Awakenings (32 page)

Dorn leaned against the mantel of his bedroom’s faux fireplace and pulled an ornate silver locket from his pocket. It opened on a hinge and he studied the tiny portrait within—Lara, his mother’s youngest sister. A few strands of her platinum-white hair encircled her image. He sniffed the strands, pining for any remnant of her scent. Lara had been more of a mother to Dorn than the woman who pushed him from her thighs could ever be. How long had it been since he had last seen her—her soft, scented skin, alabaster hair, and sympathetic amethyst eyes? The depiction, perfect as a photograph, followed him with its gaze. What was she doing at this moment? Was she free? Would Uncle keep his word? Dorn could not suspend his longing for her. It was there, below the surface, every moment of the day no matter what he did, as though he were under a spell. Even the port failed to dull its ache.

A renowned artist from Fhlee, whose race in adulthood grew to be no larger than a young child and were sought throughout the realm for their diminutive work, had painted the likeness with tiny hands. Dorn had set a few of their villages ablaze to bring them into line with his uncle’s reign. Though the artist was a slave by conquest, so fine was the portrait of his aunt, that in a rare act of veneration, Dorn actually paid the painter with gold instead of a flogging. The portrait was his anchor to home.

A knock at the door reverberated through Dorn’s headache.

“What?” he roared.

The gentleman entered—tall, lean, combed and manicured, in gray pinstripes, white gloves, and a black long-tail jacket.

“Oulfsan?” Dorn asked, pocketing the locket.

“No, master. Krebe.”

Dorn noticed the slight hunch in the man, the nervous twiddling of fingers. Krebe’s speech was heavy on the tongue.

“I’ll never get used to you two switching about,” Dorn said. “Well…?”

“On their way up, they are, sire. Wounded it seems.”

“I should hope so,” Dorn said, as though this was the least they should be. “When does Oulfsan return?”

“It don’t work like that, me lordship. ’Tis random.”

Dorn considered the man, ill-suited for his body, and waited for something to change.

“Leave me,” Dorn said.

2

The elevator, with some effort, carried the great weight of Hesz the giant and his two cohorts toward the upper levels of the hotel. Pools of blood from various wounds collected on the floor of the lift. Hesz supported Symian on his good arm. They had retrieved him from the sewer they’d stowed him in following the flare attack in the South Bronx tenement. The hope being that the dank, cool, darkness of the tunnels, similar to troll caves, would aid in his healing.

Hesz and Kraten ended up hiding down there with Symian for the better part of the day, much to Kraten’s verbal dismay. A police officer had cornered Hesz for questioning as he attempted to buy bandages and alcohol at a drugstore in the early morning. MacDonnell had initiated an APB for Hesz and his companions, and unfortunately, the giant could not help but be indiscreet. Hesz dispatched the police officer with a quick snap to the neck, and they remained underground with the troll until well after the sun had set.

Symian was still in bad shape—blind, his normally gray skin was blackened and crunched into flakes beneath his raincoat wherever Hesz applied pressure to support him. Symian was only half conscious for the pain.

They had done no better without the troll in the North Bronx when they had attempted to kidnap MacDonnell’s woman and child. Indeed, the woman herself had managed to wound Hesz before the sorceress appeared again with her magicks. Symian was one of a few besides Dorn in their group who knew how to wield magic—a fact that was lost on Kraten but was always in the forefront of Hesz’s mind. Magic was power. It was the keystone of humankind’s hold over their kingdoms and dominance over the nonhuman races.

The police swarmed the city looking for them. Because he was so unique looking in this world, they had to remain in the sewers and attempt to find their way back to the hotel underground. A city the size of New York had thousands of miles of tunnels beneath it. Hesz was angry, and in the true spirit of his forefathers, he wanted to smash things and break people. Dorn could have sent someone with an auto to pick them up, injured as they were, but his policy regarding failure was absolute. No mercy for failure. They were left to fend for themselves, not even a gurney for the injured lad. A stupid policy for such a fragile race as the purebloods. It would one day be their undoing. For now, Hesz drew on the three-fourths of his human blood to contain his temper.

“Stay your breath,” Kraten ordered.

“What?” Hesz responded, pulled out of his thoughts.

“This lift is as cold as a grave,” Kraten said, rubbing his arms for heat.

Hesz realized his anger caused him to breathe harder. Frost formed on the elevator walls. He held his breath to appease his cohort.

Hesz replayed the recent battles in his mind.

They had been outgunned and outclassed at MacDonnell’s home. Who knew MacDonnell’s wench had a firearm and the fortitude to use it? And then the sorceress appeared. But it never should have come to that anyway. It was Kraten who had forced the confrontation in the South Bronx tenement before they were ready. Symian was young and easily persuaded into action by the desert warrior. The swordsman was long on guts and glory but short on brains, a common trait among the desert folk of Verakhoon. Although a good warrior, Kraten was too brash and arrogant to be depended on, but he was Dorn’s favorite: a childhood playmate, and more importantly, a pureblood. They should have waited. How lucky they were to remain alive depended on Lord Dorn’s mood, which had become capricious with their extended stay in this world.

The group had been plagued by a series of blunders by Dorn’s own hand. Jumping into the transfer on a whim left them unprepared to function in this world. They lost weeks locating enough magical energy to cast the proper language spells, produce currency, learn about social hierarchies, and get the general lay of the society. Then, Dorn divided the mission into two fronts: one to search for the objective and one to destroy the opposition’s defenders—in hindsight a costly error. It had become apparent early on that none of the prince regent’s guardians was a threat. They were ignorant of their origins. Bad fortune had fallen among that group. Dorn failed to press this advantage.

The first few detectives Dorn had procured to find the boy came up empty because the trail was long cold. These men simply withered away in despair, unable to come to terms with their “heartless” existence. They finally stumbled across some good luck when Hesz spotted the newspaper article about the disgraced detective Colby Dretch. Perhaps the other sleuths had been too honest with much to live for. Instead, they required a cunning, deceitful man, desperate to redeem himself when confronted by his own mortality.
Hesz
brought Dretch to Lord Dorn’s attention, and finally they were on the boy’s trail.

Now, it was a game of catch-up. Had Dorn marshaled all their resources into finding the boy at the start of this escapade, and not put effort into eliminating the guardians, they might have cut the little bugger’s throat before the centaur sorceress rallied even one ally. The ultimate irony, it occurred to Hesz, was that the best strategy might have been just to leave things alone; in stirring the wasps’ nest, they’d set in motion the possible unearthing of the prince. This boy could have remained hidden forever: grown up, married, died an old man and, through union with commoners, bred his offspring out of any claim. He could even have been killed in a plane crash or drafted into a war. Anything was possible in this anarchic world. The odds had been in their favor. Now, it was a race.

The doors parted. Bellus, a skilyte, greeted Hesz, Kraten, and Symian with an oily smile. Two large humans stood guard at the entrance to the suite.

“The vanquished warriors return to the fold,” Bellus sneered. “You’ve been gone for the better part of a day while there is much work to be done. What do you have to say?”

Bellus relished the failure of others because it was the easiest way to increase his own standing. He was short, hunched, and looked too small for his black suit. His skin glistened as though he’d just stepped out of a vat of olive oil. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy. He rarely made a decision or acted on information although he outranked Hesz and Symian by virtue of his pure blood only. Kraten could pummel the toady on their behalf, but at the moment the swordsman struggled to remain standing.

“Thanks for coming to retrieve us with the auto,” Hesz said.

“Master’s orders,” Bellus said.

“We need healing.”

“What you
need
depends on his lordship’s mood. You’ve been gone a long time.”

“We had to retrieve Symian.” No one needed to know that they had gotten lost in the sewers. Hopefully, Kraten would have the good sense to keep his mouth shut.

Bellus looked suspicious of the explanation. His paranoia served him well. A whiff of the sewer’s stink persuaded Bellus to back off from the trio. “Wait in the common room.”

The suite took up half the floor and had four bedrooms attached to a common living area, including a kitchenette. By Manhattan standards, the fourteen-foot ceiling and Louis XIV décor with its gold-leaf molding were luxurious for a hotel room, but by Dorn’s standards, this was roughing it.
There would be time for luxury after the boy is found,
Dorn drummed into them.

Kraten collapsed on the couch. Hesz laid the semiconscious Symian on the love seat.

The elegant gentleman approached.

“Krebe?” Hesz queried.

“Aye,” the gentleman affirmed.

The
trick
unsettled Hesz. With these two, one rarely knew who one was dealing with. But Hesz was getting better at it. He had to—he couldn’t rest easily when Krebe was about. Something about
that one
unsettled him.

“His lordship…?” Hesz asked.

“In a mood. Been in his room since we returned from upstate. The headaches are growing worse.”

An uncomfortable pause descended. They all knew better than to acknowledge Dorn’s headaches when the man went to great lengths to hide it from them. The migraines were getting worse, but no one would broach the subject.

“Might want to come back later,” Krebe suggested.

“Failed is failed,” Bellus crowed. “Later won’t change their incompetence.”

“Symian will die without attention,” the giant said. “Get him.”

“His lordship is aware of your wounds,” Bellus stated.

Hesz growled. He strode forward to rap on the bedroom door himself when it suddenly opened. Dorn walked forth, forcing Hesz to backtrack. His lordship studied the trio. He meandered toward Symian and pulled apart the troll’s coverings. Symian’s skin was the texture and color of strudel left in the oven too long. The gray man was now a being of caramelized soot. As the troll shifted, pieces of him flaked onto the cream-colored love seat. His bandaged eyes were stained blue with blood.

Dorn observed Kraten’s wrapped, bloody arm and then Hesz’s bandaged torso. Disgust filled the master’s eyes.

“My liege—” Hesz started.

“Shut up.”

Bellus sniggered.

Dorn walked around them slowly.

Symian tried to stand and teetered forward. Kraten and Hesz caught him before he spilled.

“Let him go,” Dorn ordered. Hesz threw Kraten a quick glance. The desert warrior released his grip, as did Hesz a heartbeat later. The gray man fell with a soft crunch as skin broke into crumbs on the carpet. Symian whined in pain.

“That the captain might have prevailed against you,” Dorn began, “despite his handicap of being unaware of his true identity, was at least within the realm of possibility. After all, he is from the nobility. But a little girl and a common woman…?”

“The centaur and the other took us unaware,” Hesz said.

“Students. Not even adepts. And speaking of the other, you botched that one, too. Blew up a building, but failed to make sure he was in it.”

“This world is complicated,” Hesz said. “We thought…”

“Yes, it is complicated. That’s why you are paid to act, not to think.” Dorn stopped. He closed his eyes for a moment and pretended to brush his hair back, although it was obvious he rubbed his head to assuage another migraine. Dorn gave up the pretense and squeezed the point between his eyes. Everyone in the room felt the pain in Dorn’s head by osmosis.

Dorn’s eyes snapped open. The others looked away from his piercing gaze.

“I saved you half-breeds from the purge because of what you can contribute to Farrenheil’s cause,” Dorn continued. “Such a privilege is earned through success. You’re fortunate my uncle is not here. We’re operating on limited resources. This, and only this, affords you a chance to redeem yourselves, courtesy of this muddled and distant orb we find ourselves on.”

The trio remained quiet.

“My liege,” an agitated Bellus said, “surely at least one must be punished, as an example. They failed to carry out your orders. Your uncle frowns upon insubordination.”

Hesz could have ripped off the little rodent’s head. Mercy from Dorn was worth more than a pachyderm’s weight in platinum. The little shit would report any failure of discipline to the archduke later, putting Dorn in an awkward position.

“I suppose you’re right, Bellus,” Dorn said.

Dorn pulled Kraten’s sword from its sheath. He hefted its weight in his hand. Kraten was not alarmed. Everyone, including him, knew he wouldn’t be the example. Hesz studied the desert warrior’s face to see if he suspected whom Dorn would “exemplify,” but Kraten betrayed nothing. Bellus rubbed his hands in anticipation. Hesz could tell the toady wanted him gone, there was no love lost between them.

Dorn faced Hesz and raised the sword straight up, balancing like a high diver before a plunge. Hesz had made his peace long before this day. It would go easier for his family if he didn’t resist. He closed his eyes. Hesz felt the wind off the sword as it whipped by. It must have been a smooth clean cut because, except for a light knick at his throat, he didn’t feel a thing. He opened his eyes and saw Dorn’s back facing him.