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* * * *
Always faceless before, but now he knows the eyes that
watch him, and he doesn't know what that means, but it's
different and he doesn't think that's good. Father sleeps on,
won't answer his questions, and sometimes it seems like he's
been asking them forever, over and over again, but he can't
make himself stop.
"What am I?" he begs. "Why am I here? Why can't I just...
stop?"
Father doesn't answer him, and then Father isn't there
anymore. He is alone, always alone, friendless and
defenseless, heart as raw as his abraded fingertips, with only
the silent, brooding Watcher at his back.
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"Go away," he says over his shoulder, fingers flying, and
he tries to concentrate on what he's doing, but he's afraid and
he can't think. "I don't want you here, go away!"
He closes his eyes, tries not to weep, but he's so tired, and
he bows his head, hot tears scalding behind his brow, searing
his cheeks. "I want Mother," he whispers, though he has no
idea why he says it it's stupid and childish and his cheeks
darken with humiliation; he shakes his head, confused, says,
"No. I have no mother."
A wide, heavy hand lands on his shoulder, and he jolts,
peers up into deep, dark eyes and stumbles back
Sucks in a ragged breath and screams
"Bloody hell!" Brayden sputtered.
Wil jerked himself up, heart thumping wildly, and scuttled
back over the tiny cot until his back hit the wall, immediately
regretted every single move, as stars exploded behind his
eyes and every bone, joint and muscle seemed to scream in
agony. He gasped, slumped, probably would have toppled
over if a wide, heavy hand hadn't landed on his shoulder,
gripped firm. He wanted to scream again at the touch, but he
hadn't the breath.
"Easy, now." Calm, smooth, and soothing.
The hand wouldn't leave, just kept holding on, keeping him
upright not hard, not threatening, not cruel...
Wil made himself take several deep breaths, ignoring the
way the muscles in his chest and belly protested, drew his
knees up, and cradled his pounding head in his hands. The
bandaging around the right one reminded him that his hand
was hurt, too, and he followed that thread until he
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remembered how it had got so, and how he'd got to where he
was now...
Groaned.
Right. Dudley. Jail.
He probed gingerly at his forehead, fingertips carefully
marking the scabs and swelling. Groaned again.
A semi-urgent need to piss was knocking at his groin, but
the thought of standing up made his stomach turn over.
It took him another several moments to work up the
courage to open his eyes, and when he did, bright afternoon
sun stabbed into them, slanting in through the barred
windows of the doors and the window above the sheriff's
desk. He winced, blinked eyes gone gummy, tried to focus
and couldn't quite make it.
"All right, then?" Brayden asked. "Didn't mean to startle
you, but you've been sleeping a long time."
Wil almost nodded, thought better of it and merely closed
his eyes again. "Sorry," he said, only it came out a hoarse
whisper. He reached up to his throat, tried to clear it.
"Here," said Brayden, taking up Wil's hand and pressing a
warm mug into it.
Wil didn't even have the energy to flinch at the touch that
time. Brayden's hand was over his, guiding something hot
and fragrant to his lips some kind of spiced cider with a very
strong liquor that gave its mild taste an impressive kick. Wil
took several cautious sips, relieved when it soothed the dry
burning in his throat.
"Can you hold it yourself?" Brayden wanted to know.
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Wil wanted to say, Yes, get your great paw off me, wanted
to fling that great paw away and be rid of the unsettling
touch, but found himself mumbling, "Dunno," instead. He
pried open his eyes again, squinted at the cup, his hand
wrapped around it and Brayden's around his. "I... what...?"
He paused, confused, not at all sure of what he'd meant to
say, then he blinked up at Brayden, peered a question at him
with a slight tilt of his head.
"You've been dead to the world since last night," Brayden
told him, "and it's now early afternoon. I'm sorry I startled
you I imagine your injuries have set into the muscle while
you slept, and all that jumping about couldn't have felt good.
Are you in much pain?"
Wil just kept blinking stupidly.
"The healer was by, but I told her I'd call for her again
when you woke. I didn't think you'd appreciate someone
prodding at you while you slept." A wry little snort.
"Considering the way you woke, I'm thinking I was too right."
Wil couldn't see anything but a big, dark smudge fringed with
gold, so he couldn't tell for sure, but it sounded like the
constable might be smiling. "D'you always wake like
someone's trying to kill you?"
Wil didn't know if he was more surprised by the question
or by the fact that Brayden was actually making an attempt
at a light tease. He shrugged, muttered, "Someone usually
is," flushed at the truculent bent to his tone, and took another
sip.
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"Right," said Brayden, cleared his throat, and changed the
subject. "Anyway, the healer left some maeting for you, if the
pain's bad. You took rather a beating, y'know."
"Ya think?" Wil retorted, a little less sarcastically than he
might've done another time, but Brayden's hand was still
wrapped about his, and the fact that it was no longer
unnerving him was unnerving him. He gingerly pushed the
cup away until Brayden took it and released his hand. "What's
maeting?" he wanted to know.
Brayden bent and placed the cup on the floor then
retrieved the tray he'd apparently laid on the far end of the
cot when Wil was having his little spasm. "Reverie," he
answered, jerking his chin and waiting for Wil to straighten
out his legs before placing the tray over his lap. He noted
Wil's questioning look, shrugged and clarified, "The more
common name for it is dreamleaf."
Wil stiffened, panic flaring again in his chest.
Viscous needwantdemand, it has a form, liquid and murky,
and it chokes him, he can't breathe, but they don't stop,
won't stop, always dragging him through more, and it tears at
his mind, steals pieces of him, and he screams at the
pushpulltugtear until his throat bleeds, but they keep on,
make him keep on, and he can't make them stop-
"I don't want it," he croaked, realizing when the great
smeary blob that was Brayden only kept standing there, being
a very silent great smeary blob, that it had come out rather
harsh and heated. He uncurled the snarl that had
unconsciously pulled at his sore mouth, looked down at the
smudge on his lap that was the tray. He willed the banging of
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his heart to slow, didn't dare take his hand from its grip on
the edge of tray; it was shaking and if he moved it, he'd likely
wind up with whatever was in the bowl all over his lap, and
then Brayden would want to know why.
Brayden was silent for a long moment. Wil could feel those
eyes on him, digging away, and only just held back another
resentful snarl. What right did the man have, after all?
"No need to be brave," Brayden finally ventured slowly.
"You've enough injuries to justify a painkiller, I should think.
You've more bones in your hand broken than not, and that
head can't be feeling good. The healer was quite reproachful
that we hadn't given you something last night."
And why did Wil have the impression that it was said more
to gauge his reaction than it was out of concern? "I don't
want it," he said, more calmly than before, then tried to focus
on the bowl some kind of beefy soup, he guessed by the
smell, but his vision was horribly blurry and all he could see
was something brownish and sloshing slightly as he shook. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]