Rise of Keitus (32 page)

“This one has a lot of energy!” Isan said, panting as he tried to keep up.

Jacob didn’t know his own future. Was he about to die? Was this the end for him? It couldn’t be—he had to tell everyone how the Lorkon changed!

Again, he put a table between himself and Isan and tried returning to the present, concentrating as hard as he could. If only this were just a nightmare and he could wake up, back at home, in his own bed!

Ramantus laughed. “You look like you’re trying to wish yourself away. Why? You saw what it did to my son—that’s the worst of what would happen to you.”

Jacob jumped away when Isan lunged across the table. He dashed around a corner pillar, a logical thought finally entering his mind. He
couldn’t
return right then, not with everyone watching.

He had to leave! But how, when the king was about to stab him with a needle full of blood?

His mouth popped open as something truly wonderful occurred to him. He knocked over another stack of boxes, attempting to stop Isan, and considered the implications and possible outcomes of the decision he was about to make.

It was impossible for him to do anything in the past that would drastically alter the future. Based on that rule, Ramantus
wouldn’t
be able to put the blood into him, since it would turn him into a Lorkon. And
that
would drastically alter the future.

Jacob screeched to a halt, took a deep breath, and turned to face Ramantus. He put up his hands, trying to control their shaking. “Okay. I’ll do what you want me to do.”

Ramantus raised his eyebrows, standing near the door to the room. “Sudden change of heart?” The colors around him briefly showed his confusion, but then they turned to green for excitement. “I appreciate it. Get over here.”

Jacob hesitated just a moment longer—being wrong would be a very bad thing. Then he walked to the king and held his arm out, pulling up his sleeve.

“Isan, hold him just in case.”

Isan grabbed Jacob’s upper arms, pinning them in place, and shoved Jacob against the wall, pushing his back and head into the stone. Jacob tried to ignore the pain—he’d definitely have bruises.

Without hesitation and obviously without problem, the king stabbed the needle into Jacob’s arm. Jacob cried out in surprise. That shouldn’t have happened! The king should’ve been stopped!

Ramantus pushed down the plunger, shooting the potion into Jacob’s bloodstream.

Jacob screamed in agony as the poison entered his body. He felt it burning through his veins, coursing up his arm. Nausea hit him and he nearly threw up, remembering the time when Keitus first touched him. This was just as bad and just as surprising.

Shouldn’t his magical system be making his heart hurt, warning him that he was about to be forced back home? The pain he felt was different—it was from the potion, not his abilities. But wouldn’t turning into a Lorkon seriously alter his future?

Or . . . and this thought blazed its way into Jacob’s mind. What if he were stuck in the past? What if his magic had been broken by entering a room built to prevent Shiengol entrance? What if his heart wouldn’t ever hurt again and he’d never be able to go home?

Jacob couldn’t hold a rational thought in his mind. He couldn’t tell whether he was going crazy because of the potion or because he was truly and completely panicked.

His family . . . Jacob felt wetness on his face, but didn’t care. He wouldn’t see any of them again. He wouldn’t ever know if Aloren and Matt got out of the hospital.

Jacob was only partially aware of Ramantus’s face inches from his own. He no longer cared that Isan still held him tightly against the wall. He was in a different realm—one of misery and homesickness.

Just then, Het the Lorkon started thrashing and kicking, jerking Jacob from his thoughts. Het roared from his table and Ramantus whipped around, completely shocked. He only hesitated a moment before rushing to his son’s side.

“Het? Het! Can you hear me? How do you feel?”

Jacob held his breath as Isan also ran to Het’s side. Was escape now a possibility? The poison still burned in his body, the transformation about to take place.

The Lorkon roared again, throwing the straps from his arms and legs and sitting up.

Jacob took the opportunity to rush from the room.

The king noticed. “Isan!” he shrieked. “Stop that boy! He’s about to turn, and I need . . .”

Jacob didn’t hear any more. He raced down the hall, into another section of the castle, nearly knocking Bekett over.

“Thojac, get back here!” Bekett called after him. “You have crimes . . .”

Jacob didn’t stop. He rushed through the first door he saw, shut it, and turned, pulling out the Key. His hands shook violently from the nausea that pulsed through his body, and he barely got the Key in the lock. The first place that entered his mind was his room in the castle, and he took himself there.

Sarot was reading from a piece of paper. “Hey, I’ve been looking for you. Bekett’s still very upset—” He stopped, suddenly noticing Jacob’s condition. “What’s going on? You look awful. Did something happen?”

Jacob shook his head and collapsed on his bed where he’d be more comfortable for the transformation. Hopefully he’d still be in control of his thoughts and actions. How much longer did he have? Only a few minutes passed while Het’s body was in between stages.

“You look really sick.”

Sarot approached Jacob’s bed, but Jacob waved him away. He didn’t want the guy anywhere near.

Sarot held up his hands. “All right, I’ll let you be.”

Then the door swung open, and one of their roommates entered the room. Great—it was Mindac. The jerk. Jacob’s heaving stomach fell—this was not good.

Mindac strode up to Jacob’s bed.

“I figured out why you were so happy yesterday,” he said. He grabbed Jacob by the neck, lifting him and slamming him against the wall. Jacob’s already sick and exhausted body nearly gave into convulsions. He fought to remain in control.

“You want Hayla? You can’t have her!”

Jacob struggled, trying to get away, but was unable. He could barely breathe—Mindac was going to strangle him.

Just then, Sarot hit the taller footman with a pillow—like that would do anything. “Leave him alone! What has he done to you?”

Mindac released his hold on Jacob, letting him fall to the bed, and shoved the younger footman. Sarot growled and pounced on the guy, but he was no match. With another push, Sarot went flying backwards, banging against the bed next to Jacob’s. Then Mindac kicked him in the side. He grabbed Sarot, lifting him by the shirt, and threw him against the wall. Sarot fell and didn’t move.

Jacob stumbled toward Mindac and tried to attack, but the guy spun and hit Jacob, knocking him to the floor near Sarot.

“Scum! Those girls are not yours!”

Jacob almost retorted that the girls didn’t belong to Mindac, but held his tongue, deciding not to aggravate the guy more.

Apparently satisfied, Mindac left. Jacob realized he had to leave the castle before someone else found him—Het, Isan, or a servant. He checked Sarot—the boy would be okay—then Keyed himself to his old shelter.

Jacob grabbed one of the blankets and curled up in it, waiting for the Lorkon transformation to be complete. Everything had happened so fast since Ramantus poisoned him, but several minutes at least had passed.

Something was happening—the potion moved and flowed through his blood. Maybe, because of everything he’d been through in his life, it would take more time for him than it had for Het to change.

He was about to attempt returning home again, but stopped himself. He couldn’t subject his family to the horrors of seeing him as a Lorkon.

Jacob shivered in the blanket, wishing he’d grabbed more. Tremors crossed him, and even though he was freezing, his body started sweating. Pains in his chest and back manifested themselves like pinpricks that made it feel like his skin was falling asleep while his heart couldn’t pump enough blood. Was this the process?

A bout of dizziness and headaches came next, increasing his misery. He held up his arm, watching for bruising to appear. But nothing like what had happened to Het occurred. Why wasn’t he changing? Had Ramantus mixed the wrong amount of blood?

Unable to understand why it was taking so long, Jacob forced himself to focus on the problem from a different angle. Could he even turn into a Lorkon? Was that possible? Last time Keitus had tried, it hadn’t worked, but only because Keitus probably hadn’t fully understood how the poison would interact with the blood of a Shiengol.

Then what Jacob just thought really hit him and he leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes in relief. He
couldn’t
become a Lorkon. Keitus had already tried it, and Jacob’s system was immune to the potion.

He opened his eyes. But why was he still feeling so sick—and getting worse?

He gasped as he figured it out. The blood Keitus used was
poison
. Like last time, when the Makalos had to put Kaede Sap into his blood, his body was having other reactions. And just because he couldn’t become a Lorkon didn’t mean bad things wouldn’t happen. Like death. Or turning into a person like those in Maivoryl City.

He had to get to a hospital! A doctor would be able to stop this from happening—or would slow it down.

Jacob tried to get to his feet, doing his best to ignore the spinning of his head, but he fell again. Deciding he would have to try from the floor, a position he’d never used before, he concentrated as much as he could on returning home, going through the familiar steps. His surroundings disappeared and were replaced with . . . nothing. Jacob gasped as the pain in his body doubled—sharp, cutting stabs reaching out from his heart, tearing at his flesh.

He realized what he’d done—gotten himself stuck somewhere in the middle. What had gone wrong? Hadn’t he mastered this process? His heart beat wildly out of control, trying to keep up with the demands on his physical body. Dizziness made it impossible to keep his eyes open—and even they hurt like crazy.

Jacob only had moments of life left—he sensed that in how his body was acting. His mind became sluggish, heart beat slowing, painfully pounding out an erratic rhythm. He tried to think through everything Azuriah had taught him about Traveling and how to get through this current dilemma. Last time Jacob had been stuck in the middle, Azuriah had grabbed his head and pulled him to the present. But Azuriah wasn’t around to save him.

Just as Jacob’s mind was about to shut down, he forced his thoughts to focus long enough to get him back to Troosinal. The shelter appeared around him again, and relieved, he relaxed on the floor. But his body stiffened as the stabbing pains became a strong weight pressing outward from his heart, like thousands of cars stacked on top of him.

He wasn’t stuck in the middle anymore, but death was still just moments away. Could he even survive another attempt? By trying, he was forcing the poison to move faster through his veins, causing every inch of him to burn and pound with the pressure of his blood.

Jacob got to his knees, ignoring the screams of agony his body sent through him. He clenched his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. Each section of him wanted to give in—to let the pain consume him until he was no more. But he couldn’t give up. He had to try again.

Jacob fisted his hands and contracted each muscle, adding their remaining strength to his concentration. Squeezing gave him a brief respite from the pain, and finally, he was able to think clearly enough to go through the Traveling process again.

His bedroom appeared around him. At that second, the pain in his heart dissipated, but he fell from his knees to the floor by his bed, convulsing. His body felt wrong—he’d done damage by getting stuck in the middle.

Centering his mind on survival, Jacob stretched out a hand, grabbed his carpet, and dragged himself toward the door. He only moved an inch. Minutes passed as he repeated this action, ignoring his elbow as it locked up, sending sharp pains radiating to his shoulder and wrist. Finally, he reached the door.

He tried several times but couldn’t get high enough to grab the knob, so he knocked on the wood as hard as he could. It barely produced a sound.

Jacob opened his mouth and gasped out, “Mom. Help.” That required too much effort. He resorted to knocking over and over again, praying she’d hear. He stopped when someone ran up the stairs.

Mom flung the door open, hitting Jacob with it. He could only groan in pain, rolling onto his side so she could get in.

“Oh, Jacob! What happened!”

“Hospital . . .”

Mom nodded. “I can’t carry you—if I help you up, can you walk?”

“Maybe . . .”

She bent, and after a lot of grunting and trying different methods, they got him to his feet. He took two steps, then the dizziness overwhelmed him and he collapsed, blackness closing in on him. When he opened his eyes, he was staring at the ceiling of the living room. How did he get downstairs? Mom was on her cell, pacing the room.

He gave in to the darkness again.

Jacob was vaguely aware of being pushed and rolled and knocked into things. Deep voices surrounded him. He felt Mom’s hand on his forehead, heard sirens. Next thing he recognized was the interior of the local hospital. People rushing beside him. Mom saying good-bye.

Jacob woke up in a bed. Mom jumped to her feet, touching his forehead, a worried expression on her face.

“Honey, you’ve only got a moment before the pain returns—the doctor had to wake you up.” She motioned to a man standing by the door. “He needs to know what happened so they can treat it.”

The doctor looked at him over his glasses. “Son, have you been doing drugs?”

Jacob cleared his throat, not surprised at the question. “No.”

“We found the entry point where a cocktail of ingredients was injected into your body.”

“Blood—a man stabbed me with a syringe full of blood.”

Mom’s hand fluttered to her mouth. “How did that happen?”

Jacob gasped as the pain started returning in waves. “Men attacked—hit me . . . held me down—stabbed me with needle.”

“That would explain the bruises and internal bleeding,” the doctor said. He stepped closer and fiddled with something on an IV, which Jacob hadn’t noticed. “You’ve only got a few seconds before the medication kicks in again and you fall asleep. When you wake up, you and your mother will want to report the incident to the police.” He removed his glasses and turned to Mom.