Number of the Beast (Paladin Cycle, Book One) (5 page)

Female. Hear
me!

Amy glanced back,
searching for the source of the strange and deep voice, but she saw
nothing unusual. Years had passed since the last time she heard a
voice in her head, and this one didn’t sound familiar, nor
friendly.

With the bottom of her tank top she
wiped flecks of blood from arm that had been spawned by bothersome
briar bushes.

She had no time for
psychosis right now, and chose to ignore the unbridled voice.
“Alamo! Come back here you stupid mutt!”

The dang no-see-um buzzing
her ear was the only response to her plea.

If she wasn’t a good
Christian woman, she’d love to spout some choice words. Instead she
bit her lower lip and flung herself through more briars and
bramble. “Alamo!”

Heed these callings. The
Beast’s hour comes near.

Stumbling, Amy took a hard
dive to the ground. She scanned her surroundings. Nothing but
overgrowth and the stretching darkness that gloomed the
woods.

Forsake the mongrel.
Return now to your abode.

Amy slapped hands over her ears,
trying to drown the voice echoing in her mind.

The voice seethed in
coarse, throaty animalistic tones.

Was this it? Was this the
moment that she’d go off the deep end, never to return from the
brink of sanity? Move over Aunt Carol.

Hear me,
female.

“
Female is my gender,” she
hissed, submitting to her derangement. “Not my name.”

I come to thwart the end
of all worlds.

“
The only thing you’re
thwarting is my grip on reality.” Amy shook her head.

Vicki, Shane’s dead
sister, was the last voice she’d heard, having landed her in the
looney bin. Whatever...whoever this voice was, she wanted no part
of it. Her past had taught her that strange voices only led to an
asylum and she very much liked living in Buckeye...with Shane...not
under lock and key...and definitely not doped up on
Seroquel.

“
You’re not real.” Her
legs trembled as she hugged her knees into her chest. Rocking on
the ground, she repeated, “You’re not real.”

For several moments an eerie quietness
held the forest still. She reluctantly got to her feet, wishing
more than anything to be back in the trailer safe and
sound.

A firm, bony hand gripped her
shoulder. Screaming, she swung wildly at whatever had her in its
clutches. Her long hair flung about her head, strands sticking to
her sweaty face. Squeezing her eyes shut, she kicked and shook, but
two hands restrained her flailing arms.

“
What
you doing out here all alone,
cher
?”

She calmed at the sound of
Abe’s familiar and calm voice. Opening her eyes, stilling herself,
she turned around and flung her arms around him. Shaky arms snaked
around his neck. Salty tears dampened his black T-shirt and
fatigues.

His waist-length silver hair, usually
tied into a ponytail, now hung loose over his shoulders. Some joked
that Abe looked like Jesus. Only if Jesus wore military fatigues
and had a tattoo of a serpent curled around his neck and chest, the
beady serpentine eyes visible between the V of his
shirt.

With one calloused thumb,
he wiped a tear from her cheek. “What’s got you so
spooked?”

Amy hiccupped and pointed.
“A light. A voice. And Alamo is lost.” The tone of her own frantic
voice unnerved her.

Another eruption echoed off the
darkened trees. The light continued spiraling toward the
sky.

Abe’s
brows lowered as he peered in the direction of the strange light
and sound. “Go home,
cher.
Now.”

“
I think it came from
Sera’s Pond.”

“
Don’t
be so
coo-yôn
!
Goin’ near dat there pond or house ain’t no good thing. You be
smart,
cher
and
stay away. Let me see to the matter.” Shadows framed his hard stoic
face.

“
What are you doing out
here?”

“
Poaching. Now go
home.”

Normally she found Abe’s
protective nature comforting, but for some reason the harshness in
his tone annoyed her. “Yeah, right. You’re out here ‘cause you know
something. What is it? Spill.”

“
Excuse
Abe’s manners.” He threw up his hands. “But I got colon polyps
older than you,
mon
amie
, which means I ain’t got to tell you
nothin’.”

Amy scowled, but knew it was futile to
try reasoning with the coonass. His past as a U.S. Marine combined
with his Wichita and Cajun heritage made him one ornery old geezer.
He was a survivalist who lived off the land. The blood in his veins
made him more obstinate than a two-headed rattlesnake, each head
vying for the same prey.

Abe retrieved an item from
his pocket and offered Amy a small glass vial. “You be a sweet girl
now and go home. You don't go worrying your pretty self over no
sounds and lights in these here woods.”

Amy smiled as she took the
vial. He’d been giving her the serum since forever. She never asked
what it was made of. Didn’t want to know, because if she found out
it contained snake urine and frog guts she wouldn’t be able to
stomach it. And she didn’t want to give it up. The effects of the
mysterious concoction calmed her like Earl Grey on
steroids.

Though she hadn’t found
Alamo, Amy didn’t like ignoring Abe’s warnings to return home. She
turned to leave but hesitated. “Abe?”

“
Cher
?”

“
Be careful.”

He gave her a nod and disappeared into
the dark woods.

Amy hurried toward the trailer with
the vial clutched protectively in her fist. She pushed the rude,
somewhat scary voice from her mind, concentrating only on getting
home.

As she broke from the
vine-entangled shrubbery, she spotted the acacia. A comforting
warmth washed over her. Freya still remained at her post,
patrolling the edge of the woods.

Amy scooped her up. “I
sure hope you aren’t seeing any wicked things in those cursed
woods.”

Hissing toward the forest, Freya
pushed higher into her arms, wrapping herself around Amy’s
neck.

Standing at the far end of
the front yard was Alamo. He’d come home. Thank goodness. The dog
ran toward her. Something furry was in his mouth. As he neared, she
noticed the rat’s defiled grave. The head was gone.

Fighting the urge to beat the dog
senseless, she knelt on her knees and held out her hand, palm
up.

With a wagging tail, Alamo crunched
the head and swallowed.

“
No!”

Fear not
the vermin
, boomed the harsh male voice in
her head.
Beware the
Beast
.

# # #

After promising to cover his shift,
Shane convinced Kevin to sleep off his drunkenness. As Birch and
Shane cleaned the last of the spilled whiskey off the floor, Gary,
the rig supervisor entered the rec room.

Running a paper towel over
his head, Shane said, “Kevin’s not feeling well. I’ll take his
shift.”

Gary nodded his bald head. Tall and
built like a semi, Gary was an intimidating man to most. But Shane
found his blunt and crass attitude refreshing.

“
Why do you reek of
whiskey, Baker?” Gary leaned closer. “You been drinking,
son?”

Shane shrugged.
“Mouthwash.” He used the paper towel to pat his shirt. “Guess I
missed.”

“
Mouthwash my ass,” Gary
said.

“
Do a fucking piss
test.”

Gary rubbed his ten
o’clock shadow. He waved a scolding finger. “You think the safety
meetings are a joke? I’m reporting this. You two don’t return to
work until I know whether you’re still on the crew.”

“
You’re firing us?” Birch
asked.

“
Depends on what the big
wigs say, but I’d suggest having your crap packed.” He shook his
head. “Shit. We’re already running short-handed thanks to five of
you assholes failing the last drug test.”

With a grimace, Shane
said, “I didn’t fail that drug test and I won’t fail it
now.”

Gary shrugged. “Out of my
hands.” He left the room.

Birch slammed a palm on
the coffee table. “Thanks a lot, asshole.”

Shane frowned. “Kevin has
enough to deal with.”

“
And ‘cause of you so do
we,” Birch said. “I don’t know about you but I got an electric bill
that’s three months overdue, a car that needs a new transmission
and my AC just crapped the bed. I can’t afford this, man. I need
this job.”

In two large strides,
Shane closed the short distance between him and Birch. “Look,
dickhead, it ain’t my goddamn problem that your brat wife is
bankrupting you, but I ain’t gonna turn on Kevin.”

“
Fucking hypocrite,” Birch
said. “You were about to thrash him and now you’re sacrificing
yours and my job out of some distorted moral dilemma.”

“
We’ll pass the piss test
in the morning. Everything will be okay.”

Without looking back,
Birch opened the door and paused in the threshold. “They find out
about Kevin, we’ll be fired for covering for him.”

“
They won’t find out. He’s
going to sleep it off and be good to go by morning.”

“
Right.” Birch opened the
door.

“
Wait a damn moment.” He
grabbed Birch by the shoulder. “I'll take full blame for getting us
into this shitpie.” It wouldn't be the first or the last time he
had dragged his friends into his fuckups. But this was different
than them getting hog tied and left naked on the side of a Colorado
road. They could, and had laughed about that one. “I fucked up
again. I'm sorry.”

With a shrug, Birch pulled
away. “You always are.”

When Rourn failed to show
at the evening feast, Atticus assumed he was still training. From
his sleeping quarters, Atticus traded his spear for his short sword
and went to find Rourn.

His boots scuffed the
ebony steps spiraling up the Tower of Tribulation’s twenty stories.
He had made the stair run twice a day for as long as he could
walk.

This was the third time
today.

Cresting the top, he
adjusted the dark green bandana keeping his long red hair from his
eyes. Across the battlement, he spotted Rourn, head down, hands
clasped in prayer. A similar green bandana circled Rourn’s head.
His black hair hung to his waist.

“
Forgive me, God,” Rourn
whispered.

Rourn had the most beloved
soul of the Order. Why would he need to ask for repentance? Had he
disappointed one of the Elders?

Rourn palmed the parapet, glancing
across the vast desert.

An acrid scent hung in the air.
Twilight brushed over the compound and darkened sands flowed
endlessly around the settlement. A buzzard circled overhead while
an ornery jackass fussed below in the barnyard.

“
You missed the last
feast, brother,” Atticus said.

Sighing, Rourn folded his
arms over the stone wall. “I am not hungry.”

“
Are you ill?”

Silence.

Atticus clapped Rourn on
the back. “Elder Cai made a trip to Red Rock Bluff and saw Old Lady
Ebben again. When he got back he was drunk as a crow in the agave
garden. I say we sneak into his room and steal us a bottle. Are you
with me?”

“
That rancid stuff is akin
to iguana bile left in the desert sun. Awful
concoction.”

Atticus rested his rump on
the parapet. He leaned back on his hands. “When the Sacred
Inauguration is over I intend to fetch a bottle, with or without
you.”

A familiar look of
disapproval crossed Rourn’s face. “You best not tempt the brandy.
As a Paladin knight you must always remain alert. This is
especially true for you.”

“
Relax, my brother. A
little brandy does little harm. Besides, after all our effort we
deserve to live like rogues for a night.”

“
We are Paladins. Not
reckless scoundrels.”

Atticus, attempting to
lead the discussion elsewhere, said, “Rosemary finished seaming
that peach dress she’s been working on.” He waggled his brows. “It
fits quite nicely, if I may say so.”

Rourn huffed. “You must
take your training more seriously. You failed greatly today at your
letinyasa technique.”

“
That technique is more of
a folk dance then a tactical maneuver. I don’t see its practicality
in the throes of battle.”

Rourn spun to face him, a strange
ornamental dagger in his hand. Fragmented sunlight glinted off its
blade. He glared at Atticus then lifted the dagger over his head
and stared skyward.

Atticus grimaced. “Bat
heads, brother. You are mad.”