him up and out of the water. “Oh, no, Syn…”
“What?”
Balthazar looked around frantically. “The change. You’re going through the change—”
“No, I’m not—”
“There is steam coming off your skin, you are boiling up.”
Syn looked in confusion at his arm, at his feet, at his ankles. Steam was in fact rising from his body, and he did feel a strange, certain heat. But…
All at once a vast incapacitation tackled him, sweeping his legs out from under him, taking him from the hold of his blooded kin. As he landed in a heap, the fire in his body trebled, and trebled again, and then his limbs began to hum.
“Dearest Virgin Scribe,” Balthazar groaned. “We need to get you shelter, and a blood source.”
“Nae,” Syn said through gritted teeth. “Leave me. It is well enough for me to go unto the Fade—”
As the bones in his legs strained, and his forearms felt like ropes being twisted, he lost the power of speech and laid his head down. Breathing shallowly, he recalled what he knew of the transition: Without the blood of a female, he was going to die, and he wondered how long it would take—
“I shall help him.”
At the sound of the words, Syn forced his eyes open. When he saw who it was, he shook his head. “No, no…”
It was the female, from the meadow. The one who had always been so good to him.
“Balthazar,” he said urgently. “Take her away, she mustnae see—”
The female walked forward. “I know what he did to protect me and my kin.” She kept her eyes down, as if she were deliberately not witnessing the damage he had wrought. “I know… and I would help him the now.”
Syn shook his head weakly. “No. No, I am unworthy…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Unworthy?” Jo asked as she pulled into a parking space in front of her apartment building. “Unworthy of what?”
As she spoke, Syn did not seem to hear her. He was sitting stock-still in that passenger seat, hands on his knees, eyes staring straight out the front windshield like he was watching a TV. He seemed totally calm. Or… maybe he was dead? He wasn’t blinking.
“Syn?”
Well, one thing was certain. She was not about to touch him as she shut the car off—
Slowly, his head turned to her, and his expression was vacant, as if he were in a trance. But then he cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Even though she didn’t know what exactly he was apologizing for or what precisely she was forgiving him of.
He nodded. Then contradicted himself. “No, it isn’t. None of it was.”