The Wilds (Reign and Ruin 1) (18 page)

I chanced one
more look behind my back at Lucan. He stared right back at me, his
eyes searing and angry. I could tell he hated being bullied. He
probably wasn't used to it. But he didn't flinch when more drops of
gummed licorice hit his cheek as Timothy joyfully and ignorantly
laughed in his face.

Lucan nodded
subtly and I tried to smile.
Daughter of Palet. Next in line to
the throne
. Drawing a deep breath, I took a step into the murky
black and bit back a startled squeak as the tarp cover snapped down
behind me like a thunder clap.
And scared of the fucking
dark.

I was suddenly
pitched into total and complete disorientation. I could hear my
inner voice willing me to stay quiet, to breathe lightly and not
move, and fumbled at my neck for the dreamcatcher, which at this
point was the bane of my life yet the only comfort left to me on my
own.

A moment later,
I caught the distinct sound of boots coming across to me in the
dark. The footsteps thumped hard in the sand and stopped only a few
feet away from where I stood. From which direction they had come, I
had no idea; I had become so turned around. A match snapped itself
into life, a spark of fire that lit up a man's face with a long
nose lighting a brown cigarette. The man breathed in deeply and let
the smoke curl out of his mouth like a twisting snake.

"What are you
doing in here in the dark?" The man suddenly smiled. "Come into the
light."

Chapter
16

The small, handheld radio beeped and fizzled in
the corner of Marty's dark house. The channel it was tuned to was
nothing in particular; certainly not one that played the latest
chintzy folk or trumpet jazz, as was all the rage at that moment.
No music came through at all. It was only white noise and static
coming in over the air waves.

In another dark
corner of the small, nondescript cottage on the edge of Sinthinian,
a small town near the capital city of Grekegoria, Marty was mending
the hole in his large bomber jacket. It would be winter in the
Middle Canvas soon, although the temperature in New York would be a
scorching stupid degrees Fahrenheit for the next year or so, at
least according to his time sphere.

Not that I
need to worry about that anymore
, Marty thought grimly.

But every piece
of clothing he had seemed to have had been decimated by moths or
cigarette burns. And if it wasn't enough this stupid cottage had
cracks in the plaster that welcomed in every passing draught . .
.

"Ow!" Marty's
flinched and instinctively stuck a finger in his mouth. He frowned
at the tinny taste of blood and gave the needle his most
disappointed look. It winked at him in the candlelight.

"What, the
Caretaker is even darning his own socks? Painter, I don't get paid
enough," he muttered under his breath.

"We keep
telling you that you won't need that jacket once the troops move
in. Your life as a civilian will be over and you can jump back into
the fire." A young, blond-haired young man entered the small room,
head almost brushing the slanted ceiling, and put down a cup of hot
coffee. Marty grinned sheepishly and wrapped his hands around the
clay handle.

"Nah, it gives
my fingers something to do. If I didn't keep busy my mind would go
crazy."

"Does it still
hurt?" the young man said softly. Marty only shrugged and pulled
the cup closer to his face.

"Niles, if it
weren't for you I probably wouldn't have gotten through it."

"What are your
comrades here for if not to help fight demons, personal or
otherwise?" Niles took a dainty taste of his own drink and watched
Marty breathe in the steam with an amused look in his eye. "And of
course, you would have been no use to us at all clawing off your
own skin. Draws too much attention."

Of
course,
thought Marty.
Wouldn't want their cover blown by
just one sloppy man in the throes of withdrawal.
He closed his
eyes and let the wet heat plaster the lids together. The static was
still poking around the edge of his hearing, punctuated only by
Niles's sips of the thick, spicy coffee.

"Well, if you
need a distraction why don't you tell me a story?" He heard Niles
say. Marty opened one eye and regarded him curiously.

It was all an
ugly blur, muddled blues and screams leaving behind a lingering
phantom pain in his gut. Or maybe it was just the remains of so
much stomach acid sloshing around in there for so long. But coming
down from heroin . . . was no walk in the park. Fuck, it wasn't
even a drag by your thumbs through the park over a scattering of
broken glass and hot asphalt. It was enough to send him over the
edge – end it all to stop the fever dipping his body into the
burning agony of a deep fat fryer.

And then the
Riders sent Niles: blond, blue-eyed, incredibly smart and tucked
into the coat pocket of General Hoyt, the head of the rebellion and
the leader of the Riders. And despite his political advantages, for
the past four days he had enjoyed mopping up Marty's vomit, wiping
the sweat off his brow and holding his arms behind his back as he
threatened to blow his brains out with the pistol he kept hidden
under his mattress.

Painter forbid
the undercover agent commit suicide before he got clean enough to
be of any real use.

"You're asking
me for a story?" Marty repeated incredulously. Niles nodded and
looked back towards the radio.

"Yeah,
something true. Something – hey! I know." He put down his mug and
leaned forward on his elbows. His bangs flopped over charmingly and
he fluttered those long eyelashes. "Tell me about the Daughter of
Palet."

Painter, this
guy . . . no wonder the General finds him so useful.

"Niles, don't
use your wiles on me. I'm a grown man who has seen more than his
fair share of stoplight seduction. If you want to know about a
woman, just ask about her tits like any normal male."

Niles threw
back his head and howled. The sound made Marty's head hurt but he
couldn't help the smile that tugged the corners of his mouth. It
felt good to make someone laugh again. He chuckled and shrugged,
sticking the thick needle back in the tough leather of his
jacket.

"Martin, you
have about as much charm as the wrong end of a mule. But I like you
very much."

"Thank you,
Niles."

"And my boss
likes you, too."

"Or else he
wouldn't have sacrificed you for the sake of my increasing track
marks," Marty added as he pulled through a long piece of thread.
Niles's eyes followed the up and up, up and down of the movement;
long, steady pulls and hands that only shook a little if one looked
close enough.

"So then tell
me straight. As a normal guy." Niles scooted his chair in closer to
Niles. "Tits aside, tell me about Maggie."

Marty sighed at
the lump in his throat. Emotions were obviously running heavy in
his vulnerable state. But just the thought of his little stead
raised a swelling of shame and possessiveness in his chest. He shot
Niles a tense smile and sat back, rubbing a hand over his buzz cut
out of habit.

"She's a good
girl. Stable, and can take care of herself. More strength in her
little finger than I have in my entire body."

"Well, she's
blood of the Painter," Niles said expectantly, but stopped at the
slow shake of Marty's head. "What, you're telling me she's a normal
girl?"

"She's
exceptional, Niles. But she's not magic. Want an example? She was
strapped down to a table in one of Cirrus's worst nightmares. About
to be gutted and stuffed like a life-size kewpie doll." Marty held
up his needle and passed it back and forth through the wavering
candle flame. "And somehow, some way, she escaped. She broke that
dream apart. Literally."

Marty drew the
needle out and they both watched the metal cool from a glowing
orange back to dull silver.

"But it's
smarts, not power. And she would see straight through your
bullshit," Marty added as he punched the needle back through his
jacket and tied off the knot. He bit the thread apart with a sharp
snap.

"I consider
myself warned," Niles murmured and Marty nodded.

At that moment
the white fuzz of the radio in the next room screeched and
squealed. Niles was on his feet in a moment, disappearing quickly
out the door. Marty stood up painfully and, with a grimace, walked
as steadily as he could after him.

The small,
aerial radio was going absolutely crazy. Niles swept a stack of
books and papers off the window seat and drew up so close to the
sound he could swallow it. He didn't even notice Marty enter, roll
his eyes at the scattered mess on the floor, and ease himself down
again on the other end of the bench.

The darkness
around them was split only by the small crack in the curtains of
the back window. The glow shone through and lit up Niles's eyes:
intent and silver in the moonlight.

The radio
continued to squeal for a few more seconds before calming down to
an even quiet. And then silence. But neither Niles nor Marty moved.
Or spoke. Or even dared breathe.

Because softly,
like the faraway voices of a ghost behind the grave, an
announcement began. It started off on the weather and the most
recent sightings of the Daughter of Palet on her Reign Walk. Marty
shifted uncomfortably. Most radio stations were reporting on her,
every hour on the hour. It was worse than the fucking World
Cup.

And then
casually, almost imperceptibly, the announcer began to mention the
things they actually wanted to hear, mixed in with the news so
smoothly anyone who happened to be flipping the channels would
never have noticed. Niles stared at the brown whirls and swirls in
the wood of the table, concentrating so hard it seemed his temples
would burst out like overinflated balloons.

Three days left
until the Reign Walk comes to an exhilarating close!

She is with the
brother and they are nearing the edge.

Rumors have it
Cirrus is already picking out the ring!

Families,
friends and red kite are all readying themselves to meet their new
Queen.

Keep all eyes
peeled! Your help might be needed if they pass close by.

And from all of
us here, we wish the Daughter of Palet luck, speed and iron blue
strength!

The radio fizzled one
last time and let out an ear-splitting screech. Marty reached
forward quickly and switched it off before the sound woke the
neighbors. The quiet pounded in their ears.

"So." Niles sat
up and stared at the radio, as if he expected it to start talking
again.

"Yes, so,"
Marty replied. Niles's deep eyes flickered over to him.

"Do you know
what this means?" Niles whispered.

Marty did not.
Of course he didn't! What insane person would deduce anything
useful from that shitting news bulletin. It said
nothing
.

"It means,
Marty," Niles continued after Marty's silence went on for too long,
"that Maggie is close to entering the Middle Canvas. She's on the
edge of the horizon with Lucan."

"Off the edge?
They were that literal
?!" Marty blew a breath out that
tasted of bile. The Riders really needed to get a better
cryptologist on their payroll.

"Yes, well they
could have been a bit more discreet about it. But they are calling
for urgent action. News like this can't wait for the slow minds to
catch up."

Marty looked
through his fingers at Niles resentfully.

"So who's
catching her?" he asked. Niles gestured towards the radio, as if it
was written there.

"Red Kite,
obviously. They will be the closest to where she eventually falls."
Niles rose swiftly and grabbed his jacket from where he had thrown
it on the table the day he arrived. It was the gray, ironed
official garb of high-ranking Riders and clinked with the weight of
buttons along the arm. Pulling it on smartly, he looked down at
Marty still sitting tiredly at the table. Marty knew what he was
thinking.

He looks
pathetic, but whole. Job done. He's alive.

"You have a
choice, Martin. Time is almost up. You can go back in, report for
duty and disappear back into the dark. We could use inside
information now more than ever."

It all seemed
so ridiculous and cloak and dagger, listening to the gray shadow of
Niles talk about duty as he checked the ammunition in his pistol
and peeked through the curtains at the desolate, cobbled
street.

"Or what? Sit
here and wait for the shakes to go away?" Marty asked. The distinct
click of Niles's safety catch made Marty jump.

"Exactly. Keep
your head low, be ready for the takeover. When we need you, we'll
come. And we need you able to fight. Do you hear me, Martin?"
Niles's stern face swooped out of the shadows, suddenly not so
boyish and charming but intense and calculating. "Sword of iron
blue, yes?"

Marty looked
back at him as steadily as the twitch in his eye would allow.

"Yes. Sword of
iron blue." Niles gripped his shoulder, giving him a squeeze more
condescending than Marty was comfortable with, and then slipped
quietly out the door and through the small front hall. Marty waited
until he heard the front door close quietly, the metal door knocker
clicking despite the light touch, before releasing his breath and
stretching his neck backwards to the ceiling in relief.

He couldn't
have even thought it to himself before, not with that poster-boy
for the revolution bringing him water and rubbing his back – Niles
seemed to know everything, before he even spoke it aloud – but he
hated that guy. Just couldn't trust him.

And Marty was
the first one to admit his judgment was a bit . . . iffy. But he
asked himself, as he moved into the next room to blow out the
candle and curl up in his crumpled bed, if Maggie would trust
him.