Shattering the Ley (10 page)

Everything was changing. The city—with the new tower and the smaller spires spread throughout its districts. Her family—her father drawn into himself, focusing on his clocks; her mother always at work, as if she were avoiding coming home. Her friends—Cory’s anger, Justin’s sudden pervasive fear of a man that Kara had never seen. And herself. In another few weeks, perhaps a few months, she would be part of the mysterious enclave of the Wielders.

She sighed, shoulders hunched. Then she stood, grabbed the leather strap of her schoolbooks, and headed toward her room to work. Maybe tomorrow it would feel different; maybe tomorrow it would feel normal again. Maybe Justin would be back and this entire horrible day would feel like a dream.

But the next day, Justin never appeared at school. No one had seen him since the day before. Even after Kara confessed and her father called in the Dogs, he couldn’t be found. She thought she’d be punished for leaving Eld, for losing Justin. Instead, her father merely looked . . . disappointed.

Kara found that worse.

Later that evening, another one of the spires burst into life, its entire length pulsing with white light at the edge of the Rill District.

Justin woke to darkness, his breath catching in his throat again as he opened his eyes and saw . . . nothing. Panic set in with a rush of blood in his ears, loud because in this room he could hear nothing except his own breathing, his own heartbeat. He gasped, listened to the noise in reassurance, and then pushed himself up off the gritty stone floor into a seated position, back against the stone wall where he’d crouched and slept since the man had put him here. He drew his knees up to his chest, hugged them tight, and fought the tears that threatened to spill out even though he’d vowed not to let them after the first day—if it had been a day; he couldn’t tell in such total darkness—of solid crying.

Sitting in the utter silence, blind, he thought about the moment the man had grabbed him on the platform in Shadow. He’d searched frantically for the man on the barge, certain he’d followed them, but Justin hadn’t seen him at all, had convinced himself that the man must have missed the barge in Eld and they’d lost him. Still, he’d checked out the platform when they disembarked and hadn’t seen anything.

Until the man had reached out and caught him, drawing him in close to his chest and muttering softly in Justin’s ear, “Do anything and your two friends die.”

Justin had choked on his scream, his terror caught in his chest, fluttering with his heart as the man lifted him and hauled him to one of the benches. They’d sat, the man’s arm wrapped around Justin’s shoulders, utterly still, as Kara and Cory charged back onto the platform and searched. When Justin had whimpered, tears coursing down his face, the terror now a hard knot in his throat that
hurt
, the man’s arm had tightened painfully and he’d slid a knife from his sleeve. Mouth close to Justin’s ear, so close he could feel the man’s breath puffing against his neck, the man had whispered, “Do you want them to die?”

Justin had shaken his head, drawing in a slow breath as he tried to calm himself. His body had thrummed, but he’d forced himself to remain silent, to remain perfectly still as Kara and Cory vanished back up the tunnel, Kara’s eyes frantic, then returned and boarded the barge back to Eld.

He hadn’t understood why his friends hadn’t seen him, but he knew it had something to do with the man because no one had seen them as the man hauled him upright and walked him to the next barge, the knife still visible. They’d left the barge in Grass—a place Justin had never been, only seen from the rooftops and streets in Eld—and entered a strange orange-red tower, descending into the lower levels, into granite passageways, into darkness and this room.

It had been pitch-black when the man thrust him forward and he’d stumbled to the floor, scuffing his hands on the rough stone. He’d heard a door close but had remained still, waiting. When he’d been certain he was alone, he’d crawled around the room, felt for the walls, the ceiling, found the rough outline of the wooden door, the pile of fresh-smelling straw in one corner, the chamber pot. Nothing else.

Not certain what to do, he’d retreated to the corner and curled in upon himself on the floor. Eventually, he’d slept.

The first time he woke to darkness, he’d cried out, then silenced himself, afraid they’d hurt Kara and Cory. But that fear hadn’t stopped the choked sobs, the racking tears that suffused his face with heat as he tried to suppress them. He’d cried himself to sleep again.

Now, he pushed the terror down, stifled the fear, although he could feel it ready to bubble up again from his chest. His gasps lessened and the bloodrush in his ears faded. Eyes wide to capture light that wasn’t there, he listened . . . and heard nothing. No sound at all, except himself.

But there was something else.

He concentrated . . . strained . . . and suddenly realized it wasn’t a sound.

It was a smell.

He breathed in deeply, closed his eyes and focused on the scent: something clean, like the soap his mother used to wash their clothes at the river, with a hint of sweat, a prickle of . . . of oil. Not lantern oil, something sharper, harsher. The combination was familiar. He remembered smelling it before, recently. . . .

Justin jerked with recognition, eyes flaring wide, back stiffening even as he cowered back against the wall so hard the rough stone ground into his spine. “You’re here,” he said, the words loud to his ears, like a slap to the face.

Nothing at first, then a low chuckle. “I knew you were ready.”

Justin recognized the voice as that of the man who’d taken him, who’d threatened his friends. The man who smelled like soap and oil. Justin’s nostrils flared and his eyes widened further, but he still couldn’t see him, even though the voice didn’t sound far away. He couldn’t hear him either, not even his breathing. But he could see him in his mind—the rough-looking, angular face, the hard glint in gray-green eyes, the tension in his stance even when he appeared to be leaning against a wall, relaxed, as he watched from across the street or a darkened alcove. He’d dressed like everyone else in Eld, but he hadn’t acted like them. He’d been too still, too focused.

Justin had felt that stillness when the man had grabbed him on the platform, like a smothering blanket.

“Ready . . . ready for what?” Justin rasped. His mouth was dry.

“Ready to become a Hound.”

Justin frowned in incomprehension, grew still. He hadn’t even realized he was trembling. “I don’t want to be a Hound.”

The fist came out of nowhere, slamming into his face and knocking him into the wall to one side. He rebounded and flopped onto the floor, stunned. Pain radiated from his cheek, its inside flesh torn by his teeth. Blood filled his mouth, coppery and salty. He spat to one side, started to raise a hand to his lips, which felt slick, but a foot pressed down onto his chest and suddenly he couldn’t breathe.

“You are a Hound. Your life belongs to the Baron. Your thoughts belong to him. You live to seek, to subdue, and to kill. That is your sole purpose. Seek, subdue, kill. Repeat it.”

The pressure against his chest released enough so that he could suck in a lungful of air. He began to wriggle, trying to thrash his way from beneath the man’s heel, but the pressure increased again.

“Seek, subdue, kill,” the man’s voice said, grating and hard this time. “Repeat it.”

When the man’s weight shifted again, Justin gasped in more air, then steeled himself and shoved hard away from the wall to his right, but it was useless. The man’s heel dug in with bruising force.

“If you refuse to train as a Hound, your parents will be killed.” His voice came from above, cold and implacable. “If you rebel, your friends will be killed next. We will bring them here and kill them before you. If you try to escape, you will die. You are a Hound. Your life belongs to the Baron. Your thoughts belong to him. You live to seek, to subdue, and to kill.” The man leaned forward, the weight against Justin’s chest increasing until it felt as if his ribs would crack. “Now, repeat it.”

The pressure lessened, barely enough for Justin to draw in a trickle of air and wheeze, “Seek, subdue, kill.”

For a heart-wrenching moment, nothing happened and Justin nearly sobbed. Then the heel withdrew and he rolled to one side, heaving in air, choking on it and the blood that coated his throat. His stomach turned and he dry-retched.

When the waves of pain receded, Justin curled into as tight a ball as he could, hands over his head, chin and knees tucked into his chest. A low whine escaped him.

A rustle came from the darkness, the first real sound Justin had heard aside from the man’s voice. He reached for the sound in desperation, and as if his sense of hearing had been heightened he caught a scrape of metal against glass, followed by a hollow pop, as if a bottle had been uncorked.

Justin flinched when the man spoke again: “Tell me what you smell.”

He didn’t respond until he heard footsteps approaching, then he shouted, “I smell you!”

The footsteps paused. “And what do I smell like?”

“Sweat and soap and oil,” he snuffled into his arms.

A hesitation. “Is that how you knew I was here?”

Justin nodded.

Silence. Long enough Justin’s shoulders unconsciously relaxed. Then: “What else do you smell? What else do you sense?”

Justin began to shake with silent sobs, but he drew in a ragged breath and realized he
could
smell something else, something stronger than the soap and oil, something newer, sharper, acidic. “An orange,” he cried out desperately. “I smell an orange!”

“Good. Although I think I started with too strong a scent. You’re already sensitive to smells, aren’t you? New Hounds usually are . . . but not always. Do you sense anything else?”

Justin thought he felt the smothering blanket again, but couldn’t tell if that were true or if his chest merely ached from the bruises. He shook his head. “Nuh—nuh—nuh—nothing.”

“Disappointing.” More rustling, another soft pop. “Tell me what you smell.”

A noisy, deep breath. “Cinnamon.”

“And now?”

It was getting harder. The scents were mingling, the orange and cinnamon overpowering. Justin had to suck in air twice to catch the floral scent beneath the other two. “A flower.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know.”

A strike from the darkness, a stinging cuff to the head. “What kind of flower?”

“I don’t know!”

Justin tensed in anticipation of another blow.

“It’s called hyacinth. Remember it.” A hollow pop. “Tell me what you smell.”

Justin shook his head, the tears he’d been withholding coming now, harsh and hot. “I don’t know. I want to go home. Please let me go home.”

The man’s foot drove hard into Justin’s back and Justin screamed, white-hot pain lancing up into his shoulders along his spine. He arched back, then scrambled blindly away, sharp jabs from his muscles making him wince as he moved. He hit the wall, scuttled down its length until he hit the corner, then huddled there, waiting for another kick, another punch, willing the nightmare to end. But it didn’t. The granite cell didn’t disappear. The scents that filled the air didn’t fade. The darkness didn’t recede.

Instead, from the darkness, he heard the hollow sound of a bottle being uncorked and the man who’d sought him out, who’d taken him, said, “This is your home. This is your life. You are a Hound. Your life belongs to the Baron. Your thoughts belong to him. You live to seek, to subdue, to kill.” A rustle as the man shifted closer. “Now, tell me what you smell.”

Tyrus heard the creak of a floorboard behind him where he sat eating his lunch a moment before a meaty hand closed around the back of his neck, twisted, and shoved the side of his face into the table. He cried out and began to flail, knees hitting the underside of the table, making the crockery and his mug of ale jump, but then the hand on his neck tightened and someone leaned in close to his ear.

“What did you tell them, little snitch?”

He recognized the voice instantly, the fleshy hand a breath later, and stilled, hands clutching the edge of the table so hard his knuckles were white.