4 | No Sunlight

Cursed Panther | Death Orchid

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Mutated-unalive-no-sunlight-moon-drinker—

Well, that’s something, Eli considers. Different, but something.

Eli cocks his head at the creature, fascinated, before the runes shimmer away. He has no meaning for any of the words or the way they trail off as they often do. His own skills are no longer measurable, and so he is not surprised when nothing presented to him is helpful. Momentarily hopeful, he glances sidelong at Thistle and Klia, hoping the Order is working and he will find some hint about them. No shimmering runes appear over the heads of hair.

Eli remembers the little rune which would appear over Abner’s head, no word in their language, but something meaning his name in the language of the Order, meaning son. Likewise, Eli’s wife had her own. They were for Eli, and Eli alone, to see. He feels his face twist, realizing such a subtle, private thing is likely no longer provided by the magic. Likely, it never will again.

The beast snarls and Eli tenses. Most creatures don’t bother attacking him here or can be easily frightened off. There’s a reason he’s staying in this high monastery so long, after all. This monster is easily the size of a horse and its milk eyes stare straight into his without sign of backing down.

“Go inside, children,” Eli mutters, watching the cat twitch at the low of his voice. “Slowly.”

Thistle straightens, freezing when the cat’s eyes dart to him. His gaze catches Eli’s.

Lowly, Eli says, “Boy, take your sister inside. Now.”

Taking Klia under her arms, the kid does precisely the wrong thing: he darts around the corner of the house.

“Oh, for the love of—”

Drawn by the movement, the cat lunges toward the edge of the house, claws digging into the earth at the edge of the monastery, tossing up soil. No longer accustomed to the feel of a proper blade and less so to the running, Eli swears, grabs the hilt of his sickle in both hands and hurls it with all his strength at the passing beast. He’s thrown daggers plenty, axes enough, and this is similar. With a flash in the dim sunlight, the blade flickers past, digging its curved tip into the cat’s neck and dragging it to the dirt.

Shaking itself to its feet, the creature rounds its flat face toward Eli, snarling. Purple liquid leaks from its neck. Perhaps such a shot should have killed it and something in Eli’s mind insists that in the past, it would have. Not much use arguing with the way of things with a mutated cat stalking him.

At least it’s forgotten about the children.

Scrambling inside, Eli bolts the door and makes for the tunnel out the back, hoping to intercept Thistle and Klia. He isn’t much for running these days between years passed and old injuries settling into his bones, but he’ll do it when he needs to. Sprinting down the back hallway, he chastises himself for throwing the sickle. It was a hasty, foolish move, motivated by panic. He would not have been so weak to his own fears when he was a younger man. He must do better. Either way, it stopped the creature from chasing down the children. Certainly, it would have caught up to them within seconds, so Eli didn’t entirely fail in his mission. He will worry over his aging nerves later.

A thump sounds against the front door, but it holds. Eli isn’t certain if it will maintain its strength should that cat throw its entire body weight against it. Hopefully, he will not have to find out.

Pushing out the heavy wooden slab of a back door he used to secure the opening on the other side of the rocky ledge, he leans out and nearly gets trampled by the idiot boy carrying his sister. Grabbing the kid by the scruff of the neck—he’s not nearly big enough to drag Eli over—he hauls him inside, shoving the door back into its place.

Klia is crying, Thistle breathing hard and staring at Eli as if he’s sprouted wings, plastering himself against the side of the tunnel, as far from the old man as he can get. Eli ignores the drama.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

What has Abner been telling these two?

“Hush up, both of you. It’ll go away.”

Thistle opens his mouth and Eli slaps his hand over it, pressing him back against the wall, affixing him with a hard look. He may be his grandson, but he’s not too young to be told to shut up in a life-or-death situation. The boy’s thin eyes narrow further, two-needle slits of pure hate over the top of Eli’s fingers. One way or another, Eli is going to have words with his son about making his grandchildren despise him only to dump them on his front porch.

Abner can tell his children unkind things about Eli, or he can saddle Eli with their safety out of the blue sky.

He cannot do both.

Out the front door, he hears the creature snuffling. Then, it disappears. Squinting at it, Eli is concerned it will come around to this door and try to push its way in if it smells them right on the other side.

Putting a finger to his lips, he takes a handful of Thistle's shirt and leads him back into the main home, guiding them up to the trapdoor without too much struggle on the kid’s part. Klia, on the other hand, is much more well-behaved. Her eyes are wide and glossy, but her hands are covering her mouth to stay quiet, staring at Eli over her brother’s shoulder. She’s likely half her brother’s age but double in the smarts, it seems.

Double in the will to live over the will to spite Eli, at least.

Grimacing at the creak in the trap door, he shoves the kids up and into the safer second story, heading up after. Momentarily, he considers retrieving his sickle but doesn’t wish to risk it.

Pushing Thistle against the wall and whispering, “Stay,” he heads to the window he looked out earlier. A quick peek confirms the courtyard is empty. It likely went around the back, as he figured. Perhaps, it returned to the trees, into the world it belongs.

What brought such a large beast here?

Glancing back at Thistle, he finds the boy’s hard eyes on him, but he’s more preoccupied with soothing his sister.

Is it them. Thinking it a second time has Eli more certain of his theory, and he frowns.

Below them, something shatters.

Holding his breath, Eli observes the trapdoor as it rattles against the cat’s assault. Thistle about jumps out of his skin, following Eli’s gaze with wild eyes. Klia squeaks—she hasn’t said a word, and so far, Eli is glad for her silence.

Once again, he puts his finger to his lips. Thistle looks frightened enough to listen.

He doesn’t dare lift the trapdoor to see if the creature has broken down one of his doors, but steps closer to it, quiet as possible in his old, soft boots. Cocking his head, he listens with his better ear and attempts to quiet his breathing. Snuffling can be heard, and Eli wrinkles his nose. Damn cat broke down one of his doors, he doesn’t know which. Bitterly, he flicks a glance at Thistle, finding it easier to do when the boy’s expression matches his. It isn’t their fault, he knows, but it’s difficult not to be frustrated.

The trapdoor slams open, nearly striking Eli. The gap in the stone floor is too small for the cat to fit its face through, but it presses up, cracking the stones, black teeth bared, inky eyes wild and trailing on Thistle and Klia. It’s after them. Them specifically. Eli is an afterthought, a distraction when the old man gets in its way.

Eli stores that specific revelation away for later.

“Move!” Edging around the cat’s flailing head, he drags the kids off to one of the other little tunnels spiderwebbing this section of the monastery.

Eli scraps at his memory for any spot small and fortified enough they can hide until the cat loses interest—if it ever will—and doesn’t come up with much. This place is ancient, the stones put together by human hands many decades ago and prone to falling apart if disturbed by a monster.

As if prompted by the thought, Eli hears the floor crack further and doesn’t bother looking back. Dragging Thistle by his tattered sleeve, he gets all three of them down through one of the chill, stone tunnels of uneven stones and out into the daylight. He shoves closed the slab of wood over the opening, for all the good it’ll do.

“Why is it following us like that?” Thistle asks, evidently not too angry to keep his questions to himself.

“I’m assuming you might tell me.”

It doesn’t prompt the answer Eli was searching for, only more stony silence. He wonders if it’s even worth asking; perhaps the kid will never speak to him calmly. Now, he supposes, is not the time to be dwelling. In his chest, he does not believe the cat will give up when it finds the second story of the room empty.

Eli isn’t certain, even if he retrieves his sickle, if he can fight such a thing. A cat is a wild, too-quick beast, particularly with the mutation of the Order. Hand-to-hand combat with such a creature will surely spell the end of him.

There may, perhaps, be something else here he might use to dispose of it.

It’s still quite dangerous, but Eli can think of no better option.

“Follow me,” he says, still attempting to guide Thistle by the elbow. This time, the kid pulls back, digging his feet in, attempting to yank his arm away. So he doesn’t trust Eli—it matters little, but if the kid was half as smart as he seems to believe himself, he would listen to someone who was once a competent warrior. If Abner has been telling him stories, he will certainly have picked up such a little fact.

“You listen to me,” he says, grabbing Thistle by his jaw so he’s forced not to turn his face. “You may not like me, I don’t particularly care. I don’t particularly like you. But unless you’re interested in your guts being strewn across this courtyard after that monster rips your sister out of your arms and crushes her to death, I would suggest doing as I say. Abner might have told you many things, and they may all be true, but if he told you I have no mind for fighting that was the largest lie he ever spoke to your face.”

Thistle's jaw feathers, eyes flickering down.

“And I may be old, but my mind is not gone. Do as I say, or give your sister over to me if you want to get yourself slaughtered.”

Eli releases his face, grabs him by the arm, and yanks him along after.

The boy follows.