The Marked Son (Keepers of Life) (7 page)

Beads of sweat dotted Kera’s skin. They were close. Too close. She pulled out the dagger and scrambled up a tree, the weight of the
incordium
calming her. Crouching on a sturdy limb, her back to the trunk, she waited for the ground swarm to pass.

With quiet precision, she slowed her breathing. Her muscles ached within her confined position, but she didn’t dare move.

The swarm stopped. The familiar sounds within the forest were gone, leaving a dead silence more terrifying than the sound of the millispits. Kera’s imagination wouldn’t still. She didn’t want to see what they were doing, but she had to know. Ever so slightly, she shifted her weight.

Crouched in the brush a short distance from her, a mountain lion panted, its attention centered on the swarm gathered on the ground, waiting. The soft huff of its breath filtered through the underbrush, and in the blink of an eye, the swarm attacked, bleeding and stinging the predator from its hiding place. It didn’t get far before it was covered with millispits. A few seconds more, and it stopped moving, then died, while dozens upon dozens of millispits twitched their last beside it.

Disgusting creatures. One more reason why she hated Navar. He thought he was so clever restricting their movements to the forest and making sure they couldn’t fly by breaking their wings, but they were the epitome of evil. Except for the creature they were killing, only the moon’s glow saw them dead.

How could anyone create something so malevolent and call it a necessity? Life had lost its value. Killing was all Navar understood these days.

Out of the corner of her eye, Kera saw a few millispits leap-flying from tree to tree, their broken wings fluttering grotesquely, their thin, springy legs pumping, their large eyes searching. The viscous goop covering their bodies helped them cling wherever they landed.

The flutter and splat of a millispit sounded close by.

Her breathing became a ragged whisper of sound as Kera watched the slimy creature slide into view near her shoulder. The large, red eyes zeroed in on her.

Before it could warn the others with its throaty grunt, Kera flipped her knife into her opposite hand and, in two precise swipes, detached the creature’s tail and head from its body. The carcass flopped onto a nearby branch and dangled by a thread of mucus.

Kera suppressed a shudder and looked away only to hear a throaty grunt. Turning back, she found another millispit hovering over the dead one’s dismembered body.

It was time to move. Kera leapt to a nearby branch, flying through the air until she landed easily on the next limb, only to leap off that one as quickly as she could.

The millispits below fluttered their wings, many rising off the ground a few feet until they could cling to the trees and begin the climb. Most stayed on the ground, matching her move for move.

All she needed was to get out of the forest. Navar had created the creatures to hunt down the “tainted” hiding in the forest, and Kera had never been so thankful for the magic that kept them bound to the area. Sensing the thinning of the trees, the millispits throaty grunts grew more excited. Kera had no idea what they were saying to each other, but that they had even a minute trace of intelligence was frightening.

With her lungs burning from the effort to stay ahead, Kera leapt to the last tree limb that could hold her weight, then jumped to the ground. The millispits were still too close. She darted forward, the dagger gripped tightly in her hand, and burst from the forest. Whirling about, she held the dagger in front of her and glared back at the creatures swarming toward her.

The majority of millispits stopped, but a few continued forward. Kera’s eyes widened. Somehow, the magical boundary didn’t exist for them. With a cry of alarm, she staggered back and swung at the first one to reach her, cutting it cleanly in half.

She continued to back up, hacking at one and then another. When they lay at her feet dead, she peered at the mass of millispits. How had these few crossed? It should have been impossible.

The millispits’ grunts reverberated within the group. Suddenly, over a dozen leapt forward, crossing the boundary line.

The line that should kill them instantly when crossed, but didn’t.

Kera turned and ran.

There was no avoiding the village. Darting down the cobbled streets, Kera scanned for items she could use to protect herself. The first house she came to had a rainwater barrel, its lid halfway off. Kera grabbed the lid by the knobby handle and held it in front of her like a shield.

She faced the millispits just in time. Three of them smacked into the lid and embedded their tail stingers into the swollen wood.

A cry of “millispits” echoed close by. A horse harnessed to a wagon screamed as the creatures clawed their way over it. One came close and she batted it away, but not before its serrated claws cut her cheek. As she made her way deeper into the village, those who weren’t out in the fields came to her aid. Bursts of magic careened around Kera, but no amount of magic affected the millispits. Only a direct hit with Kera’s
incordium
dagger ended their lives.

In no time, viscous slime covered Kera’s blade, dulling its impact. After slicing one of the creatures in two, she paused and swiped her weapon clean on her pants.

Looking around, she saw a little girl standing in the doorway of her house, crying as her mother fought off a millispit with a blast of steam she’d collected in her hands. The ball of hot air struck the slimy creature, stopping it for just a moment before it shuddered back to life.

Kera spotted another millispit creeping forward, its serrated fingers clicking on the cobbles as it eyed the child. Darting over, Kera got between the girl and the creature. Grunts sounded, and before it could move closer, Kera swept the blade through its body, cutting it in two.

“Go inside,” she ordered the little girl. “And don’t come out until it’s safe.”

The girl nodded and then screamed, pointing to something over Kera’s shoulder. With a hard shove, Kera forced the girl inside, slammed the door shut and turned, dagger at the ready. Five millispits came at her. She cut down the first in mid-flight. The second flapped into the door and hung there, eyeing her. Its tail zipped toward her. Kera sliced off the stinger, then used the butt of the dagger to smash its head. A slap of goo hit her skin, and then a sharp pain pierced her collarbone. Another moist plop landed on the side of her neck followed by a pinch. Another jabbed her thigh.

An involuntary groan rolled from Kera’s throat. The dagger slipped from her fingers, and she collapsed to her knees, her hands clawing at the millispits, jerking the nasty things off her body before she fell.

The last thing she saw before she passed out was the tip of a millispit’s tail, its stinger still pulsing venom into her leg.

Millispits kill always,
Navar’s voice echoed in Kera’s head.
Wait and see. They will see the end to our half-breed problem.

Change Happens

Waking in a strange room makes me nervous, but then last night comes flooding back. Mom’s gone, and she didn’t even say good-bye.

I should be mad as hell. Instead, I’m oddly confused.

The actual words have already faded, but I remember Mom being sad, angry even, and the one thing I can’t forget is how afraid she sounded. Of me.

At one point, she loved me. I’m almost sure of it, but it’s like remembering a movie I haven’t seen in a long time. There are images of warmth, but no real sense of reality.

He’s changed too fast.

What did that mean? I recoil from the question, unsure I even want to know.

Someone knocks on my door.

I groan and sink under the covers. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to do anything but close my eyes and recapture the painlessness of sleep.

The door opens. Light footsteps cross the room. They stop by the bed.

“Dylan?” Grandma calls in a gentle voice reserved for the mentally fragile. I should know. I’ve used that tone on Mom more times than I can count.

The down-filled bed pulls me deeper, and I willingly escape into the cocoon of feathers and warmth.

She doesn’t try and get me to come out. She places something on the bedside table and leaves, closing the door softly behind her.

Cocooned in the bedding like I am, the heat, which is at first comforting, becomes stifling. Cool air finds me as I struggle free of the covers. With a hard push, I roll to a sitting position and slouch against the raw ache that won’t go away. A letter lies on the bedside table with Mom’s handwriting on it.

I feel like I’m strangling on a mixture of hope and fear. My fingers shake as I reach for the envelope and rip it open. Mom’s sweeping handwriting unfolds across the page.

Dylan,

I can’t stay here, and I can’t take you with me. You know how guys are. One look at a kid and they freak. Maybe alone, I can find someone to love me. You’re going to think that’s lame, but I don’t care. You don’t need me anymore. You haven’t for a long time. I’m not going to feel bad about this, so don’t try following me and laying on the guilt. I’m over that. I was never a good mother, anyway.

Addy

I reread the letter over and over again. This is her way of letting me down easy? There’s so much she doesn’t say. My vision blurs, until I can’t see the letters or even the paper. I love her, but I don’t count. I can’t remember a time when I did.

I fall back on the mattress. Nothing enters my mind or leaves it. I’m detached from everything except each breath I take.

In and out.

The letter slips from my fingers. I don’t react.

In and out.

Minutes pass, or is it hours?

In and out.

The door opens. Grandma whispers my name. She picks up the letter, gasps, and cradles my cheek in her palm. She speaks. I don’t hear.

I’m aware, yet unresponsive—a lump of living flesh. She calls Grandpa. Their voices are muddled. I can hear their concern, but the words don’t sink in. Grandpa grabs my hand and hefts me up and over his burly shoulder. He carries me to the bathroom and gently places me in the tub.

Without warning, a shock of cold water slams me back into reality.

Sputtering, I struggle to sit up, blinking against the heavy stream and cussing up a storm.

A far-off voice calls, “Is he okay, George?”

Grandpa turns the water off, his eyes on me.

I’m shivering like a newborn puppy, and I clench my teeth to stop their chattering. “That was messed up!”

He throws a relieved glance over his shoulder. “That fixed him.”

“What’s going on?” I say.

Grandpa hauls me to my feet. “You needed a little jolt. You know, a kick start. Seen it a million times in Nam.”

“S-seen what?”

“Shock.” He throws a towel around my shoulders and helps me out of the shower. The bathroom is barely big enough for one person, let alone two big guys. He rubs the towel vigorously along my body, reawakening my nerves and warming my skin. “You shut down, so I restarted you.”

He pokes his head out of the bathroom and says, “He needs new skivvies and some jeans.”

Grandma hands them over, her face wreathed in concern, then steps back out of sight.

“Strip and put these on,” Grandpa says, and hands me the clothes.

He keeps me steady while I do as he says, and after I’m dressed, he leads me out. When I see Grandma, she puts her hand to her chest and sighs. “You scared me to death!”

I slowly lower myself to the bed. “Sorry, I’m not really sure what happened.”

An unasked question passes between Grandma and Grandpa, who’s standing beside me. He nods, and she shows me the letter. Everything rushes back. I feel sick, and to my horror, I start to cry. I never cry. Grandpa brings my head to his torso. He rubs my hair as Grandma squats before me. She takes my hands as tears slip down her cheeks. “I don’t understand the need that’s in her, Dylan. It isn’t your fault. Do you understand that? She’s selfish and weak, and you deserve to be treated better. We all do.”

I can feel their pain, the longing they have for a daughter who will never love them back. We all want the same thing, but only I know it will never happen. I’ve come to accept the absence of Mom’s love, while they still cling to hope.

This new understanding soon leaves my eyes dry. I refuse to wallow in self-pity. It’s better to feel nothing than hurt like this. I breathe deeply and evenly, and slowly push away.

Grandma rises, her pain still obvious as she wipes at her tears. At least she’s able to function like life is worth the effort. “I’m going to cook something up. Something big. What do you want, Dylan?”

I feel empty, but not in a way that food will help. I can’t speak yet.

Grandma’s question falls to Grandpa. He pats my back and says, “Make us a meal fit for men.”

She grins, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I can do that.”

“George,” a disembodied voice crackles.

Grandpa fishes for a small walkie-talkie clipped to his belt. He presses a button along the side. “Yeah, Reggie?”

“We got problems over here on five. You need to see this to believe it.”

Grandma stands in the doorway, a ‘what now?’ look on her face.

“What’s going on?” Grandpa asks.

“I don’t know. It’s like…” There’s a big pause. “I don’t know. You seriously need to come over here.”

Grandpa shares a quick glance with Grandma before pressing the button. “Okay. I’m on my way.”

“I’ve never heard Reggie so upset,” Grandma says as Grandpa heads through the doorway.

He stops and looks back at me. “Get dressed. You’re coming with me.”

“Now, George,” Grandma warns. “He’s been through enough.”

“He needs to get on with life,” he says, still staring at me. “Come on.”

He leaves, expecting me to follow. I don’t want to think, let alone move, but I know an order when I’m given one, and like it or not, I find myself moving. He served in Vietnam. Saw combat. He’s the type who expects obedience even if you’re wounded and can’t see through the blood dripping into your eyes.

I pull on a T-shirt, slip on some socks and shoes, and follow Grandma’s nod toward the back of the house. Once outside, I follow Grandpa’s voice. He and the dog that nearly bit me are waiting in a shed, surrounded by all sorts of machines and some more of those weird sculptures that are in the front yard. The dog hovers near Grandpa in a protective manner. I’m smart enough to keep my distance.

On seeing me, Grandpa points to an ATV. “Ever driven one of these?”

“No.”

Grandpa tosses me a set of keys. “Time to learn.”

When he says learn, he isn’t talking about teaching me first. He expects me to learn on the go. As he pulls away, his dog sprints ahead, and I turn on the hulking machine and follow.

Grandpa shouts instructions army boot camp style, and I do my best, but I’m failing fast. I nearly give myself whiplash, sputtering along the dirt path that runs behind the house. I’m terrible at switching gears and grind them until my ears ring. After a while, we rumble into the forest. Grandpa stops and opens a gate, which is attached to a fence that zigzags between the trees and out of sight.

“I got into the sheep business to keep the forest scrub from taking over,” Grandpa says, climbing back onto his ATV. “It cuts down on fire danger, which is always a worry with trees surrounding you.”

A few minutes later, we pull into a small glen packed with sheep. Dozens of tiny brown dots of fluff outfitted with curved horns and lamb faces, look our way. Nothing seems out of place, but being new to the sheep business, I wouldn’t really know.

A guy around my age sporting long, shaggy black hair, a man in his fifties wearing round glasses, and an old guy who’s as weathered as an ancient oak tree stand over a downed sheep. The men are a ladder of years. The younger guy only has to look at the older men to see his future self. Sheep herding is obviously a family business around here—one I’m not so keen to follow.

On seeing us, the middle-aged man comes jogging over, along with five dogs. I barely miss running them over with my ATV before I manage to come to a bone-jarring stop.

Grandpa rumbles up and shoots me a warning look—like I
tried
to run them all down. He greets the men while I get off my ATV and step one foot too close to that crazy dog. It bares its teeth and lets out a mean growl. I’ve had enough trauma lately, and I’m not about to let a dog bully me. I throw the mangy thing an angry look and snap out a command. “Sit.”

The dog immediately sits amid a flutter of ear positions and sad, little whines. More whining joins his, and I notice the other dogs are sitting, too, confusion in their sad eyes. Everyone stares at me just as strangely.

“What?” I ask.

Grandpa calls his dog to him, but the dog only looks at me. He calls again, and finally the dog slinks away, tail between his legs.

“Your grandmother never told me you had experience with dogs.”

“I don’t.” I’ve never had a pet in my life. “Mom says I’m allergic.”

Grandpa’s jaw twitches. “I think your mom’s full of it.”

He’s probably right. Knowing Mom, she didn’t want to bother with me
and
a pet.

Grandpa quickly sends the dogs out to keep the sheep in a tight knot and away from the downed ewe. “All right, Reggie, what happened?”

“It’s Willow,” Reggie says in a pained voice. “She’s dead.”

A series of cuss words fly out of Grandpa’s mouth, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “How?”

They go to where the other men are and I follow. It’s a strange sight. The ewe is lying on her side like she’s asleep, but there are a lot of red speckles in her wool, and when Grandpa digs deeper, he finds tiny marks where blood has seeped out. He sits back on his haunches, his eyes still on the ewe.

Reggie scratches his head. “I don’t know anything that does that.”

Grandpa examines the poor animal, taking pictures with his camera phone as he does. “There’s blood everywhere.”

The old man standing next to Reggie does a bunch of quick hand gestures, and I realize he’s using sign language. He and his son begin arguing, and I see the old man is lip reading. After a few moments, Reggie shakes his head and turns away, but the old man pulls him back.

“What’s he saying, Leo?” Grandpa asks.

The younger guy—who’s probably a few years older than me—digs his toe into the earth and mutters, “Something about men from another world.” His deep voice is at odds with his young appearance.

“Aliens?”

“Just Pop being Pop.”

Grandpa’s hand balls into a fist, and he slowly mouths the words so Pop is sure to understand. “I don’t need superstition right now. I need answers.”

The old man drops his hands. Leo shrugs at Grandpa. “Sorry. He can be crazy.”

“Mind your manners,” Reggie snaps. He squats next to the dead ewe. “What’s your take, boss?”