Chapter 18: Broken bones

(LOVE INC.)

The Pit is quiet for a change. Only her, who couldn’t leave, because she was tied to a pole structure with chains and rope. With her is the old man. They have moved his throne closer to her. He sat in it quietly, the two guards standing next to him. From time-to-time she drifts off, head lolling to the side. When she wakes, he smokes his pipe with slow deliberate movements, watching her.

“You dream a lot,” he says with a voice sounding like a bad radio connection.

Her tongue feels too large for her mouth. “It’s usually about death,” she says, the words slurred.

He shrugs, blows a cloud of gray pipe smoke out through his nose. “My mother always said that our dreams reveal the deepest desires of our hearts.”

“Sounds about right,” Blaire says, wishing she could wipe her face.

Every part of her feels tacky from sweat or blood. Her clothes stick to skin, making the heat even worse.

“Why does a pretty, young thing like you dream of dying?” he asks.

She snorts at the young, but compared to him, she is. It doesn’t sound condescending at all, though.

“Because there really isn’t anything left to live for. Not anymore. The Bull Tribe stripped me to the core. My soul is broken, like a bone.”

He inhales deeply, his eyes moving away from her to the horizon, searching for something. Or waiting for her to fill the space with words. She knows this tactic, and won’t fall for it. He coughs, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. There is a trickle of blood on his chin when he looks at her again. He wipes at it quickly, before the guards could notice.

“After the baby died, and then Luka and your sister,” he sounds tired, “was there anything left then? I figured that would strip down any wife and mother.”

She keeps her face blank, as he does his. There is a change in the timbre of his voice that gives him away. He feels pain when speaking the words. Tears threaten to come. She fights them by grinding down on teeth. She cannot speak, but they both know the answer already. Slowly, she sags down to the ground, straining her shoulders and the bonds around her wrists.

“You can call me anything you want. Sticks and stones and all that jazz. If you kill me, it will be a gift, a kindness.”

She hates how weak she sounds.

“But that won’t end anything,” he says. “Bytovs will still hate Natharas. We will still be short a son. A son you killed.”

She snorts. “Sure,” she replies. “And when I die, there won’t be any Natharas left to hate. All you’ll have is a filthy conscience for killing off an entire clan. And I’ve killed two of your grandsons now. If you untie me, maybe I can kill a few more before I die.”

The pain in his face touches her heart. She lost a son too. He hardly lived, but the pain is still fierce, as if it happened yesterday. Time doesn’t diminish the emptiness inside her heart or the tightness in her womb when she recalls his face. The Bull King has lost two grandsons at her hands. Two grandsons who lived deep into their thirties. Thirty years of love, care and commitment.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she whispers.

He nods in acceptance. “I can hear that you really mean that.”

“Grief for a child is a terrible burden. No-one should carry such a load.”

“You are the reason I’m carrying this burden.”

She struggles against the bonds, rising to her feet again. Every muscle hurts. Her skin is on fire. Thirst and hunger tears at her like an angry polar bear.

“His name was Gavin,” she says. “Our son.”

“White Hawk,” he says with a nod. “For his maternal grandmother’s people, I assume.”

“He was a delicate little thing. Like a bird. I hoped that he would have enough Snake blood in him to survive, but he didn’t.”

“How old was he when you buried him?”

“Four months.”

“Luka told us nothing about a child.”

“He was ashamed of the boy. He didn’t look Bykov at all. He was no Bull. He wanted a son you would be proud of, not a sickly weakling.”

“We would have loved him all the same.”

She snickers. “Like you loved his Bird father?”

He shakes his head, spits in the dust. “Do not speak about things if you only heard half the story. Luka was my grandson. I loved him the same way as I loved everyone else. Maybe more. He reminded me so much of his mother. She was the daughter of an old friend of mine. He died when she was fourteen, and she had nowhere else to go, so we took her in. I loved her like she was one of my own children. I spoiled her. When Luka came, I spoiled him, too.”

The glob of spit in the sand is red. He doesn’t seem concerned about it. Which tells her it’s nothing new, and he has made peace with it. King Vasiliev is dying. She wonders if the rest of his people know.

“All I know is what he told me. He wanted a child. He begged me for one. We fought about it night and day. He was so happy when I got pregnant. Elated that it was a boy. Once it was born, he changed his mind. Didn’t want anyone to see the child. As if he was ashamed to have created such a… well, such a weakling. Then, when he saw the boy getting weaker, he turned away. Away from the child. Away from me. Away from our home. Maybe if I didn’t wait so long to have children...”

He shrugs. “It is what it is. There is no way to revert the sands of time.”

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“There was an urgency in him, the last years before his death. He wanted to be a father. Pushed it on me. But I wasn’t ready.”

“You always said you didn’t want children. He should have listened. I did. I even warned him that if a Snake and a Bird reproduced, their children will suffer. Sky and Earth species don’t mix well.”

“His mother was from the Sky Society.”

“And only one of her ten children survived to adulthood. When my son remarried a bull wife, they produced numerous sons and daughters. All of them are healthy. So when I warned Luka, he said you didn’t plan on having children. Promised me you were both happy with only the two of you. He was looking forward to a home with only two people. You know what his parent’s place was like. Always filled with people. Children running around. Everyone is talking over everyone else.”

“I was too much for him,” she says. “Red King told me he was too soft, and I burned too bright.”

“We could all see that, too. But we loved Luka. And we spoiled him, allowed him to get away with what he wanted, even if it wasn’t good for you.”

Of course he is right. Luka never heard the word no. It wasn’t in his vocabulary. Nobody denied him anything.

“It would have been different if it wasn’t your own sister,” he says. “And if he chose to not do it while you still grieved. No woman, wife, or mother deserves such a punch in the heart. A triple hit; losing a son, a husband, and a sister within a year. It must have been an immense loss for you.”

It isn’t a question but a statement, so she waits silently, trying not to recall the painful memories of those days, or what happened after she found them together in her marital bed.

“What did you do after you left The Farm?” he asks. “Even your family didn’t know where you went or what you were doing. And they never send you money. The richest family in the world, but you got no emotional or financial support.”

“I have skills. Making money with my craft is easy. I figured if they gave me money, it would lead you right to me. I traveled a lot. Tried never to stay in the same place too long.”

“Drugs?”

“I sold some, sure. Especially in the beginning. You make good money really quick.”

“And it is easier for you. You can produce the product yourself.”

She shrugs. “I can make a lot of things.”

He stares at her, waiting. For what? A confession?

“After that?”

“The Snake Clan’s usual business,” she answers. “Potions. Spells. Charms.”

He watches her face carefully, and she understands that the next question is important to him. “What is the last potion you created?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Her last client had been the Devil himself, and he took her potion, added another element to it, and then returned it to her. It is potent; the perfect killing potion. She already saw it in action on the mercenaries.

“Purple Airplane,” she says.

“What is that?” he asks, wiping his mouth with his bloodstained back hand.

“It is a poison that is released into the air. Once airborne, it travels for at least five kilometers. It is a great success. Proven in the field two days ago. Hundred percent success rate”

He tried not to gasp, or to move a muscle in his expression of calm collectedness. But she has only survived this long because she can read between the lines, hear the unspoken in the silences between words, and feel with more than only her hands.

“Tested on the mercenaries?”

His eyes are not directly on her, but he watches her, nevertheless. The guards observe her. She smiles at them and winks.

“Correct.”

“I think this poison is beyond your ability.”

“I had some help from an old friend of Red King.”

Again, the mask slips, but only barely. “That special friend of his?”

She keeps her mask in place too. Shrug her shoulders. “Maybe.”

He rose from the throne. He slowly walks towards her, making a great show of how weak he is with age. Look at me, he declares with a gait; I am not dangerous. You have nothing to fear of me. I am innocent, like a dove. But he didn’t fool her. She is from the Snake Clan. She can sniff out deceit riding on the waves of the wind. He is playing a game to fool her; she is fooling in the game to play him.

“Pyotr wasn’t supposed to die,” he declares. “The plan was that you to capture him,” she lifts an eyebrow in disdain, “and torture him. We would then follow to rescue him in time and capture you.”

“But he died. You were not there, but you received the reports.”

He stops his slow journey in front of her. He has lost a lot of weight since the last time she saw him. There are dark circles under his eyes. His skin looks dry, flakey in places. The grip he has on the walking stick turns his knuckles white.

“Pyotr was the strongest of all my grandsons, even of all the men here in my compound. He once survived four full days of torture by a Chinese Cartel. There was a healing spell on him. The best money could buy. You didn’t kill him, Blaire. He died. He died because it was important to him. Because he understood that your vengeance was a worthy cause. Or he saw something the rest of the fools in this compound hadn’t grasped yet.”

She smiles broadly, her eyes bright with wonder and delight. Even a little joy. “He saw the Purple Airplane.”

“He saw the Purple Airplane. He died to warn us. My people, filled with bloodlust, isn’t listening. They don’t grasp it yet. But I have lived so long that years run into each other, and I can count my history in centuries. I see where they are blind.”

“And let me guess,” she snickers. “You want me to take satisfaction from his sacrifice?”

“I am asking, yes. More than that. I am pleading with you not to kill everyone I love.”

“Like you did to me? Is that what you mean? Because your tribe broke a Blood Oath we had. I don’t think I owe you forgiveness or mercy. I don’t think I even owe you kindness.”

“They were fools. If I, or Pyotr, were with them, it would never have happened.”

“Why weren’t you?”

“Because in our caucus, we agreed that your blood pays the vengeance. Only yours. But after years, we couldn’t find you, and a group of hot-headed young ones sneaked off to the farm to force them to give up your location. They didn’t believe you would just wander away from home without telling at least a few people of your whereabouts. “

“They knew nothing.”

“Those youngsters were fools looking for an opportunity to make a name for themselves.”

“They killed almost fifty people. Kin to me. Friends too.”

He motions with his hand, and two people step forward from behind her line of sight. Young ones. Well, younger than the king. Nephews of Luka.

She nods to the one she knows. “Grigory.”

He visited the farm often. She likes him. He is quiet. A watcher. Listener. Take his time before he speaks. Careful decision maker. Seldom uses alcohol. Stay off the drugs. Solid as a rock. In hindsight, he would have been a better husband.

“Blaire,” he answers with a bow in her direction. “I am sorry for your loss. What happened was an atrocity.”

She tries not to let emotions show, but his kind words touch her heart. The other man steps forward.

“I am Boris,” he says. “Please also accept my condolences.”

“Are words supposed to wipe out everything?” she asks with a shaking voice. “Because I can tell you it doesn’t.”

Boris is larger than Grigory or Igor. He has a well-groomed beard and long hair, braided in a popular Viking style. The black Metallica t-shirt looks at least two sizes too small, but it’s probably the largest size you can buy. She fights the urge to smile or gawk at him.

“We know,” King Vasiliev says. “We don’t expect it either. Words mean nothing when your heart is overrun by grief. You already know this, or Luka would still be alive.”

“And Catriona too.”

Boris and Grigory unchain her. Grigory lifts her in his arms. He is strong. Or maybe she is weaker than she thought. They move out of The Pit quickly. From time to time he looks down at her, concerned. She relaxes her body in his arms, milking his feelings of guilt. His grip tightens around her. With a sigh, and an inner curse, she lays her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes.

The sound of crying reaches her ears. Lots of crying. Frowning, she opens her eyes to look into his face. Above, in the open blue sky, a single vulture circles. The death bird. A shiver runs up her spine. Her muscles tighten involuntarily.

“Why is the sky filled with carrion birds?” she asks.

“They went against the family council,” he explains. “What would Red King do if this happened in the Narthara clan?”

“He would punish them accordingly.”

The crying is louder now. She turns her head to see people standing around, holding hands, or embracing. They step aside, allowing their king passage. Cries change to sobs. At last, King Vasiliev stops, and Boris steps forward, placing a chair down for her. Grigory carefully lowers her to the chair.

“An eye for an eye; a death for a death,” King Vasiliev says loudly.