Page 95 of Blood Fist

As far as he could tell, he was still himself. Corric was wearing the clothes he put on this morning. Checking the rest of his body, he made sure he was in one piece. Warily, he got to his feet, using the wall to brace against. Was this the magic?

Was he in Schok?

Calming his breathing, he took off down the hallway towards the first door. It was an empty bedroom. The second was the same. Nostalgia followed his every step. That quilt was familiar. Or how the door butted up against the jam rather than slid in evenly. Even the creaks in the wooden floor were reminiscent of a childhood he was reluctant to remember.

The last door was at the end of the hall. As he rounded the bend in the hallway, he saw Schok crouched outside the door. He stopped in his tracks. It was the Schok he remembered—young, lithe, dark red hair, with legs and arms a little too long for his body. He looked like a young horse not yet grown into himself.

Schok didn’t notice him, face pressed to the crack in the door. Corric crept up behind him, not sure if he should draw his attention or not. If the magic worked, he should be in Schok’s mind. Which means all of thiswasn’this memories at all.

Moving closer, he looked through the crack to see his old bedroom. But not just his old bedroom, but himself. A much younger Corric was kneeling on a pale blue rug, looking up at his mother with wide, trusting eyes. His hair was long, falling across an unblemished face.

Corric’s knees went weak at the implication. He was in Schok’s mind, looking at himself from nearly twenty years ago.

But more than that, it was his mother. She was standing over a young Corric, hands cradling his face as she fought back tears. Her blonde was falling loose, like she hadn’t bothered to properly pin it that morning. Though she was skinnier than he remembered, it was the look on her face that gave him pause.

Anguish.

Young Corric had no idea what he was looking up at, squirming in her grip with boredom. He was so used to his mother’s tears that they didn’t bother him. He whined about wanting to go play in the garden.

“Shh, soon,” his mother cooed, wiping some tears from her face with the back of her hand.

Hard as he tried, Corric couldn’t remember this. Was it so mundane that he’d simply forgotten? That was hard to imagine. There was so much pain in his mother’s eyes, even in the way she slumped over. This must be Schok’s memory. But why? Why was this memory so important to Schok?

Once young Corric stopped moving, his mother kissed the top of his head. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.” Her apologies were muffled in his hair. “I’m not strong enough to protect you.”

Schok gasped and Corric looked down at him only to look back and see that same iridescence he saw reaching for him in the tent. But this time it was swirling from his mother’s fingertips and going intohim.

Corric reeled back, breathing ragged. No. No, his mothercouldn’t use magic.That was what his father always said…she was useless and gave him useless children.

But there, in front of his very eyes, his mother was conjuring magic as if it were easy as breathing. The colorful swarm tickled at Corric’s temples, brushing his hair aside. He giggled; nose wrinkled as he experienced the same ticklish sensation.

He couldn’t hear what his mother was saying, but suddenly young Corric jerked, his spine straightening as he collapsed into her arms. He was crying out in pain, hands clawing at his clothes as if he were trying to free himself from some kind of pain. His mother held himtight, dropping to the ground so she could hold him as he convulsed, all while the magic continued to flood into him.

Beside him, Schok had a hand clamped to his mouth. His brilliant grey eyes filled with terror, but he didn’t make a move to stop it.

Young Corric’s howls of pain echoed around the stone hallway, unbearably loud. His eyes were scrunched up tight, but around the left he could see the start of something. A redness. It sparked to life at the corner of his eye and fizzled across his face like fire burning through paper.

His hand flew to his face.No. I don’t have any marks….Swallowing the nausea that churned in his stomach, he forced himself to look back at the scene.

The magic had stopped, and his mother was cradling young Corric to her, soothing his pain. “It was the only way, Corric. The only way I could protect you.” The skin on his face was fading—angry red to a sweeter pink, ebbing with young Corric’s tears.

Thudding feet echoed behind them. Schok leapt up, turning just in time to try to intercept his father. The man was immense. Even as an adult, Krait loomed over Corric. His signature red hair was dull compared to the hate in his eyes.

“No!” Schok shouted in his small voice, trying to keep the man from barreling past him into the room.

“What has she done?!” he boomed, swatting Schok aside like he was nothing. The teen hit the wall and crumpled to the floor.

Krait burst through the door and took in the scene in front of him. For a moment he was in such shock his anger seemed to abate, shoulders deflating as he looked down at his wife and youngest son.

“You won’t hurt him,” his mother said, her voiceshaky. “You’ll never again use one of my children for your own selfish gains!”

His father roared, ripping a near unconscious Corric from his mother’s arms. He stared down at the limp body, taking in the fading color. Krait’s face twisted.

“You’ve made him useless! Look at him!” Dropping Corric, he turned to his wife and backhanded her, sending her flying to the floor.

Schok burst into the room, but Krait didn’t notice him. His mother did, lying on the floor with a hand pressed to her bleeding mouth. She shook her head, eyes pleading for Schok to run. To leave. Schok didn’t want to. It was written all over his face and how his hands balled at his sides. But he was so small, so scared. He trembled before turning and fleeing the room. The sounds of his parents arguing chasing him down the hall.

Corric wanted to stay. He wasn’t a young child anymore. He could stand up to Krait and his cruelty, but something snagged at him. Like a rope tied around his ribs, it yanked him backwards. He would have fallen if this had been real. Suddenly, he was following young Schok down a deserted alleyway. The teenager was crying, angrily swiping at his face, calling himself a coward.