The Dark Thorn (5 page)

To be homeless was hardship he wished on no other.

It was a difficult life. Food was hard to come by. The winter stole warmth and the summer scalded. Sleep was fitful and rarely replenishing. Danger strolled the streets in the form of aggressive drug dealers, meth heads, and thugs from every background, all of whom fought for imaginary turf. Thieves were rampant; liars were everywhere. Despair was a tangible entity, able to kill if one let it. Disgust from those who passed on their way to lives of importance permeated this world, gazes of contempt left unchecked.

Bran wondered when such looks would not wound.

Now nineteen years old, Bran hoped it would no longer matter. He had settled. Merle had given him an opportunity, looked past the grime of the streets, and Bran planned on taking advantage of his generosity.

Bran had been discovering what type of businesses existed in the Bricks, when he stopped in front of Old World Tales to scan the volumes in the windows. His father had loved books. As a nine-year-old, one of the last memories Bran had of him took place in his father’s library, watching him pore over various tomes. Bran could not touch them; many were quite old, bound in leather with foreign letters stamped into the spines. When his father was not traveling, Bran watched him closely, fascinated by what he deemed so important.

At times, the odor of parchment and ink from that library returned to Bran from buried memory, thick in his nose, reminding him of a past before the streets, a past when he was happy and loved.

No matter what city he found himself in, the memory accosted him anew when coming across a bookstore.

While staring at the books, lost in reverie, the door had opened. A white-bearded man wearing a white collared shirt and khaki pants stood at the entrance and breathed in the warm late summer air before his eyes settled on Bran.

“Love books?” the man inquired.

“I do,” Bran said, nodding. “Just something about them.”

“Magic.”

“Excuse me?”

“Magic,” the old man repeated. “Nothing like a book, really. Nothing like a book can help a person become who they have always wanted to be. Nothing like a book can return us to our childhood. A book can hold amazing magic.”

Bran looked at the man. Icy blue eyes penetrated deep, but his face held warmth and understanding.

“Looking for a way to get off the streets?”

Bran frowned. Trust was a luxury he had a hard time offering freely. Homeless rarely benefited from such unions with more respectable members of society. But there was something different about the man in the doorway, an innate goodness like his father had possessed.

“You own the store then?” Bran asked.

The other smiled. “Maybe.”

“Then
maybe
I am looking to get off the streets.”

“My name is Merle.”

“Bran Ardall.”

Merle nodded and, pulling a pipe from his pocket, welcomed Bran into the shop.

It had been a month since they met, the summer giving way to fall. Bran helped in the bookstore, dusting shelves, aiding customers, cataloguing books Merle acquired, and giving Arrow Jack—a temperamental merlin who watched with beady-eyed curiosity—occasional freedom to hunt outdoors. At times Merle also disappeared for days, leaving Bran in charge; it was that kind of trust that made Bran respect Merle all the more. The owner had one condition only—read the books he supplied to gain an education. It had been hard at first but Bran had read seven already, most about European history. It was easy work for a wage and the chance to sleep in his first bed in years. Now Bran tried to use his new life to help his few friends still on the street.

It was all he could do. As a high school dropout, he had limited options.

Bran had just begun to make his way back toward Old World Tales and an evening of reading in his warm bed, when instincts honed during his life on the street screamed like sirens.

He slowed, looking about.

The night was as secretive as before. The Alaskan Way Viaduct loomed in front of him, its double-decker highway blacker than the midnight around it. Light from the occasional streetlamp created vast puddles of dank shadow.

Danger could come from anywhere.

The face of Merle’s visitor flashed in his mind—the haunted eyes, the emaciated frame.
Richard
, the bookseller had called him.

Was it that man out in the gloom, watching Bran now?

Bran didn’t think so. Whatever followed him felt different. It was not the police, a thieving addict, or any of the commonplace threats that used to confront him daily. With the feeling came a stabbing hatred, one not tired like the streets, but fresh and vibrant.

A shift of gloom at the corner of his eye raised his fight reflex. Heart racing his mind, his feet picking up the pace, he probed the world.

Nothing.

The movement came again, closer, accompanied by a high-pitched whine. It came once again from two directions, and he understood with stunning clarity why he hadn’t caught sight of his pursuer earlier.

It was in the air.

Bran ducked self-consciously as tiny flying shadows materialized. They were gone just as quickly, darting back into the night. Bats would buzz people, but with autumn come, the bats had gone into hibernation. When the fast-moving creatures came again, crossing over his head almost at the same time, Bran got a closer look at them—and couldn’t believe his own eyes.

They definitely weren’t bats.

They were something else entirely.

It was enough to set him running. The things came again, swooping in on sleek dragonfly-like wings of gossamer that shimmered in the weak light. They were each the size of a bat, but any other resemblance disappeared with their human-like arms and legs and tiny leaves sprouting in patches over cocoa-colored skin.

Panic quickening adrenaline, Bran dove behind a parked car, keeping low, watching. He was still several blocks from the safety of Old World Tales. What he had seen gave his sanity pause and his fear rein. Uncertainty pulled him in multiple directions—run, scream, fight, or all of them.

The chittering returned and he picked out intelligible words.

“Here, here, here!”

“Kill, kill, kill!”

“Feed, feed, feed!”

There were other words, but Bran couldn’t make them out. The dark twittering litany increased from all directions. As they swooped past his head again, Bran bolted. Shoes pounding the sidewalk, he tore through Pioneer Square, his confusion and fright lending him strength. The buildings passed in a blur. Each breath burned in his lungs as a fire, every nuance of the world acutely emblazoned on his awareness.

He would fight until he won safety.

He was almost back to Pioneer Place Park, Old World Tales only two blocks away, when one of the creatures slammed into his head. Revulsion flashed hotly through his body. Clawing and scratching, the enraged fairy kept at him, spitting curses into his ear. He fought the thing, stumbling into an alley in a panic to get away from the creature, hissing like a cornered cat.

The fairy leapt off suddenly.

Breathing hard and worried at the next attack, Bran searched the air frantically. The fairy flew to join its brethren in the middle of the alleyway. The three floated on the air, chattering excitedly, their wings a blur and voices echoing and shrill.

Bran turned to flee down the alley—and froze. There was nowhere to go. Three brick walls prevented exit.

It was a dead end.

As Bran cursed his mistake and turned to flee, he skidded to a halt on the graveled pavement.

A creature from nightmare blocked freedom.

“What the hell?” Bran breathed.

The thing was wolf-like, its red eyes glaring malice. It was larger than a mastiff, with patches of coarse black hair like spikes growing out of dark green fur along its shoulders and hindquarters. Its hair bristled as it came deeper into the alley, the muscles beneath thick and rippling, its tail a braided mass sweeping the night like a whip. Slaver dripped from its fangs, evidence of its thoughts.

Trapped.

The fairies suddenly lost all importance.

Bran backed away. The unnatural hound’s large paws were silent on the gravelly pavement as it crept toward him, its muzzle pulled back against canines. Sweat broke out in hot beads over Bran’s body, infusing him with wildfire.

The only thing he cared about was escape.

The dog boomed a bark, spraying saliva everywhere.

Manically, Bran ripped the area apart, looking for a weapon or escape. Two doors with steel screens were closed and locked, the windows nearby covered in bars. A dumpster pushed against a wall wafted its damp contents. Freed bricks, wet cardboard, and a scurrying rat were his only other options.

There was nowhere to go. It was over.

The beast knew it. Eyes burning like coals in the darkness, it took slow steps forward. It grinned its intentions, pointed ears twitching in eagerness.

Dread threatened to overwhelm Bran. Alone and without a weapon, it was only a matter of time before the huge demon creature rent him asunder. Rather than cower in fear, fierce anger as he had never known rose within him like a tidal wave. It swelled until it crested, setting him in motion.

He grabbed up the only items he found at all useful. Two broken bricks.

And waited for the beast to attack.

“Get away!” he screamed, brandishing the weapons.

“No,” it growled lowly.

“You speak?” Bran asked, surprise mingling with his fear.

“As thou do, child of man,” the creature mocked darkly.

“What do you want?”

“Thy death,” the creature salivated.

From a window ledge above, the fairies watched what transpired, goading the beast forward with squeaky voices and glee in their eyes.

“But why?!” Bran yelled, his heart pounding.

The animal stopped. The light in its eyes dimmed briefly before flaring anew.

“Because I must.”

“Come then,” Bran growled shakily, and raised his bricks like boxing gloves.

Ready for the coming battle, Bran’s heart froze in his chest when a new shadow entered the alley behind the hound.

“Not. Another. Step!” a man’s voice thundered.

Eyes narrowing, the canine spun, ears flat against its head.

“Knight shyte,” it snarled. “I know thee, thy stench.”

The man stepped deeper into the alley, unafraid, his hands balled into fists, his clothes ragged. He appeared the same as the last time Bran had seen him. Richard. The Old World Tales visitor from the previous night.

“Help me!” Bran shrieked.

Richard said nothing. The man was wholly fixed on the dog.

“Why protect him?” it whined. “He is nothing.”

“He is innocent, cu sith,” Richard said. “You are not.”

“Thou knowest nothing,” the dog growled low.

“The fairies above have twisted
you
to their will, cu sith,” Richard shot back. “And you will not attack this boy nor survive to try.”

A spark of hope entered Bran, although how a homeless man planned to defeat such an obvious threat, he didn’t know.

The barrel-chested dog gave its enemy a final glance.

Then leapt at Bran.

Bran barely had time to bring his bricks to bear.

Before the hound could reach him, a powerful burst of blue light pummeled into the thing’s hindquarters mid-jump, sending the beast reeling against the wall. Bricks and mortar broke free from the impact. Bran shrunk from blast. The green foe yelped shock and pain as it tumbled to the wet pavement, its fur disheveled and eyes surprised.

It was slow to regain its paws.

Bran pressed up against the rear alley wall, breathing hard. Richard stood on the other side of the animal, a flaming sapphire sword in his right hand. His eyes burned with conviction, fixated on the struggling animal. With the fairies raucously cursing from above and shaking their wings in fury, Richard charged and brought his weapon up, driving its blade at the struggling dog, his ferocious intent unmistakable.

The canine jumped aside the last moment.

The sword cut into the wall as if it were made of paper.

With dexterity that belied any injury done to it, the dog jumped at Richard. It raged against the blue fire that accosted it, the smell of burnt hair filling the alleyway as it fought to reach the homeless man. Gritting his teeth, Richard backed away before the assault, the snapping jaws and massive paws of the cu sith returning the fight. Bran could barely see Richard, the man lost in a swirl of sapphire. The two continued to tear at each other, one with protective fire and the other, quick and shredding teeth. The time for words had passed.

The victor would be left alive and the other dead.

Bran wanted no part in it and awaited his chance at freedom. As the minutes wore on, the dog appeared to be failing. Both hind limbs limped as it circled its foe. The man followed the hound’s movements, steady in his steps, poised to take the advantage. Whatever damage had been done to him Richard did not show it. He was as indomitable as a mountain, moving fluidly, the muscles of his neck, shoulders, and arms corded knots. No growls emanated from the two enemies; with the exception of the angry chittering from the fairies above, the world had gone still.

Weakened and harried, the green beast leapt at Richard.

Richard moved like silk.

He stepped to the side with nimble ease—and rammed the blade of his flaming sword through the side of the hound’s chest.

The dog gave a weak yelp as it landed limply on the ground.

It didn’t move.

Richard did not stop. In one fluid motion he raised the sword above his head, hilt first, and brought it down with pure vehemence. The blade hammered through the neck of the canine and continued into the asphault of the Bricks like a knife through warm butter. Blood and gore spurted, sizzling from the heat.

His arms splattered with crimson, Richard straightened, breathing hard.

“Who are yo—”

Before Bran could finish question, Richard sent the fire of his weapon skyward.

The fairies tried to leap away. They were too slow. Screaming rage, they erupted into ash that sifted down like snowflakes.