The Calm Before (Reign and Ruin novella) (4 page)

"Fuck you,"
Lucan whispered. Cirrus stared at him for a moment and then, with a
slight nod, moved quietly out of the room. The door shut behind him
with a click that seethed with disappointment.

Lucan rubbed
his eyes blearily and put the water down on the table. That was not
what he needed right now. He needed some fucking alcohol, something
to burn down his throat to wake him up. And then quickly put him to
sleep.

Putting one
foot slowly in front of the other, Lucan made his way over to
Cirrus's side table. On the shiny, silver plate were three
decanters of golden brown liquid. Lucan snatched the smallest one –
the stupid prick always preached on quality over quantity - and
collapsed in the arm chair.

Well, what
do you know
? Lucan mused as he took his first swig,
It
tastes just like candy. Expensive, self-righteous candy.
He
yanked off his dress brogue, scraped mercilessly from the fight,
and hurled it haphazardly behind his shoulder.
And he was right
. . . I did lose my shoes.

Lucan was about
to take another large gulp and start surrendering to the blackness
of drunk oblivion when he heard a startled scuffle by the door. He
hoisted himself halfway out of the chair, which was exceedingly
hard to do in the plush, overstuffed leather, and saw Marty
hovering in the door frame looking incredibly conflicted.

"Lucan, I am so
sorry," Marty said quickly when he realized he had been spotted. "I
had no idea you were in here. It is so early in the morning.
Shouldn't you be asleep?"

"I was out,"
Lucan said bluntly. "What's your excuse?"

"I . . . um, I
. . ." Marty gulped awkwardly and seemed to search around for an
appropriate answer. Lucan sighed and sat back in his chair.

"Never mind,
Shifty. Come join me for a drink."

"I really don't
think I should –"

"Join me for a
drink or I will tell my brother his Caretaker was snooping around
his office in the early hours of the morning," Lucan said slowly.
He felt the tension tighten, but from his place in front of the
fire he couldn't see Marty anymore. In fact, he was almost sure he
had left before hearing him pad softly across the carpet and hold
out a hand for the decanter.

"I've never
been given a glass of this stuff," Marty stammered.

"What, your
boss never drinks with you?" Lucan asked. Marty smiled grimly and
took a neat swallow.

"Not this boss.
The other does all that and more, but to be honest it's usually a
can of lager that does us." He handed Lucan back the whiskey. "This
stuff is too good for me."

"Nothing is too
good for you," Lucan said, feeling his hackles rise at this minor
show of self-degradation. "Nothing is too good for anyone."

"That's very
socialist of you," Marty said. Lucan grinned wolfishly and
shrugged.

"Nah, I just
hate that my brother has fancy drinks and you need to shoot up for
kicks." He toasted Marty, who was blushing lightly at the mention,
and allowed the last of the whiskey to slip down his throat. He
tossed the glass into the fireplace where it shattered with a light
tinkle. "You're not the only one. Look at me."

"Lucan, you're
a Dream Catcher. A very noble profession."

Lucan made a
show of snatching flies out of the air and threw back his head with
laughter. Marty shifted embarrassingly.

"Yeah, very
noble Marty. Don't fucking deserve it, but here I am."

"Don't say
things like that, Lucan."

"They're true!
And you know what?" Lucan leaned forward and pulled Marty down to
his level. His eyes were dangerously close to crossing as he
attempted to center Marty's weathered face in his vision. "Neither
does he."

"Who,
Cirrus?"

"No, the
fucking Painter – yes, of course Cirrus! He eats power. Just
swallows it down his gullet like it's fine whiskey." Pushing Marty
away, he fell back in his chair and allowed the great weight of
sadness to settle down onto his shoulders like a coat. Wrapping
himself up in the misery, he looked to Marty like a giant, hopeless
grizzly bear. "I cannot even fathom what will happen if that
vulture ever gains more power."

Marty moved
slowly around to stand in front of Lucan.

"Do you think
he will? Soon?"

Lucan shrugged
and closed his eyes. He was ready for sleep now. His anger and a
half liter of drink had done the job just right. But just as he
felt the numbness spread up his neck and into his brain, Marty's
hand was shaking him awake.

"You hate your
brother, don't you Lucan?" Marty whispered.

"You woke me up
to ask me a question as fucking obvious as that?" Marty took his
hand and held it tightly. Lucan pushed back against the chair and
eyed the addict in confusion. "Marty, are we having a tender moment
here?

"If you could
assure that Cirrus never took power, either by force or by vote,
would you?"

"If you knew
what was in my head right now, you wouldn't ask." Lucan stood up
tiredly and pointed to the door. "I need to sleep and you need to
leave, sorry Marty. Or I'll have to tell my brother you were in
here helping me drink his fancy-ass booze."

Marty didn't
let go of Lucan's hand. His eyes flashed furiously in the firelight
and for a second the power that rose up between them had a heat, a
concrete feeling and flow. This man was always so weak, so
pathetic. And yet now, there was something in him that refused to
let go and Lucan couldn't look away.

"You know why
you don't want me to know what is in your head? Because you’re
frightened. But I was too and then suddenly, all my doubts were
taken over by purpose. By passion and action! The people are
yearning for it, practically tearing their nails to the wick
struggling past the suffocation and murk of oppression, secrecy and
that ridiculous purple cloud. But there are those, Lucan, those who
can blow away the cobwebs and stick a sword straight up that
spider's ass."

"You are
damning my own brother, Marty," Lucan breathed.

"It won't be
long until you damn him yourself. You’ll be so ready to damn him
you’ll practically choke on it.”

"What do you
know about me?" Lucan said.

"I know that a
storm is brewing. I know that as the discontent of the people
grows, so will the fear. And we need to utilize that fear before
Cirrus does."

Lucan dimly
felt Marty release his hand, leaving a soft object in his palm, and
watched him move quietly towards to the doorway.

"Marty, wait!"
Marty turned back around, one foot in the hallway. "Who is 'we'?
You and me?"

"If you even
remember this conversation in the morning, the Riders will come for
you. We'll know." Marty nodded towards the side tables before
turning back around to leave. "Drink your water."

And thus it was
that when Lucan awoke a few hours later next to a cold fire, his
toes frozen in the chilly air and head banging like a concert
pianist, he remembered nothing. Of course, he didn't, not at first.
But he saw the broken glass in the fireplace and the spilled water
dripping into the rug and groaned.

The curtains
around the office let in thin, icicle cracks of morning sunlight.
From beyond the glass windows Lucan could hear the sound of
birdsong. The house was grounded today and for that, Lucan was
grateful. He wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible on
his own two feet.

As Lucan rose
up, something fell from his lap. It took a moment to register, but
after a pause Lucan reached down gingerly and picked up the black
piece of fabric that had settled on the carpet in front of him. He
regarded it blankly, like one would a discarded candy wrapper, and
made to throw it to the side. But suddenly, like someone had just
tipped over a bucket of visions from the night before, he
remembered.

The Riders will
come for you.

A storm is
brewing.

It was a
handkerchief, jet black and thin as rice paper. And Marty had left
it in his hand, a breadcrumb clue on the path towards his great
plan. But what plan? And who were the Riders?

Lucan walked
absentmindedly to the window and pulled back the curtains to stare
at the yellow sun perched above the backyard. His mind didn't
register his fingers knotting the black handkerchief around his
wrist, but as he heard his brother moaning upstairs, tossing and
turning in his jagged nightmares, he gritted his teeth.

Whoever these
Riders were, he was damn well going to find out.

You will damn
him yourself . . .

"So damn him to
hell!" Lucan shouted at the circling buzzard, which had been eyeing
him up for signs of weakness. The sudden outburst sent it shrieking
backwards and flying up into the sky, in the opposite direction of
the still approaching sand storm. Lucan spat onto the ground and
then immediately regretted it. He didn't know how these things
worked, but he was starting to get extremely dehydrated.

The jug of
water that was left, not out of courtesy but out of spite, lay on
its side by the base of his post. Cirrus had walked off with his
men, giving it a sound backwards kick and staring up at him coldly.
There was no laughter or gloating smile; on the other hand, there
was no pity, no remorse or sadness that could remind Lucan that no
matter what he had done, no matter the betrayal, they were still
brothers. The look Cirrus gave him was full of justice. What a
heartless bastard.

A sledgehammer
of wind hit Lucan smack in the face, knocking the breath from his
lungs and filling his mouth with sand. The storm was minutes away.
It was hot and blinding and felt like thousands of tiny needles
piercing him in every inch of exposed skin. Lucan squeezed his eyes
tightly, dipping his head down as far as he could, and with every
lull in the gusts he gulped in great breathes of clean air.

This was it,
then. The Riders had come for him. He had done his best and failed.
And this was how he was to be paid. But despite all of his trials
and tribulations, there was only one regret in his mind. Sand and
wind he could face. The disappointment of his multiple mistakes was
bearable. But as the storm tore around his post like a furious
monster, his one regret was softer and only fleeting.

If the Painter
was dead, as he had seen in his brother's eyes, he would have liked
to have seen the Daughter of Palet, the niece of the Painter and
legend of the rebellion he had devoted so much of his passion
for.

Tales were told
of her beauty and of her wisdom, a girl filled with fury and yet
fragile as the wings of a butterfly. Brown hair as deep and dark as
molasses, eyes gold as an oak in Autumn and lips like the blood of
a fallen warrior. A goddess in her own right and someone worth
fighting for.

He so
desperately wished he could have seen her, just once.

And then it was
gone and Lucan was left with the howling of the Wilds and the bite
of thousands of grains of sand . . .

Ready to begin the
Reign Walk? Keep reading for an extract of the first book in
Maggie's story
The Wilds
, available
now . . .

"The Daughter
of Palet. You look so disappointingly normal."

"What did you
expect me to look like?" I asked.

"Smoke! Glamor!
Fire!" the Ringmaster crowed ecstatically. "You are the heir to the
throne. You could at least have washed your face."

"Your friends
back there didn't give us much time to freshen up," I answered. The
Ringmaster flicked his cigarette lazily towards the door and
shrugged.

"Charming
ruffians, but they have their uses. Quite the team. And you should
see them perform!" He blew a smoke ring into the air, which grew
bigger and bigger until it passed through me like a giant hula
hoop. "We here are all about the dramatics."

"Obviously."

"Well, at least
I can admit it. Unlike you friend Lucan in there." With that he
started to move through the tent, and I had no choice but to follow
the pool of light. "He is your competitor's brother, did you know
that?"

Flashes of
cages emerged and disappeared again into the dark, eyes glinting in
the torch light as the animals watched us pass. "He mentioned
it."

"Funny choice
of teammate." His arm pushed aside a hidden fold of fabric and we
were suddenly in the light again, a warmer glow of gas lamps. The
room was swathed in red cloth and couches and as he fitted the
torch into a bracket on the wall, he waved me to sit with his
smoking hand.

Perching
gingerly on the edge of a settee, I watched him pull out a bowl of
marbles and set them pointedly on the table. They were like the
ones Marty had and the one I took to enter into Palet. Funny, how
something so innocent looking can be so different to your childhood
memories. He flicked back his coattails and sat down across from
me. His silver rings glinted in the gas light.

"So when do I
call Cirrus to pluck the petal from the bud?" he murmured, picking
a piece of tobacco leaf from the tip of his tongue.

"I'm surprised
you're even asking," I replied. The Ringmaster tsked and shook a
finger in my direction.

"Why? Not eager
to be reunited with your love?" His smile grew nasty. "Does he
suffocate you? Do you yearn to be free?"

"You don't know
what you're talking about," I said.

"It's a toxic
relationship, and it's him. He clings, doesn't he?" he asked,
leaning forward as if to start gossip. I drew back in disgust and
he flashed me a knowing smile. "I see, then. You are really
Walking, then?"

The Ringmaster
reached above his head and pulled a thin string, and the faint toll
of a bell rang somewhere far away.

"Please do help
yourself," he said suddenly, motioning to the marbles. I shook my
head and his face fell a little in disappointment. He considered
the bowl and used his long fingers to fish one out from the bottom.
Meanwhile, I noticed for the first time the whip he wore on his
hip. It clung to his side as a sleeping millipede. I moved my eyes
away quickly and found him watching me with sly eyes. His tongue
was rolling the marble around in his mouth slowly.