Hidden (Book 1) (23 page)

Tressa took a quick look around
the pub. She didn't recognize any of the regulars from The Rooster’s Wattle.
She let out a little air and relaxed.

Staying
back at the compound with the others wasn't an option. The women, with their
painted faces and perfumed bodies, poured into their chambers, their laughter
bringing the promise of a night of debauchery. Hutton's Bridge didn't allow
prostitution. Keeping the family together was one of the more important rules
in their town. When inbreeding became a concern, sex had to be regulated.
Control was vital to their survival. Here, there were too many people. No one
had to worry about the survival of
their
town.
Pleasure and leisure were in abundance.

Sweet
smoke filled the air. Ira hadn't allowed smoking in his pub. He was too worried
it would burn down. Tressa had learned that the fear of fire was a monetary
concern. The owners here were either very brave or very wealthy. One glance at
the decor told her wealth was the answer.

Golden
filigree tipped the statues on shelves near the ceiling. The room glistened and
glittered. The men sitting at the tables gambled at cards. Stacks of coins
spilled in front of them. The thrill of the game mattered more than the money they
took home at the end of the night. It was a far cry from the dirt and dust in Ira’s
pub.

Henry
pushed ahead of Tressa, knocking her to the side with his elbow.

She
wanted to say something, but she'd promised Jarrett she'd keep her mouth shut.
Instead, she shot him a dirty glance.

"Come
on, boys, let's grab a table." Jarrett flourished his black cape.

The
room went quiet.

The
servers scurried over to them before Tressa’s butt touched the bench.

“How can we help you?” A young blond
smiled at Tressa. Her white teeth spoke of wealth. Even the serving girls
probably had more money than Tressa did.

“We’ll take a side of meat, a loaf of
bread, a bowl of grapes, and a flagon of your finest wine.”

The serving girl’s eyes sparkled as
the
boys
poured water into their cups. “We just got in
a shipment from the
The
Dragon’s Tongue Port, sir.
The wine is perfectly aged and smells of vanilla and raspberry.
Very rare.
Imported directly from The Sands.”

Jarrett reached into the bag hanging
at his hip and pulled out a handful of gold coins. “I hope this will cover the
cost.” He held out his hand to the girl. Her eyes grew to the size of saucers.
Even Tressa had to hold back her surprise. It was a sizable amount of money.
More than Tressa had ever seen in one place.

“Yes,” the girl bowed and back away,
“yes, that will do, milord.” She spun and ran off to the kitchen, probably to
brag about the tip she was about to receive tonight from the men in the Black
Guard.

“Impressive,” Tressa said.

Jarrett shrugged. “It’s a small amount
to me. I have plenty more where that came from.”

Henry paid little attention to them.
He was far more interested in the fireplace. He’d wandered over and stood
warming his hands.

“Who are you?” Tressa asked. Every
moment with Jarrett brought more mystery and less understanding.

“Who are you?” Jarrett leaned his
chin on his fist, his elbow propped up on the table. “We both have our secrets,
but we have a common goal. Isn’t that all that matters?”

“You’re exactly like your father.”
She laughed, remembering a similar conversation with Leo.

“I’d love it if you could tell me
more about him.” Jarrett leaned in closer.

A crash
on the other side of the pub wrenched their attention elsewhere. Tressa glanced
over her shoulder, expecting to see a fight. They were common at The Rooster’s
Wattle.
Nothing worth worrying over.

Except
when Henry was involved. The boy's arms were above his head, the man behind him
held Henry in a headlock.

Jarrett
jumped to his feet, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Let him go."

"Just
because
yer
in The Black Guard, it doesn't mean you
can steal from me."

Henry
stood still, not even fighting back. Tressa had a hard time believing the boy
had stolen
anything,
yet hanging in a limp hand was a
golden trinket. She thought she'd seen it above the fireplace when they walked
in. Yes, it was the golden cat statue.

The
pouch filled with gold still dangled from Jarrett's hip. Why would Henry steal
when Jarrett had enough money for all of them?

"Are
you the owner of this establishment?" Jarrett asked the man who held Henry
in a headlock. The man nodded, but didn't relax his hold on Henry. "This
was just a misunderstanding. I'm sure Henry was just looking at it. Weren't you
Henry?"

"It's
mine." Henry stated.

Jarrett
sighed.

Tressa
stared at Henry in earnest. He'd barely spoken until then, and now he was
saying the wrong thing.

"Give
it back to the man, Henry. Now," Jarrett said. "It's not yours."

"It's
gold. It's mine." Henry tightened his grip on the trinket.

The
owner didn't appreciate Henry's attitude and kicked him in the back of the
knee. He let go and Henry fell to the floor in a tired heap. "Give it back,
you
pissant
. It's not yours." He reared, ready
to deliver an even stronger kick when Jarrett wedged himself between them.

"I'm
sorry." He wrested the trinket out of Henry's hand and handed it back to
the owner. Then he reached into his pouch and plucked out a few more gold
coins. "Take these for your trouble. We'll leave and we won't be
back."

The
owner's eyes narrowed. "The two of you are welcome." He pointed at
Jarrett and Tressa. "But not him. I don't care if he is part of the guard.
There's something wrong with the boy and I don't want him scaring off my
customers. How did someone like that make the Black Guard anyway?"

"They
protected him, they did."

Tressa
turned around. It was a man at another table, taking a break from playing
cards. Everyone in the place had stopped to watch the fiasco.

"He
was the boy who didn't fight a lick. Couldn't even lift his sword. Anyone who
went to watch saw it. A lot of good men died.
Men who could
have stood proudly in the place of him.
But, no, he made it in
anyway."

Jarrett
hooked his hands under Henry's arms, pulling him to his feet. "Let's
go," he said to Tressa. She took one last drink from the mug. The bitter wine
rushed down the back of her throat.

Henry
struggled only half-heartedly against Jarrett's tight grip. "I want it.
It's mine. Give it back." He twitched,
then
shook
violently in Jarrett's grasp. Spittle formed at the side of his mouth.

"Get
him out of here. He's diseased or something. I won't have him ruining my
pub," the owner shouted behind them.

Jarrett
dragged Henry out into the street. He tugged him around the corner into a dark
alley. Tressa followed behind. Peeking over her shoulder, she was relieved to
see no one else was watching them.

"What's
wrong with him?" she asked Jarrett.

Henry
fell to the ground, his arms and legs spasm violently. Jarrett knelt next to
him. "You're about to learn our secret. Keep guard and make sure no one
comes back here." He grabbed Henry's collar and pulled him farther back
into the dark alley.

The
sound of
wretching
was accompanied by a stench worse
than week-old raw chicken. Tressa kept watch at the end of the alley, but no
one walked by. She abandoned her post and ran into the darkness. Whatever was
going on back there needed to be
seen.
She no longer
cared if anyone stumbled upon them. If there was any chance Jarrett was in
danger, she felt compelled to check on him.

Her
feet crunched on the occasional pebbles underfoot. The dirty alleyway was
littered with rubbish from the pub on one side and the inn on the other. She
glanced up. No windows to cast candlelight on them also meant no one could spy
on them.

"I
told you to watch the entrance to the alley." Jarrett said, his voice
stern.

Tressa
held her arm over her nose. The smell was nauseating and only grew worse with
each step she took. "I was worried you're in danger."

"I'm
not," Jarrett retorted. "Damn it, if you're not going to be the
guard, then I have to protect us. I don't have time for this."

Muffled
sounds echoed in the darkness. Tressa could only see whispers of shadows until
a small burst of wind rushed past her toward the alley's entrance. A light
glowed at the end of the alley, forming a shimmering barrier between them and
the street.

She
stumbled backward and tripped, falling to the ground. Her fingers felt
something cold and scaly. "What is that?"

"Henry,"
Jarrett said. "Or do you mean the barrier I put up over there? That
protects anyone from seeing what's happening here."

Tressa
didn't know where to start. Henry's reptilian skin or the magic Jarrett had
just cast.

"Yes,
it's magic. Yes, I did it. Yes, Henry is changing."

Tressa
gasped. "Can you read my mind too?"

Jarrett
laughed. "No. It's pretty obvious what you were thinking."

A small
light came to life, illuminating their corner of the alley. A bauble floated in
the air, not far from Jarrett's shoulder. Tressa glanced down at Henry. His
blond hair had all but disappeared, replaced by a head all too reminiscent of the
dragon that crashed into Hutton’s Bridge.

"Dragon."
Tressa wasn't even sure she said it out loud until Jarrett responded.

"Yes."

"But
Henry is human," she said, stumbling over her words. She reached out to
touch him, then thought better of it and jerked back her hand. "Isn't
he?"

"In
a way," Jarrett said. "Now you know about us."

Tressa
let loose a nervous laugh. "Know about you? All this has done is raised
more questions. I don't know anything. I know less than I did when we sat in
the pub. No, I don't know anything about you." Her nervous rambling didn't
help calm her. Henry continued to convulse and change. From the neck down, his
body was contorting, changing into something else, something she wasn't even
fully sure she believed in until that moment.

The
dragon that broke through the fog died within moments. She only saw the claws
that pulled Connor's body through the doorway. Both seemed distant, somehow
disconnected.

But
this.
Henry. He was more alive than any of the others. He'd been
warm on the way to the pub when she'd put her hand on his back to guide him
around a corner. His blue eyes had sparkled. He was fully human, a fact she
never doubted.

Yet now
he was something else. The metamorphosis took only a few more moments. His
shoes tore, talons poking through the leather. Then he rested. It was done.

The people of Hutton's Bridge
gathered in the center of town. Packs hefted on their backs, weapons in their
hands.

Huddled
in small groups, they whispered. Nervous conversation permeated the entire town
square. Bastian strode through the crowd, Farah’s hand in his. He nodded to Lukas.
"Now."

The
boy's aunt patted him on the head,
then
pushed his
back. Lukas smiled and came running to Bastian.

"Take
care of my little girl." He knelt down and handed his daughter's hand
over. "Maybe someday the two of you can be joined."

Farah’s
eyes lit up. "I'd have to choose his ribbon, Papa."

The
little boy looked less excited. Bastian laughed. "Where we're going, there
isn't any need for ribbon picking, Farah." Then leaned over and whispered
in Lukas’ ear, "Don't worry. I only said that to make her interested in
sticking with you. There are no promises being made today."

Lukas
let out a long sigh. "I will protect her, sir." He looked down at the
little girl's doe eyes. She fluttered her lashes at him.

Carrac
stood
at the edge of the fog, a torch in his hand.

"That
won't help. The fog will only extinguish it," Bastian said.

“It is
not for you. But this is.”
Carrac
extended an open
hand into the fog. Instead of disappearing, his hand glowed.

Bastian
took in a breath. “What is that?”

“Tallow.
I supervised the dressing of the dragon and had some fat on my hand. I must not
have washed so well and when I went to bed that night I noticed my hand was
glowing. I snuck out under the cover of darkness and cut the rest of the fat
off. Then I made the tallow. If you rub it on yourself, it will glow. Even in
the fog.”

“Can we
use it?”

“Of
course!”
Carrac
laughed. “It is yours to take. I had
hoped it would aid you, but I didn’t want to mention it until I was sure. It
took time to create and test the candles. I’ve handed them out to the torchbearers.
When you’re ready to light them, just say the word. I’ve already instructed
them on what to do.”

“Thank
you!” He squeezed
Carrac’s
shoulder. "You are
staying behind with Udor? Making sure he doesn't mess things up for the town
when we collapse the mist?"

Carrac
nodded. "I have been considering this as well." He looked down at his
aged, frail body. "What can I do out there? If the beasts you spoke of are
true, I am no match for them. All I could do is stand in front and be a victim,
maybe stop them from hurting another. Slow down their progress."

"I'm
not asking for blind sacrifice." Bastian looked at the old man's rheumy
blue eyes. After Sophia died, he was the oldest person in the village. His
opinion mattered. His experience and his kindness were invaluable. "Stay
here. No one will interpret it as weakness. In fact, I'd consider it a personal
favor. If Tressa makes it back to the village, I don't want her alone with Udor."

Carrac
laughed,
his bony shoulders shaking. "I think Tressa can handle herself with Udor,
but I appreciate the sentiment." He looked over Bastian's ragtag army to
the village beyond. "Yes, this is my home. I'm too old for a new journey.
I will stay." His eyes met Bastian's again. "I hope to see you
again."

"I
hope for the same,
Carrac
." Hutton's Bridge held
nothing for him now. A new life awaited him and his daughter beyond the forest.
He’d be back for her as soon as he destroyed the barrier, never to return.

Bastian
turned to the townspeople.

"Today
we leave Hutton's Bridge. When I left not more than a few months ago, I never
expected to survive, much less come back. When this is all done, you have a
choice. Leave and find a new life in parts unexplored, or come home and help
revive Hutton's Bridge."

Bastian
looked toward the village hall. "Those of you who have volunteered to stay
here with the sick and the children will follow Udor’s command.” He hated
giving Udor that power, but someone had to lead them. He was the obvious
choice.

"For
those of you who’ve chosen to fight, if you choose to return, life will not be
the same. Many of the protections put in place will no longer apply. The yearly
group forced into the fog.
The ribbon choosing.
The lack of weapons and training to use them.
Hutton’s
Bridge will be born anew."

No one
responded. Not a cheer of excitement,
nor
murmurs of
dissension. The silence frightened him most. If there was no fervor, not one
way or the other, Bastian couldn't be sure he'd succeed. He needed commitment
from them. Not resignation.

"Then
let's march!" Bastian waved his sword in the air. He spun toward the fog
and marched off. The sound of reluctant shuffles followed behind him. Bastian's
heart thudded in his chest. He knew what hid on the other side of the fog.

Anger
grew inside him. How could they be so dispassionate? They knew he was the only
one who ever returned. Fear, trepidation, anything would be better than their
lack of caring. But this was pathetic. His hands formed fists, but he held them
firmly at his side. Taking his anger out on them wouldn't help. If they didn't
believe it for themselves, he couldn't force them to.

The fog
reached out, caressing Bastian like an old lover tempting him back into a
destructive relationship. Tendrils swirled around his ankles, leaving russet
droplets on his brown boots. A
reminder of what was and an invitation of what
was
to
come.

He
could delay no longer. Bastian took a deep breath and stepped into the fog.

Within
moments, his vision left him. The familiar darkness overcame his senses.
"Don't be alarmed," he called behind him as gasps from his fellow
townspeople drifted to him on the light breeze.

The
silence of the dead forest combined with the blindness. A familiar
disorientation settled over Bastian. Even though it was his third time through,
he still felt his stomach turn. Maybe because he knew what was out there,
hiding, waiting to devour
him.

Long moments
passed, enveloped in the damp curtain of fog. Bastian put one foot in front of
another, traveling in a straight line toward the end of the fog. Maybe they’d
make it through without running into the beast. If killing
Vinya
was its last act, maybe she’d bought freedom for all of Hutton’s Bridge.

"Bastian."

So it
wasn’t dead. It sounded like Tressa, but it was only a poor imitation.

Bastian's
lip curled. Did the beast really think the same trick would work on him twice?
Maybe that was the only trick it had. At least he was prepared this time.

"Bastian."
It came from his left.

"Bastian."
From his right.

"Bastian."
A screechy chorus of death surrounded him, followed by a cacophony of names.

"Draw
your arms!" He yelled to his men. "Don't listen. It'll try to trick
you. Make you think you're hearing a loved one. You're not.”

A fury
of howls ripped through the mist.

Them.
More than one beast.
From the sound of it, they were
surrounded.