Winter's Fury - Volume Two of The Saga of the Twelves (64 page)

But she blocked him from
her mind, turning to watched Anthony walk on passed her. He came up
to where they had placed their individual backpacks. He unzipped
the one he had earmarked as his own. With haste, he tore open the
bag of socks and placed them, one at a time, inside the backpack.
He crinkled up the plastic covering in his hand when he had
finished.

Sophie turned back to look
at Joaquin, who was completely ignoring the both of them. He was
busying himself by talking with Louis, pointing and gesticulating
at the books the boy had brought back with him.

When she resumed her vigil
of Anthony, she saw him put the plastic in one of the large trash
cans they can scavenged. He spun on his heel, light on his feet,
making his way back toward her, a broad smile on his
face.

Through the entire
display, all Sophie had to see to know the truth was look at his
eyes. They were bloodshot. The area of his face that was cleaner
than before was where tears would have stained face, where he would
have wiped them away. She saw it and knew the whole thing had been
an act. He was hiding something as well, though in a different
manner than Joaquin. Still, the intent was exactly the same– he was
protecting her.

Fucken boys!

“
Hey girlie,” he greeted
her, his voice a little scratchy as if it were raw,
hurting.

“
Hey, yourself,” she
replied, not about to ask what was plaguing her at the time. She
was more irritated by the omission of the truth than she thought
she was. She wanted him to volunteer the information, especially if
it was going to involve little white lies or strategic omissions.
“How’d everything go?”

“
Good, ok… I guess. I
mean, it wasn’t like it was anything major or eminent. It was just
some background info, you know,” he divulged, albeit reluctant,
awkward.

Sophie nodded, turning
back and forth at the waist. “Right, and this would be the same
background information that had to be told in private, in
confidence. I get it, Anthony.” She said it more forceful than she
meant to. She realized the entire situation was bothering her more
than she was able to conceal.

It must have shown in her
face, because Anthony’s expression changed from nonchalance to a
more piercing stare. He looked into her eyes and did not break the
connection when she gazed back.

Pain welled in her eyes,
though she fought against it with all her will.

He stayed motionless for a
few more moments. “I will tell you. I promise. When I’m ready. When
I can. It’s just that right now, things…,” he paused to take a
deeper-than-normal breath of air. He swallowed it as if he were
swallowing something more tangible and not just a gulp of nothing.
“There are things that need to happen, things we need to focus on
to succeed. I don’t want other worries or fears clouding yours or
anyone else’s mind right now.”

“
I am stronger than you
think, Tony. I can take it,” she offered, looking at him through
her eyelashes.

Anthony half-exhaled and
half-smiled, bending down to kiss her on each cheek. “I know you
are, my dear. It’s me that isn’t, at least for right now. Plus, I
know there are others who are walking on eggshells. One more burden
and they’ll snap.” He stopped and placed his hands on either
shoulder. “Will it be ok, if you give me some time to sort through
this? When I do, I promise I will tell you. I will tell you
everything.” He raised his brow, asking her with both his voice and
the entreating look upon his face.

“
It’s just I… I don’t
understand. It should all be so simple. Because it’s not, it makes
me a little angry you don’t have enough faith in me to tell me.”
She felt the first of her tears fall from her eyes. She wiped them
away, irate that she could not stop them.

“
I do have faith in you,
Sophie, more than you know. All I’m asking is for you to have a
little more faith in me. I promise you, you will understand
everything you need to understand when it is crucial for you to
understand. Right now, it would just bring unnecessary worry and
anxiety. Emotions like that could be disastrous to the goals we
have set for ourselves. Let’s get through some more of the plan.
Let’s get the hell out of here and back to the cave. Let’s get up
into the mountains and find that clearing. Let’s find the crucifix.
Let’s go down under the earth and into the cavern. And, let me
finish what I have to do, so I can protect us all, save us from
those assholes who want us dead!

“
We are running out of
time, Sophie. The Kring-Hël must begin to resist somehow. There is
still so much to figure out…,” he trailed off, taking yet another
cleansing breath to steady himself. He closed his eyes, tilting his
head up toward the ceiling of the store.

Sophie pulled her vision
from her boyfriend. She took in what he had said, the import of his
words sank into her mind, burned across her consciousness.
Begrudgingly, she knew she had already decided to go along with his
request. Though she knew she would hate every minute she did not
know what had transpired between him and Joaquin, she would go
along with it.

In a way, he was right, at
least from his perspective. He had a lot more to worry about and he
had a greater responsibility than she. It made sense to her that he
needed some time to sort out whatever the hell it was he needed to
sort out. She turned back to him and gave him one of her patented
fierce hugs.

He reciprocated in kind,
bending down to cover her with more of his body.

She felt herself melt into
him, willing, it was almost as though she had been doing it since
birth.

“
If that is what you need,
then that is what I can give,” she mumbled near his ear.

“
I’m sorry, Sophie,” he
said. It sounded like he was about to say more when his voiced
cracked and he stopped.

She could feel him wither
in her clutch, wilt like a flower without enough water. She knew,
even though he had said no more on the subject, whatever it was, it
was bad. It was the furthest thing from being good. Her intuition
was all she needed. That and the way he held onto her like a
child.

She sighed, long and slow,
saying the only thing she could in a moment such as this, holding
the young man in her arms. “I love you, Tony. No matter what, do
you hear me?”

He nodded.

She felt him kiss her
hair.

“
Now, don’t worry. I
believe you, ok? I know you will tell me when you can. I trust
you.” She held him even tighter when she finished.

“
Thank you,
Sophie…”

It was a long time before
they broke their embrace.

When they did, surprise
struck her. Sophie had not realized she had been crying the whole
while. Her body, once again, had responded to her
boyfriends’.

In that regard, they were
already two made one.

It was a crucial step. One
day, it would save the lives of countless millions.

~~~~~~~<<<
ᴥ
>>>~~~~~~~

~ 38 ~

A Blizzard of
News

Day Four, Sunday, 8:18
pm…

The Hand of the Great
Maelstrom sat in his office on the uppermost floor of the tallest
tower in his keep. Sheaves and sheaves of missives, lists, letters,
updates, ledgers, accountings, orders and directives surrounded
him. They piled so high they obscured the entire surface of his
desk.

He was in a rounded
chamber with four shuttered windows equidistant from one another.
They cut into the three-foot thick walls, looking more like tunnels
than windows. The Hand had them covered now to keep out the biting
cold and keep in the miniscule heat the roaring fire, upon his
right, provided. The cold and the drafts were all the more demonic
and treacherous due to the height of his office from the ground
itself. But, there was little else he could do to sustain warmth
within the chamber. He had lit every lamp, stoked every brazier,
put on his massive, fur-lined cape over his thick, insulated robe.
Still, he could feel a chill against the exposed skin of his snout.
The tiny tendrils of icy air flowed about his furry scalp,
trickling down to the nape of his neck. They threatened to run all
the way along his fury spine.

He sat in the same
high-backed, over-stuffed chair made from the charcoaled bones of
an ancient IsigWyrm. It was the more comfortable and stylish
substitute to the colossal Seat of the Dragon Skull. That, he
loathed. In his home world, he was often forced to sit upon it for
hours on end, attending the supplicants of his father’s vast
holdings.

Unlike that eyesore, this
chair comprised of the great finger bones of an IsigWyrm, forming
its’ back. They splayed outward from the center of the seat, bent
slightly forward. Thus, it appeared the great fist of the long dead
beast was about to close upon any who sat upon it.

About him, along the walls
of the chamber, were many bookcases and other shelved affairs. They
held the impressive library he had gathered over the years. Some of
it he had garnered out of the sheer thirst for knowledge. Some of
it he had used to gain favor over others. Yet, a good half of it he
had compiled in preparation for the Rending and the insertion of
the Lord of the Storm’s Vanguard into the Melded World. That had
been an overwhelming feat of Vyche he and his Hross undertook over
a century in the past.

Also within the room were
a long, red couch and a pair of matching over-sized chairs. All
three of which he had upholstered with the hides of his greatest
enemies. Three rival Vülfen he had vanquished over the course of
his rise to power. A rise placing him second only to that of his
father within the Vülfen Kur Ambalaj.

Soon, he hoped to supplant
his father’s reign with that of his own.

The furniture was before
the hearth, the couch parallel and the chairs perpendicular to the
fire. They all sat atop the lush rugs he had strewn across every
square inch of the ice-cold, stone floor.

He looked across the room.
His eyes were just a fraction higher than the huge mountain of
paperwork before him. Deep in thought, there was an unrolled
parchment in his hand, bearing the broken seal of House Kór, the
royal house of his family. This was a missive for his eyes
only.

It had arrived a scant
quarter of an hour ago by messenger from Storm. This had been after
he had dismissed his council and was still in deep discussion with
his shrunken uncle.

When Malik-Käi laid eyes
upon the bone case containing the parchment, his eyes had danced
over the intricate runes and etchings of power along its’ outer
surface. He had stood at once and announced his leaving.

It had made Fenris smile,
dark and foreboding. His great, great uncle might be the great
Mheto-Prēost of the Fleshmasters. But, within the ranks of the
Ambalaj, his place had diminished. The moment he had decided to
break from their pure bloodline to join the hierarchy of the Master
Creators, he had forever renounced his aristocratic claims. He knew
his place, just as he knew he was to be forever excluded from the
inter-workings of the Royal Family. At most, he could be a
well-placed advisor, but never a confidante.

Thus, his wizened ancestor
had hobbled from the council chamber.

Fenris had watched him
leave and saw the door close behind him before he moved.

He had stood then. He left
for his private study, posting armored Jötun at regular intervals
all the way up the long staircase to his sanctuary. He had given
each of them strict orders. Do not disturb him for any reason until
told otherwise.

He had immediately lit the
logs within the fireplace, as well as every lamp and lantern; every
iron-bound brazier. With flicks of his wrist, he sent bolts of
energy and heat, toward them all. Within seconds, his study was
bright with a myriad of cavorting light. He had gone to the
IsigWyrm chair behind his desk at once. In a hurry, he disenchanted
the carrying case. He disabled the secret traps. He had known since
birth, they would always be present upon any communication between
members of House Kór.

He brought forth the
parchment. Its' manufacture was that of the supple skin, flayed
from the back of a young, human female on the first day of her
first lunar bleeding. Her epidermis would have been suffuse with
hormones. Skin of that nature was like butter and easy to work. It
always produced the highest quality writing material and was best
suited for a message such as this.

Immediately, his eyes had
darted over the archaic characters of his father’s scrawl. His
brows came together in a focused frown as he read:

For the Eyes of the Crown
Prince of the Vülfen Kur Ambalaj, Heir to House Kór, Hand of the
Great Nihhus, Supreme Lord of the Host, Begotten of my
Flesh,

Fenris dok Kór –
Ul-Rigă:

Son,

I am sending this missive
in hopes the arrival of our aged and malformed uncle has assuaged
some of the trouble incurred with that idiot Vallüm and his
accursed Nixy. I have every confidence that you have made strides
toward the recovery of the Master Twelve. I know you will
accomplish this task posthaste, if you have not already.