The Bonded (3 page)

He vomits all over the delicate white snow in spatters while bent over with his hands on his knees. Finally, when the gore-fest is over, he glares at his brother, who is overwhelmed from the scene, then shifts his eyes to me. He spits out words and blood that mingle with a question. “What are YOU?”

I wish I could say something clever or aloof in response, but I don’t even have a basis on which to answer the question. What does he mean? “Answer him!” Franz says emphatically as he grabs my tender neck with his meaty vice grip. I’m still thinking. He whispers with aggression, “Answer him or I squeeze the life out of you.”

I know he means it as my brain begins to gasp for oxygen and the tiny dot of blackness starts to grow. “STOP!” I hear the silky voice of Percy scream in the cold distance. The pressure on my neck relaxes as the blackness slowly bids me farewell. “Take his sunglasses off!”

For some reason her tone was more of a commanding officer than a fragile girl with two grunts. Franz jerks the Maui Jims away and I feel the intensity shift from high to insane. Her pupils dilate with focus, but her tender mouth opens for a small and silent gasp. She swings her sight to Hanz and asks forcefully, “What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know. It tasted like, like one of us, but different. It’s not edible.”

“Explain what the hell that means, brother!” Franz rages.

“He has our taste, but there’s a mixture of somthin’ else. And it isn’t human.”

Franz says, “What th—” But he is cut off from Percy’s waving hand. She steps toward me with apprehension, stretching out her hand to caress my blood-soaked neck and dabs her two fingers in the fresh wound. I jump with sensitivity. She takes a deep sniff and touches the blood to her lips. I see her tongue swirl around to analyze the tiny pool and I have to admit that my neck wasn’t the only thing throbbing. Her eyes close, roll back, and leisurely open with a softer, gentler look. She leans in, puts her mouth next to my ear, and I feel the tickle of heated air as she breathes. “It’s good to see you, Adriel.”

Chapter 2

My mind is in a frantic search for a familiar memory, a scent, anything that will explain how the hell she knows my name. I dust off old mental flash cards from places I’ve lived or visited, strangers I’ve met, but how could I have forgotten those eyes? The remnant of her touch fades from my neck, but our eyes are still locked in muddled discovery. I catch myself choking on the thick intensity when the distant throb of my heart grabs my attention. It’s the rhythmic beat of ancient ceremonial bass drums, slow and rumbling in my ears. Their sound growing, boom… boom… boom, until I am deaf with nothing, but the methodical pulse of dread.

I squeeze my eyes shut to force the bellowed thumping out and feel my heart churning in confusion. Slowly, my eyes break open to see Percy’s mouth moving with no sound and a countenance of panic. The earth begins to spin and blur, yet I remain unmoved as nausea creeps up my throat. Hanz and Franz are staring with startled dismay, trying to reconcile what they just witnessed and heard. She cups my face with both hands and I notice her brow crease and muscles tighten while she silently screams my name.

I sense the boom shaking my body from the inside out, and just when I think my mind will slip into unconsciousness, it bursts. It’s a Red Nova, the Big Bang, a star collapsing, then exploding with such force I think blood is going to shoot out of my fingertips. My blood transforms from cool blue to raging inferno. It’s a stream of hot lava racing through my arteries, cleaning and purging all in its path. My bones melt and I slump over from no support.

The pulsing drums are smoothly replaced by cracking and movement as my ligaments sever and rejoin. At this moment, Percy is barking noiseless orders to get the car at Hanz and Franz with pointed finger and agitated movements. They appear to accept defeat with dumbfounded grace, making a straight line for the edge of the fifth-floor wall. I achingly peer in their direction as they turn quickly to reevaluate the new situation, say a few secretive words to each other, and jump into the void of night. Normally this would be a disturbing sight, but my bones are beginning to re-solidify and the pressure in my head feels swollen and heavy on the deep ocean floor.

My body is begging for reprieve, my head is a symphony building to a climax, and POP! Abruptly, my ears release the pressure, my eyes bubble around the corners, and I can finally breathe without congestion through my nose. Thousands of distinct smells overwhelm my senses as I struggle for breath. Aromatic perfumes squeezed from dying flowers catch my mind, but are tainted with the billowing exhaust left by an antique car five minutes earlier. I observe dozens of unique colors undulating in the shadows near the edge of the parking lot as tiny insects trail for food. Percy’s skin is a pale assimilation of hardened ivory and beige. My eyes move into hers, and for the first time, I see that she is a true paradox: a predator, menacing and gentle with feral resolve and tender protectiveness. A cacophony of sounds penetrate the moment when remote conversations resound intermingled with teeth chattering and the frozen stiff roll of tires on hard-packed snow.

I feel the dull ache in my bones throb; the idled heat in my blood leisurely slithers until my body responds with utter, complete fatigue. It’s not every day I find myself in a fetal position, shivering like a heroin addict at Betty Ford, but I guess tonight’s my night. I gratefully embrace the black abyss of unconsciousness and wearily fall into a yawning sleep.

* * *

Dreamless sleep has always been my favored companion. My eyes creak open and greet the cool presence of bridled light. I start my diagnostic check with twitching my fingers and methodically move to toes, legs, and… Yep, it’s still there. I’m good!

After I reclaim my objectivity, it dawns on me that I am acutely aware. I guess that pop I felt last night was no dream, but a permanent change in my system. I’ve always been more sensitive than my friends and family, but this was absolutely mind-boggling. It’s as if my nervous system is hyper-charged. I’ve heard people say that we only utilize twenty percent of our brainpower and perhaps that is true of our senses as well.
Come on, quit thinking so much and figure out what the hell is going on.

I look around, expecting haunting grey stones and candlelit shadows sneaking in and out of crevices, but find a living room converted to a man cave by Mr. and Mrs. Smith with their two-point-five kids. I’ve seen these converted basements in most homes up in the Northeast and always appreciated their isolated space, but I really was expecting something quite different. I feel the cool pressure of leather and peel my face away from a masculine brown couch that smells new.

Over to the right sits a matching chair and a distressed wood coffee table as the focal point.
Please don’t tell me that mutated cannibals exist and they are Pottery Barn yuppies
. I prepare myself for a grunt response to pain and soreness, yet sitting up is effortless. I merely thought and my body moved at the same speed. I embarrassingly slip a crooked smile of admiration and quickly force it down, as I’ve never been one to look twice in a mirror or congratulate myself. I steal a look at my hands and discover skin fresh with smoldering heat as deep blue veins flex and retract with the rhythm of my heart. In hesitant anticipation, my fingers inch toward my skin for a quick touch and pinch. They are resiliently unwelcomed because my skin has toughened like hide or leather.
Snap out of it and get back to the real world!!

The walls are covered with oil paintings depicting violence and… surprise, surprise, sex. Rich melancholic blacks complimented by velvet reds and Van Gogh blues sketching deathly horrors and dead whores. Blood mixed with yearning, mixed with intimacy, mixed with murder. The images are so beautifully terrifying that the victims won’t release me from their vacant stares. I feel the creeping guilt as if
I
was the one raping and murdering those poor souls and my heart replies with the misty sting of a tear. This guy has some serious mommy issues. I make a mental note of his antipathy and digest his inner-world for later use.

I quickly glance from one corner to the next, inhaling strong new scents, and I feel the tickle of a chill in the back of my throat that demands a full-body shiver. Years ago on a journey through Siberia, I wondered through the Altai Mountains. The people were sparse and hardened by the sculpting wind and brutal arctic temperatures that gave respite only one month a year. I’ve seen the dead stitched alongside isolated roads marbleized from freezing and rigor mortis. They were most likely abandoned by those whose will to survive was stronger than their need for closure. The bodies would lay unattended for months until a few desperate vultures, on the verge of starvation, would brave the elements for a frozen dinner. They say water is the giver of life, but Siberia’s icy terrain offers unabated death. It can pierce you, cut you, crush you, or bury you. That insidious and cruel sibling to water is what I smell. Whoever owns this scent is an ancient and elemental evil that demands caution. I commit it to memory when a side door flings open.

My body defensively reacts with my mind as I posture for attack when guess who walks in?

“Hey, Franz.”

He replies like a demented babysitter. “Follow me or you may not make it through the night.”

That kind of sentence always gets my full attention. The door is obviously not a part of the original floor plan, as basements don’t have doors when they are completely submerged. I can sense his nervous anticipation as he impatiently beelines through a corridor. I follow, but pause to appreciate the strangeness of it all. The hallway is drywalled and painted mocha brown with little battery-powered sconces strategically placed to create sufficient light with the gloom of Goth. Are they really this cliché?

The hall stretches to about fifty yards with a matching oak door greeting us at the end, or beginning, depending on the perspective. I can smell his friends and hear the clanging of metal and murmuring of fear and excitement as we near the path’s end. He lingers for a moment and says, “You’re one of us… I think. We’re preparing for a battle that will surely not end well for some. If you lack courage or refuse to fight, I will personally cut your head off and bleed you dry.”

All that with a straight face and whispered words. “You must have been a motivational speaker before goon, right?” I sardonically reply.

A guttural humph and tiny smile of satisfaction forces its way through, and he opens the door to another converted basement. “And for the record, just because you nearly killed me, kidnapped me, and brought me here does not make me one of you.” I sneak in the conversation before passing through the door.

I’m greeted by a slender young man with long brown hair and those same blue eyes. I guess their hair can differ, but the eyes are all the same. He catches my stare for a nanosecond and I see his curious thoughts processing my white hair and green eyes. He was formal enough to attempt disguising his interest, but after a lifetime of protracted glances and distaste, I know a judgment when I see one. He acknowledges Franz with a nod and opens a trap door that was under the rolled up Oriental rug that centered the furniture. He gives Franz a gentle, but adamant gesture. Franz responds with movement and says, “Thanks, Seth. Was my sword sharpened after the last battle?”

“Would a Weapons Master not care for his weapons?” He is clearly offended, but permits the insult to dissipate as Franz starts down the spiral staircase in silence to join the others.

Of course I attempt to follow, then feel the strength of this young man against my chest as he stops me mid-stride with one hand. “That cellar has nothing for you,” he gently states.

“If there’s going to be a fight, I need a weapon. At least give me my knife back.” I hate smirks!

He condescendingly replies, “Your knife was a human weapon and you are most certainly—not—human.”

The shock of his words stops me. I faintly understand that they are some sort of preternatural humans, and perhaps on a deeper level, I know we have that similarity on a smaller scale, but how can they not be human? More importantly, how I am not human? “How do I protect myself against a
species
like you?” I emphasize species just to get a rise out of him.

In restrained anger he whispers through clenched teeth, “Look at your fingers, young one, and you will find a weapon more lethal than a little play knife.” Ouch, that hurts. I love that knife. “And you will not be in combat with
my species,
this evening at least. The waers are growing restless and they can only be killed by decapitation, removing the heart, incineration, or exsanguinations. These swords address three of the four.”

Franz echoes in the distance, “In other words, chopped, cut, burned, or bled.”

With a diminishing laugh, the Weapons Master crinkles his nose and continues, “Yet, you possess natural defenses that may keep you alive.”

Wait… what? My hands rise so that I don’t lose this 6
^th
grade staring contest and I peripherally see them, fingernails an inch long, but as strong as bone and as sharp as a talon. I press my thumb into my middle finger and immediately know that these are killing tools, and apparently retractable as I notice my under-achieving pinky finger still in process. “I see your point—no pun intended. What are waers and why can’t I have a sword? You must have plenty in your weapons cellar.”

“There is not time for a waer history lesson, but concerning the swords, one has to earn a sword. It takes years, even decades for some to have a sword made for them. ‘One weapon, one vam… one of us.’”

“Alright, well I’ll take a 9mm, then.”

He disapprovingly shakes his head like a frustrated parent teaching a child math and replies, “Their skin is similar to elephant hide, thick and pliant enough to repel projectiles
and
their bones are stronger than steel. Slashing and cutting may be archaic by today’s
standards, but a necessary art for winning these battles,” he says slowly with eyes half-shut, as if enjoying a private moment of pleasure. Slowly, his incisors penetrate closed lips and reveal themselves at full length. They aren’t fangs, but grow a half inch with sharpened points for piercing tough skin and jagged sides for ripping it out.