Page 1 of The Runaway
CHAPTER ONE
Gabriel Calvet watched a slow droplet of water trickle down the canvas ceiling above his bed. It was raining outside, a multitude of tiny leaks in the roof letting the water seep inside. The drip ran down the faded canvas, past the head of his bed, then dropped onto the earth below. It was soaked up by the dirt like hundreds of others had been in the long hours of the night. It was past dawn now, the light inside the tent dim and listless, the ongoing rain blotting out most of the sun’s rays.
Dull footsteps caught Gabriel’s attention, and he mustered the energy to raise his head. A tall, thin doctor approached the end of his bed. “Sergent Calvet,” the doctor said, reading his name from the clipboard that hung on the rail. “Stab wound to the leg. Lacerations to the chest. Minor burns.” He looked up, meeting Gabriel’s eyes. “Looks like you were one of the lucky ones.”
“Is that what you call it?” Gabriel muttered, looking away.
“I certainly do,” the doctor said, taking no offence to his attitude. “In more ways than one. You might have missed the announcement this morning, but I come bearing good news. The war is over. And what’s more, the French won. The English have been defeated and are retreating back across the Channel like the spineless dogs they are.”
That got Gabriel’s attention. He moved to sit up, then winced at the stabbing pain that shot through his chest. “What? It’s over? The war has ended?”
“Done and dusted. And on the basis of your injuries, you’re being discharged. As soon as your wounds heal, you’ll be free to go.”
Gabriel lay back, breathing a sigh of relief. Finally, the fighting and bloodshed were over.
“Let’s take a look at these wounds then, shall we?” The doctor pulled up a chair, then gently tucked the end of the sheet down, revealing the bandages on Gabriel’s chest and leg. As he carefully peeled back the bandages, Gabriel’s gaze drifted off down the other end of the tent. Almost every bed was full, the wounded pouring in by the dozens, but one bed in particular caught his attention. A doctor was examining a man with a severe leg wound, the man moaning in pain at even the slight pressure of his hands.
The doctor made a noise of disgust. “This leg is developing gangrene,” he said loudly, waving a nurse over. “Who’s been looking after this wound? The poor bastard’s going to lose the leg with the way this is going.”
The nurse shrugged. “I’m not sure, sir. But he’s an omega. And we’re low on supplies as it is. There didn’t seem much point in wasting them on him.”
The doctor gave a loud sigh. “An omega? Shit… Why isn’t that written on his chart? For God’s sake.” He wrote a note on the chart, then tossed it back onto the bed, not even bothering to replace the sheet. “Fine. Let’s move on then. Have we got any patients who are actually worthy of my attention?”
“Sergent Dupont, sir,” the nurse said, leading him away to another bed. “He’s a beta. Bullet wound to the shoulder.”
Gabriel felt a wave of nausea at the callous treatment of the omega. But he said nothing, and after a moment, the sick feeling was replaced with guilt, crawling up his spine like a trail of ants. How many times had he turned away from similar sights? How long had it been since he’d given up trying to get his fellow soldiers to see the omegas as something more than cannon fodder? But after five long years fighting this war, he knew it was a losing battle, and that making a fuss about the omega in the hospital bed would achieve absolutely nothing. The omegas who were conscripted to serve in the military were treated little better than dogs – worse, in some cases. They were kept for two main reasons; firstly to serve the sexual needs of the alpha and beta soldiers, the omegas taken at will by anyone who felt the urge, and secondly, to march across the battlefield in great lines and clear a path for the ‘real’ soldiers to do the fighting.
As an alpha, Gabriel had spent the early months of his service trying to raise attention about the treatment of the omegas. They were serving the country, just like the alphas and betas, and surely the war would be more easily won if they were given a modicum of care, rather than just sent like lambs to the slaughter? But after months of being ignored and ridiculed to various degrees, he’d finally given up – not because he didn’t think the omegas deserved better, but because he’d been too busy just trying to stay alive. The war had been brutal, with copious losses on both sides, but to hear that the English had finally retreated brought no sense of victory or accomplishment. Just a slow, aching relief that finally, it was over.
Over for him, at least. But there were dozens, maybe hundreds of omegas who had been injured, who were now being discarded like trash, and who would spend the next few weeks or months either dying a slow, painful death, or scraping together some semblance of a life, with missing limbs, blinded eyes, and their spirits irreversibly crushed. God, he hated this world.
“All done,” the doctor said, as he finished wrapping Gabriel’s leg. “No signs of infection, so it should heal well. Is there anything else you need?”
“Actually, would I be able to get a pen and paper?” he asked. “I need to write a letter.” He wasn’t sure that sending one would do any good, wasn’t sure his request would be accepted, or that he’d even get a reply, but he had to try. He had to get away from here. Away from Calais, away from the war, away from the endless nightmares that were surely going to haunt his dreams for years to come. And there was only one place he could think of that just might, if he was very lucky, provide a refuge from his own pain and anger.
The doctor smiled, oblivious to Gabriel’s inner turmoil. “I’ll have one of the nurses bring something over for you. Just rest for now. Everything will be fine.”
CHAPTER TWO
Gabriel stood at the entrance to the long laneway, staring blankly at the sign on the gate. Calvet Estate, it read, in neat, white letters. But despite bearing the same name as the property, Gabriel wasn’t harbouring any misguided notions about calling this place home. Not that he even had a home anymore. His father had been a simple shopkeeper, and Gabriel had received word two winters ago that he’d died of a fever, old age and a draughty house working against him as he’d tried and failed to fight it off. And with no brothers to take over the shop and Gabriel away fighting the war, the premises had been sold and the business wrapped up.
That had left Gabriel with no family other than his father’s two cousins. The first was a man named Alfred Calvet. He was a merchant, making frequent trips to Italy, which meant he was likely unreachable for the time being, and even if he’d been in the country, he would have had no permanent residence where Gabriel could stay.
The second man was Christophe Calvet, Alfred’s brother, and it was to him that Gabriel had addressed his letter some two months ago, from his hospital bed in the military camp. He’d explained that his father had passed away, and the circumstances surrounding his discharge from the army, and politely requested to visit the Calvet estate for a time, while he finished recovering from the war.
The reply had come with bittersweet news. The letter had been sent by Antoine Calvet, Christophe’s adopted alpha son and Gabriel’s second cousin. Christophe, he had regretfully informed Gabriel, had passed away some months ago, and Antoine was now the master of the house. But he’d eagerly invited Gabriel to come, stating that family ties, however remote, were still honoured in his house, and that he was grateful for Gabriel’s service in the war. He would be welcome to stay for as long as he needed.
But in Gabriel’s current state of mind, that presented a problem. Christophe had been a remarkably mild mannered man, treating all of his staff, both betas and omegas, with respect and kindness. Some would have gone so far as to say he coddled them, though whether or not that was true was likely a question of perspective. But Gabriel had never met Antoine in person, and had no idea whether the alpha had followed in his father’s compassionate footsteps, or if he now ruled the estate with the iron will and sharp discipline that most alphas displayed.
After seeing the horrors that had been done to omegas for the past five years of the war, Gabriel knew he wouldn’t be able to bear seeing such treatment on the Calvet estate. Finding a place where he could unwind, recover, and go about his daily life without having to see another omega getting beaten or sexually abused was vital if he was to cling to the fraying threads of his sanity. He hadn’t slept properly in over six months. He sometimes found himself paralysed with fear, his body shaking for minutes at a time until he could get the rogue emotions under control. And he had to fight back violent impulses every time he saw an omega being struck or shouted at, wanting to march over to the arrogant alpha dishing out the abuse and punch them in the face.
Staring up the narrow laneway now, he dreaded to think what he’d find at the end of the road. But even so, he was left with little choice. As things currently stood, he had nowhere else to go.
Delaying the inevitable wasn’t going to change it in the slightest, so Gabriel shouldered his rucksack – a few changes of clothes and a bag of coin his only real possessions in the world – and set off up the road. His leg was aching, the old stab wound still giving him trouble, but he ignored it. He’d marched through mud and rain with worse injuries before. A stroll up a country lane was hardly something worth complaining about.
The lane rose gently up a hill, curving through meandering sheep paddocks and lined with birch trees. The sun was shining, making everything seem more vividly green, with highlights of yellow and purple from the wildflowers growing at the side of the road. The crunch of gravel beneath Gabriel’s feet was soothing, and he focused on breathing slowly and evenly, determined to control the growing apprehension in his gut. Christophe had been a wise man with a strong will, and surely he would have led his son to follow in his footsteps?
He came to the top of the hill and paused, gazing down at the farmyard below him, some two hundred metres further on. The main farmhouse was two storeys high, with white cladding and multiple chimneys rising from the roof, and further back, there was a row of cottages that were likely used to house the estate’s betas. Gabriel had last seen Christophe some five or six years ago, during one of Christophe’s trips to Paris, and at the time, the estate had been doing well, with about twenty betas and seven or eight omegas working on the property. They raised sheep for wool as their primary source of income, and also had a large orchard of fruit trees, a sizable flock of chickens, and a smattering of vegetable crops.