Page 96 of Blood Fist

No!Corric wanted to scream. Poor Schok was just a child. He shouldn’t be responsible for this. Krait is the coward. He couldn’t comfort Schok. He understood that now. Corric was just a visitor in these memories. But the hurt was real.

Out of the darkness came a tapping. A man was standing at the entrance of the dingy alley. He was wearing a fine coat and hat. Schok looked up at him warily. The man extended a hand forward, glovedfingers unfurling. Schok glanced down at his palm just as the man blew out a breath. Something flew into Schok’s face, and he cried out, rubbing at his eyes. The next moment, he collapsed to his knees.

Corric reached for him only to find himself falling face forward onto a rickety wooden floor. Before lifting his head, he could tell he was no longer in the alley. The room was large but made small with how packed it was. Crates and boxes were stacked in every corner, some piles reaching as high as the sloped ceiling. It was overly warm in the room, which did nothing to help with the smell. It was as if someone had opened every single one of Iylah’s herbs and jars of medicine. A cacophony of scents that left his head throbbing.

But above that was the distinct scent of pain and fear. It cut through the jumbled herbs like a sword, acrid and unsettling. Covering his mouth with an elbow, Corric looked around as he tried to breathe through his mouth.

There were no windows, the only light coming from a dozen candles melted onto a workbench. Papers and broken quills were scattered across its surface, along with a myriad of stains Corric didn’t want to get close enough to decipher.

From the flickering light of the candles, he could see the walls were stone. But not the polished stone of the Tylock mansion, but something made by a lesser craftsman. Light seeped through where the plaster was unevenly mixed, stones threatening to fall out. Through those gaps Corric could hear the whistling of wind.

But where was Schok? Were these not supposed to be his memories?

A small sniffle caught his attention, and he whipped around in time to see someone shifting in the shadowsof a cage. The light from the desk didn’t quite reach this side of the room, but he didn’t need it to discern wings.

Buzzard was curled up inside the cage, hugging his knees with his back bowed. He was the same, but younger. Wings freshly maimed. They were swollen and hanging off his back uselessly. It was clear every move he made caused him considerable pain.

But Buzzard wasn’t looking at himself or fussing with his wings. He was looking into the adjoining one.

“Rest,” he urged, his voice sounding so much more insecure than the Buzzard he was used to. “You know what will happen when he comes back.”

Schok was plastered against the bars closest to Buzzard, his eyes half lidded. Drool pooled from what looked like a swollen lip. His skin didn’t have the runes that the older Schok back at the clan had. But his skin was in various stages of healing—bruises, cuts, burns. Some so dark it looked like the skin was nearly ready to slough off. His hair was dingy and growing in patches, so uneven it looked like it had been ripped rather than cut.

“Can’t,” he mumbled through thick lips. “Dreams.”

Buzzard reached a hand between the bars, his talons achingly gentle as they stroked the bits of Schok he could reach. “Dreams can’t hurt you like he can.”

Schok chuckled, his lips pulling back to reveal bloodied gums. “Mine can.” His eyes opened, unfocused, as they landed on Buzzard. “He wants me to see. And I do. More than he could ever know.”

“Have you been hiding things?”

“I have to,” Schok slurred, bloodied scabs cracking as he smiled.

Buzzard didn’t have time to ask more. The thick slab of a door creaked open, revealing the man in the coat. He looked different this time. His hat balled in one handand the coat dusty from work. With his foot he slammed the door, clattering over to the desk to begin pouring over whatever notes littered the surface. Schok and Buzzard watched him warily, trying to duck out of sight every time his attention flickered just a little too close.

The beta was ageless. His features indefinable. Short brown hair was cropped close to his scalp, leaving his thick lashes to frame small eyes. Corric thought he might be handsome in his own unusual way, but there was something about the way he moved. The way his thin hands hovered over pages as if he needed them to read, that left a pit of worry in his stomach.

This must be the magic user, Cyrill.

Eventually, he shrugged the coat from his shoulders and hung it up over the chair. He stalked across the room toward the cages. Deftly, he began unhooking the latch on Schok’s.

“No, he’s too weak!” Buzzard protested, his voice chirping with panic. “I’ll do it. Take me instead.”

“Shut up, bird.” Cyrill smacked Buzzard’s cage. He ignored the harpy’s protests, pulling a limp Schok from the depths of his cage. Schok was so thin he only had to carry him with one hand, dropping him on the only clear spot in the entire room.

Schok was wearing the same clothes, but they were ragged and filthy. The pants were too short and the shirt nearly threadbare. He didn’t protest, just laid in a heap where he’d been dropped.

Cyrill barely looked at him as he summoned the magic. Corric tracked the tingling iridescence coming from all over the room—Buzzard, crates, even a little from Schok himself. An especially big strand came from a jagged crystal perched on a shelf over the desk.

Schok was taking deep breaths, trying to bracehimself. It wasn’t enough. Soon he was screaming, body convulsing as more and more magic was pushed into him. His hands spasmed as flames shot from them, roaring up his arms and burning away what was left of his sleeves and the pinkest of his skin. Buzzard was screaming, but his voice was lost under the crackling of skin and Schok’s wails of agony.

The fire coming from Schok grew hotter and hotter until it turned near white, swirling over his entire body. With the colorful magic as an accelerant, the fire only grew stronger until Schok’s screams abruptly cut off.

He lay motionless, the flames licking across his skin the only sign he was still alive. Slowly, he sat up and looked straight ahead with his eyes closed.

Cyrill was sweating, thin shirt clinging to his hollow chest. Excitedly, he circled Schok.

Head lolling to the side, as if the effort of holding it up were too much, he parted his lips and began to speak in a voice that was not his own.