With dusk came exhaustion, but I ignored my stumble and marched toward the gangly saplings that’d sprouted from seeds above. Keeping my eyes off the man lying like the dead, I dragged my blade forward and back, forward and back, sawing into a flexible tree until it cracked and fell.
I repeated the task, selecting an equally malleable sapling, turning it from vertical to horizontal. Their trunks only measured seven inches in diameter or so, but they’d be strong. They’d work and not be too heavy.
Hacking the off-shoots and ensuring they were smooth, I carried them back to him.
Still asleep.
Still trying to die.
Placing the two trunks side by side, I measured out his size, then used my climbing rope to create a stretcher. Tying the two trees together, I formed a small hammock between them.
Full darkness had descended by the time I’d finished, stepping back to assess my work, squinting in the gloom and using my flashlight to check the finer details.
Thirst forced me to drink; hunger made me eat.
I wolfed down two muesli bars because I needed to be strong for this next part.
Ducking by his head, I tried to tip some water into his mouth. I prayed he wouldn’t choke or inhale it, but nothing happened. The water just spilled from his lips, cascading down his cheeks to leave dirty streaks over his throat.
Fine.
I would ensure he’d eat and drink once we were back inside.
Once he wakes up.
If he wakes up.
For now...it’s time to go.
Bending over him, I dug my toes into the soft, muddy earth and grabbed him by the shoulder and hip. With a grunt, I pulled him forward, rolling him onto his stomach.
I grimaced at the mess of his back.
Old scars and fresh scratches. Bruises had turned black on his shoulder blades. I hoped it was just from the fall and nothing sinister killing him inside.
With another heave, I rolled him onto the stretcher, laying him in the middle of the rope hammock, resting him on his back.
His head lolled to the side. His arms floppy and legs crossed.
Ignoring my tiredness and fear, I rearranged him so nothing would cramp or stitch, then reached for my backpack. Grabbing the smaller backpack he’d carried, I secured it to my larger one.
For a second, I paused.
I gathered energy.
I prepared.
This journey would zap me of everything I had left, but I would do it without complaint. I would protect him because I doubted he’d ever had anyone who cared enough in his past.
Hoisting the two bags onto my shoulders, I placed myself between the two saplings, grabbed the ends, bent my knees, and hauled upward.
Argh!
My hands clawed at the trunks, struggling to get a good hold.
God, he’s heavy.
Even with his weight distributed by the stretcher, it still cost me. Jerking him higher, I did my best to get a strong position, then lurched forward and dragged him behind me.
I dragged, and I dragged.
At one point, he groaned.
A guttural groan full of pain.
I almost dropped him. A sick recipe of hope and anxiety commanded I check on him.
But he fell silent as quickly as he’d made a noise, and I kept going.
Kept dragging him through the darkness, resting, stumbling, struggling...all the way back to his ivy-covered, secret-shrouded mansion.
CHAPTER THREE
“STAND UP STRAIGHT, ALL of you.”
We all snapped upright, a long line of Fable kids who’d been summoned before our master.
Storymaker sat slouched in his favourite chair in the library. He nursed a drink that he’d made Elise pour for him. He trailed his fingers up her delicate forearm as he accepted the glass. Tugging her forward, he tiptoed his fingers up her bicep to her cheek in that sick, disgusting way that said he had two tasks for her tonight.
A guest and himself.
I almost bit my tongue into pieces, doing my best not to launch myself at him for touching her. For daring to make her tremble. For making her owlish eyes gleam with knowing tears.
If I could, I’d take her place. I’d volunteer, just like I volunteered as much as I was physically able, accepting the beatings and sodomy so my family didn’t have to.
I was the oldest, after all.
It was my job to protect them.
The only problem was, Storymaker preferred girls. He’d yet to touch any of us boys, and it fucking killed me that I couldn’t step in and save her.
Dismissing Elise, Storymaker narrowed his gray eyes at us as she joined our lineup. Watching us over his glasses, he sipped his drink and made us all squirm in tense silence.
I happened to know he was almost blind without his thick glasses, their silver frame painting him as some bookish father figure with salt and pepper hair, long, lean body, and obscenely feminine hands.
He’d been the feature of many of my nightmares.
His feeble, nerdy body was unable to create too much pain by fists and feet alone, but his affection for torture, sex, and age-old sadism had well and truly made him the scariest motherfucker in this house.