Hunted: A Claiming Novella (The Claiming) (12 page)

No one was stopping him today. He was
going to get what he wanted. And what was that?

First, and foremost, he wanted Penelope
Farris. She was a beauty; she could make him laugh, which few people could do.
She was talented and had a kind-hearted soul. She would serve well to bear
heirs and offer him some modicum of satisfaction in life. He deserved as much.
Didn’t he?

A flashback came back, struck him still,
his feet rooting to the ground. The mob around him gawked at him, walking
carefully around him trying not to touch him. It didn’t matter if they had
bumped into him. He wouldn’t have noticed. He was gone. Lost in a time long
ago. Locked in the memories.

The memory flooded him, taking him right
back to his family home. He hadn’t been back to that miserable house, save for
mandatory business calls, in seventeen years.

He stood in his family’s parlor with his
father—who was deep into his cups, deeper than usual. Richard Gaines had a
terrible temper when he drank. Everyone hated it when he took to the glass, no
one more so than Patrick. His father wore a permanent sneer on his
hollowed-cheeked, pale face. You could see the blue veins in his temple peeking
out from his whitewashed skin. Quite tall, his father’s thinness displayed his
stark collarbone, bony wrists, and sickly shallow veins.

His seventeenth birthday garnered him no
special gifts. No wrapped presents sat at the foot of his bed come morning. All
he received came from his mother. Or, rather, the cook who she’d had bake it.
It had been a small cake, the kind that could fit in your palm. When he bit
into it, cream gushed into his mouth like sweet custard.

His father had made no mention to him at
the supper table about his birthday. No acknowledgement.

But, he didn’t care. Or so he’d told
himself. He was far above letting his father hurt him anymore.

“Your mother said you want to learn to
run the family business, to run the mine.”

Patrick squared his shoulders to face
his father. He’d expected his father’s doubt. “Yes, sir. My governess says I
have a talent for mathematics, sums especially. I can do them in my head. I’d
like to know more about our silver mine. I think I could help.”

His father laughed ruthlessly. The kind
of laughter saved for something truly humorous. It was callous and cold with
sarcasm. Patrick held in his emotions, as usual. His father’s laughter was the
kind that could only hurt.

“You don’t deserve to work for my
business.”

His
business. Even
with the Gaines family name on it.

Patrick remembered what happened next as
clearly as if it happened that morning.

“Come here,” his father had said.

Patrick’s feet didn’t move.

“I said, come here, lad!” his father
shouted, pale face reddening. His drink sloshed over the rim of his glass. His
father cursed, shaking the liquid from his hand. Patrick shuffled forward, eyes
staring down at the rug his mother had helped to weave.

His father grabbed him by his arm,
pulling him closer Drunken, angry eyes shoved right into Patrick’s face.

“You don’t deserve a
fecking
thing, lad. You deserve only what I give you and what I tell you to have.
Don’t you ever ask me for a thing if you want me to spare your
life!
” He raised his hand for a swing---

“GENERAL! GENERAL!”

The boisterous chant rattled Patrick’s
eardrums making him wince—and shoved him back into reality.

Sweat dripped in beads down his back,
sliding like worms. Patrick grimaced and palmed his cane in a tight grip before
continuing on down the hall. Focused on the present once more, his father
shoved back into the tiny memory compartment he kept him in, Patrick finally
found the secluded men’s dressing room where Ryon was to be waiting before the
ceremony.

It was located at the far eastern corner
of the arena. It looked like Lysse had given him good information after all.
He’d had doubts…you couldn’t trust a con artist, after all. And Lysse was one
of the best. It looks like his threat had worked.

The guards outside the dressing room
merely spotted Patrick’s fine clothes, and let him pass. Probably thinking he
was with the king or here to claim Penelope for himself. Which he was, just
under his own terms.

Patrick grinned slyly as made his way to
the room. He had plans for Ryon and that included using his sword point. At
most, he planned to injure the general before the official proceedings began
upstairs. From there, he had other plans. If he couldn’t beat the general in
fisticuffs, then he had to find a way to win. Hence, his business here.

Outside the door to the general’s room,
all was calm. The guards waited at the end of the hall to keep any from
entering. There was no other entrance or exit in the hall, save for Ryon’s
room.

Patrick pressed his ear to the door.
After a moment, he heard a rustling noise confirming someone in the room.
Tightening his grip on his cane, Patrick turned the handle, stepped inside the
room, and closed the door in one smooth move.

It took only a moment to tell something
was wrong.

The lights were off, encasing the room
in complete darkness. Patrick squinted into the black shadows. He heard a
noise. Ryon must be in here.

“General?” He silently unsheathed his
sword. The leather interior lining had been designed to give him silence as he
withdrew his blade. He’d learned long ago that the element of surprise could
save your life.

Patrick moved along the wall, keeping a
bookcase to his back as he came upon it, barely. In here he could just make out
the crying cheers of the audience waiting for the brawl upstairs.

The smell struck him first. It was
pungent with a hint of rotten eggs. Frowning, his brow furrowed, Patrick
struggled to decipher what that smell was.

A floorboard creaked. Patrick nearly
jumped out of his skin. It was only feet away. Close. He thrust his blade in
the direction of the noise, feeling suddenly…frightened.

That smell…the dark…what was going on
here?

A crackling, animal snarl. Almost too
soft to catch. It came from his left, not in front of him this time. He swung
his blade left in a sweeping arc.

“Who’s there? Show yourself!” If this
was Ryon playing with him, Patrick didn’t know if he could stop himself from
killing him at this point. His heart was pounding, every fearful beat
accompanied by a bead of sweat down his back.

That crackling, like a…

Patrick stiffened as the scent, or,
rather,
scents
, hit him. It wasn’t a just a pungent,
sulpher
odor he smelled. The odor was, in fact, two scents, he realized. With the
scents categorized in his mind, Patrick felt a deadly awareness overcome him.

What he smelled was blood and animal.

“
Kekekekekekekekek
.”

The crackling of a beast.

It sounded further away now. Was it
prowling around the room? A dog, maybe?

A thump came from behind him. Far too
close for comfort. How many of them were there? He quickly thought to plan his
best chance for survival. 

Patrick spun around, blindly, and
stabbed forward, thrusting his blade in a perfect lunge. His blade hit
something meaty and sank deep.

An unnerving, strangled shriek came from
beyond— from the creature who hung in the shadows unseen. Patrick pulled his
blade back and moved to lunge again, hoping to find a killing blow—because
that’s what this had turned into—a fight to the death. With whatever unknown
creature he fought.

He thrust—his sword finding nothing but
air. A moment of panic flared at his error.

And then a great, hulking, hairy limb
came out of the air, striking him in the head with the power of a hammer’s
blow. Patrick crashed into the bookcase, as he hit his leg bent at a wrong
angle.
Crack!

Like celery snapping, his limb bent.
Patrick shouted in pain as his shin snapped clean in half. Books crashed to the
floor, loud explosions disturbing the silence. His vision tunneled, turning
black and fuzzy.

In the crash, his sword had fallen from
his hand. The floor creaked as the beast came closer. Shaking, a nasty mixture
of fear and anger sent Patrick scrambling forward on his stomach to reach his
blade. Just out of reach! He pushed harder, using his elbow to pull him closer
to the blade. Please, Lord, let him reach it in time. He didn’t want to die
here. Not like this!

His fingertips scraped the leather
handle. A smile curled his lips, victory so close he could taste its sweet,
heady essence.

“
Kekekekekekekekekekek
.”

The rancid odor of dead, eaten flesh
breathed a hot cloud over Patrick’s face.

A heavy, hairy paw slammed down on the
leather handle. Patrick made one last-ditch effort to grab his sword, his
wiggling fingers stretching past the point of agony to reach. The beast growled
and kicked the sword away. It tumbled, metal on stone, out of reach and out of
sight.

Patrick backed up, his split leg
impeding him, making him no better than a toddler waddling on his stomach to
crawl around.

The beast stepped over him, and for the
first time, Patrick saw what it was up close.

“God, no,” he breathed.

Then, with a soft growl, the beast’s paw
clawed across Patrick’s face. Raw agony ensued as blood spurted from gashes.
Pain, swelling, blood rushing; then, darkness overtook him.

Chapter 12

“The
strongest male possessing greatest wit and athleticism shall endeavor to claim fertile
females during the Claiming; and thus sow their fruitful seeds in the womb and
bear children for the kingdom.” -From Tarlèan Claiming Law, Article XII,
Section 2.C.

Ryon waited in attendance for the
ceremony to start with King Lyle, the king’s steward, and the king’s royal
guard on top of the podium in the center of the arena. The Claiming Ceremony
was set to begin in mere minutes.

Anticipation burned in his veins with
fiery adrenaline, the kind he felt in the midst of a fight, pumping him up until
he couldn’t remain still. He needed to fight, to explode, to move and expend
the excess energy stored up in his body. Bullet wound or not, Ryon was fighting
for Penelope today. And he planned to win, no matter what.

They chanted his name from the tops of
their lungs. Beer and wine was drank all around in bottomless cups. The
celebration had not even started yet, but smiles and laughter went around
freely.

Finally, the moment came. Lyle stood at
the podium and held up his hands to quiet the crowd. The energy in the building
was contagious. Uncontrollable.

“Shall we begin?” King Lyle began in a
magnificent speech.

“Aye, aye, aye!” came the crowd’s
answer.

Lyle smiled at the audience. “Today, we
mark the first day of the Claiming Season, and we do so with a female worthy of
regard. You might know her as the dancing queen, a graceful and elegant ballet
dancer who has enraptured many us for years with her intricate performances.
Tonight, twenty-eight year old Penelope Farris will be offered for Claiming. Any
males who wish to claim her as husband, as mate, as partner and as equals—step
forward now.”

The crowd roared to such a deafening
degree, Ryon wasn’t sure they heard the king’s final, parting words. “And may
the rightful champion win!”

“Bring out Penelope Farris. All male
challengers, step forward now, or forever keep your silence,” Lyle proclaimed.

Ryon stood on the dusty dirt of the
arena floor, surprisingly unaccompanied. His gut niggled with apprehension, a
tingling sensation that, once stirred, seemed to grow with exponential force.
Where was the duke who had so boldly professed to want to fight for Penelope’s
hand at the Claiming? After much discussion with Lyle, Ryon had come to the
conclusion that it was likely the duke had planned the assignation attempt on
his life. Perhaps, after seeing Ryon very much alive, he’d chickened out of the
battle. After all, that’s why Patrick had wanted to avoid physical combat.
Because Ryon would win.

Seconds ticked by and the trumpeters
tooted the Arrival March of the Claiming Progression where Penelope would
stroll down the aisle. Ryon finally comprehended that sinking feeling in his
gut was earned.

Something was wrong.

Where was Penelope?

The little hairs on the back of his neck
stood on end, prickling.

He wasn’t the first to notice that
something was not right. The crowd grew quiet, more whispers being thrown about
than the previous exhausted jubilations. The procession played but no one came
out.

“Where is the dancer?”