Page 18 of Unnatural (Men and Monsters #2)

Sam lifted the last bale of hay, placed it on top of the neat pile he’d formed, and then used his arm to wipe the drops of sweat from his forehead.

A shaft of light filtered through the hayloft window, trickling down to where Sam stood, and he raised his face, closing his eyes as he felt the touch of warmth.

What happened in Macau, Sam?

Despite the sun, a chill wafted through him—an internal freeze—and he opened his eyes, stepping from the light and then taking off his gloves and tossing them aside.

He’d failed. He’d failed a mission, and because of it, Dr. Heathrow had removed him.

Banished him. Thrown him away. When you’re dismissed, you die.

Your purpose has ended. His guts still twisted when he thought of the moment the doctor had pointed at the door, sadness and disappointment in his eyes as he told Sam to pack his bag and go.

So he’d left to die as he’d been trained to do. It was his final mission. What other choice did he have anyway? He had no skills other than those he’d been trained in. Hunting. Killing.

When you’re dismissed, you die. What the order really meant was when you’re dismissed, you kill yourself.

Which was for the best. He wouldn’t survive on his own, because he had no idea where to even start , nowhere to go.

But…he hadn’t gone about the killing of himself right away.

After all, the last mission didn’t exactly spell out a time frame.

So for a while, he’d used the only skills he’d had to keep himself alive.

He’d hunted. Animals this time. He’d built campfires.

He’d kept himself warm and fed. He’d taken weeks to consider the best way to die.

He had a weapon, of course; he’d packed it in his bag when he’d left.

Which was what was expected, considering he was on a suicide mission.

When you’re dismissed, you die.

On his other missions, they’d given him a cyanide pill to take in the event of capture. But Dr. Heathrow didn’t give him a cyanide pill when he banished him. Sam wondered why and figured maybe it would make authorities suspicious if they found a man dead by cyanide on a nature trail somewhere.

Yes, he’d planned to die. He still did. And he was mostly fine with it because he deserved to die.

But then he’d stumbled across the old man, lost in the trees at the edge of his own property.

The man hadn’t been afraid of him, even though he knew he looked like the monster he was—his hair darkened with dirt, beard ratty and unkempt, military-style clothes, and a gun in his waistband.

He was filthy. After all, he’d been living in the woods.

But the old man had smiled and sounded relieved to come upon another person, and then he’d reached his hand out to Sam, mostly in the right direction.

It was then Sam realized the man was blind.

No wonder he wasn’t afraid of him. Him , the large, muscular stranger with exposed scars, young but with a head full of dirty hair that was strangely as pale as the moon. They’d made him cut it short and dye it when he went on missions.

I made a boy of moonlight.

He’d said her words over and over as he’d sat at the edge of the stream or the base of a tree, lying in the sun and planning the best way to die.

Were her words what kept him alive longer than he’d meant? Maybe. But they were only a temporary stall for what he knew was necessary. Inevitable.

He had no place in this world.

He didn’t want a place in this world.

Life was only pain and suffering and ugliness and loneliness too terrible to bear.

The only beautiful thing he’d ever known in his miserable life was her. A momentary light. A small taste of what beauty meant. But she was long gone, somewhere far away, living a better life.

Or so he hoped.

But despite his appearance and the way his voice croaked the first words he’d spoken in weeks, the old man had smiled at him, happy and relieved by his presence, and he’d led the blind man back to the path he’d wandered from.

The man had offered him a meal and then later a job working on his apple farm, and he’d accepted though he had no idea why.

You are supposed to be dead, Sam.

The other workers there did look at Sam strangely, but only at first. They all had stories. The old man, apparently, liked to collect unwanted souls. Outcasts. Throwaways. Criminals and misfits. And now those who were supposed to be dead but weren’t.

Some of them robbed the old man or collected a paycheck without having done any work. He stood on his porch each Friday, grinning broadly and handing out money, even to those who didn’t deserve it. The old blind fool.

Sam did work though. Sam did the work of five men because it helped him forget his pain and kept his memories at bay.

He climbed ladders and picked bushels of apples.

A bushel, he’d learned, was equal to sixty-four U.S.

pints. Sam hadn’t known that before. His education was limited.

He’d taken classes. He’d learned to read and write and do basic math.

He’d studied some science and geography.

But mostly, his education had been on fighting techniques, war tactics, and weaponry.

He’d been taught only what he needed to know.

Sam piled hay and mucked out stalls. He fed goats and cows and chickens and pigs.

He repaired fencing, thinned brush, and did many other small chores.

He didn’t talk to anyone except the old blind man occasionally. The other workers all thought he was a big dumb idiot who could barely form words, and that was what Sam preferred.

Sometimes in the evenings, Sam sat perched on the fence at the edge of the yard, eating an apple and watching the sun as it fizzled, glittered, and faded to dust.

He could see in the old man’s window then, and he watched as his family, who visited often, sat down to dinner, laughing and talking and passing dishes of steaming food. He thought of her words.

If life were an apple, I’d sink my teeth into it and take a big bite. I’d let the juice drip down my chin and grin as the sweetness burst across my tongue.

And then I’d find someone and give them the other half.

She’d been sick and wanted to know what it was like to live. But she’d wanted to share it too.

Sam’s eyes moved around the table through the window.

He wondered what it would feel like to meet someone’s eyes over a basket of rolls and have them smile at him and laugh at his joke.

The whole concept seemed so alien that the wondering alone made him feel ludicrous.

What kind of joke would you tell, Sam? You’re the joke.

Even thinking about a scenario like that is the joke.

And if he couldn’t even picture it—couldn’t begin to imagine—why did the vague notion bring him pain?

He wanted it, he supposed, and he had no right to such a longing.

He was who he was. Some had been created to laugh with family around dinner tables, and some had been created to sit alone on fences, looking in. Always looking in.

He thought of her as he worked. He pictured her face and remembered the way her eyes had sparked with enough fire that he still felt the warmth. He’d taken that glow with him to Chennai and Lagos and other destinations he didn’t remember the names of.

He’d taken her with him to each and every forgotten place, and he’d carried her words, as much a part of him now as his organs or his skin but even more so.

Because her words and her ideas were hidden away, tucked deeply into the only parts of him that had never been touched.

Not muscle or bone but something deeper, something far more essential.

Her words reminded him that despite it all, there were still parts of himself that were only his and could not be prodded or poked or sliced into.

And that very idea was his downfall, perhaps.

And his saving grace.

But again, he didn’t want to be saved. Yet he could not let her go. Would not. So he suffered. And he lived on.

Because to die would be to kill off a piece of her as well. And that, he realized, he could not yet do.

Soon, but not yet.

“Sam,” the old man, Adam, called.

Sam turned, grunting in response.

“I need you to pick up a new generator for the barn. It’s going to be a cold winter, and I can’t risk the power going off out there.

I have an old friend in the city who gives me great deals.

” When Sam didn’t answer, the man cocked his head as though listening for something Sam wasn’t saying. “You do drive, don’t you?”

“Yes. I drive,” he said. He didn’t have a license because he didn’t have an identity, but he knew how to drive.

Adam lifted his hand, and a pair of keys sailed through the air. Sam reached out and caught them easily.

“Take the pickup,” Adam said, turning and tapping his cane on the dirt path that Sam had brushed free of tiny pebbles and debris that morning so the old fool didn’t trip and smash his head open.

“These paths need to be paved,” Sam noted.

Adam waved his hand behind him, dismissing Sam’s words. “I like the feel of dirt under my feet. And I expect someone will help me if I injure my foot on a rock.”

Sam scratched the back of his neck. “Why would you expect anything when so many people let you down?” Lie to you. Cheat you. Steal your things.

Adam’s smile only widened. “People do let me down a lot,” he said. “But sometimes they don’t.”

Sam sighed. Sometimes didn’t seem like something to stand around grinning about.

He shrugged and looked over at the red pickup near the fence next to the long driveway that let out on the main road.

Sam didn’t want to drive. He didn’t want to go into New York City.

He didn’t want to be around people and buildings and noise.

“Hey, Sam,” Adam said, turning around, his milky eyes strangely trained directly on him. “Who hurt you?”