Page 11 of Runes To Rain
Thankfully, he is standing unscathed, but there are two men, no, not men, two demons standing behind him. The little boy looks surprisingly calm despite standing near two beings whoare surrounded by swirling shadow. The demon’s eyes seem to look into my soul, and I lower the sword unconsciously to my side and climb back up the steps to stand directly in front of them.
One of them gestures to me and says something to the boy, who responds, “She needs help, she just killed a guard.”
I see the eyes of the demons widen. One looks unsure, the other looks down at my skirt and nudges his companion, pointing to the bloodstain from cleaning the sword.
I realize belatedly that the little boy is walking past me, back down the stairs. As he gets to me, he asks for the sword, and I hand it to him. I’ve formed no great attachment to it, but it still takes an extra moment to release it to him. As he takes the sword, he turns and begins the downward journey.
I again climb the few remaining steps to where the demons stand. As I get closer, one of them says something in a guttural language that makes the hair raise at the nape of my neck. The other reaches down to my skirt, and I stop and stand still, only trembling slightly, as he touches the dark blood there. Then, in a quick and pain-driven movement, he yanks his hand away with something that sounds like a curse.
Looking at each other, the first demon says, "It’s the blood of an angel," and the other’s eyes widen in shock.
The demons then look at me, scanning me as though looking for something. Their faces are similar masks of surprise, and I feel uncomfortable in the quiet as they look at me.
Then their eyes stop, looking at my leg near the floor, and they say something to each other in that same guttural language. When I look where they are, I see a small pool of black near the outside of my right foot. I begin to step forward, but it’s as though the pool and the rivulet of it that runs down my leg have roped me to the ground. My leg feels too heavy and doesn’t fully listen to the order I’ve given it, and I tip forward, gracelessly.
One of the demons catches me roughly by the arm, and then, in a swift and inhuman movement, he picks me up.
In that moment, the same instinctual part of me that fought the angel rebels. In a smooth, quick twisting movement, I end up crouching in front of him, having escaped his hands like a small silver fish. I hear them swear and am vaguely aware of them moving to restrain me, but then the world begins to grey out, and I pass out.
THE WAY OF THINGS
Iwake with half-remembered dreams in my head and a strange taste in my mouth. My head feels like it’s full of the smoke that seems to be ever-present here. As I return to awareness, I feel my body resting against a firm surface. I try to move, but can’t yet make my body obey.
The room I’m in is filled with darkness and smoke. The walls are painted black, and cupboards line one of the walls. There is a cot set along another. The bed I’m in protrudes from the middle of the wall into the room.
The space seems as though it could be hiding beasts or spirits in the dark, shadowed corners. I can see a door along the final wall; it is also dark with a brass knob. There is a tray resting on one of the cupboards. The tray seems to contain several items, including a pitcher and a cup.
Suddenly overwhelmed with thirst, I struggle with the blanket, which seems to be trying to chain me to the bed. I work myself free and manage to push myself more upright, the wall at my back. My vision tries to fade, but I ignore it and push myself forward.
The moment I put a foot on the floor, the pain is back,thrashing in my head. However, the chance for something to drink pulls me to the table more strongly than the pain pulls me back.
I lean against the bed, then the wall, and then the cupboard, and I make it to the tray. When I look into the pitcher, though, it contains nothing but a thin layer of slime at the bottom, which can only be from whatever drugs they’ve been giving me.
I slide down the cupboard to sit on the floor. Whatever tenuous control I’ve had over my body is gone. The pain in my leg is no longer something I can ignore, and I fold myself so that I can see what they’ve done. What I find is a neatly wrapped bandage that nearly covers my leg below my knee. A quickly spreading black stain shows through the white cloth.
I lie on my side and rest my cheek against the floor. It’s cool. The part of my memory that isn’t my own tells me it feels almost like earth.
I’m not aware of losing consciousness, but when I wake, I’m back on the same bed.
This time, there are no dreams, and the pain is less. Enough that I am able to push myself up and stand on both legs without other support. I take a couple of shaky steps to the door. Nearly there, I hesitate a moment. Part of me knows if I try the knob and it doesn’t open, like a caged animal, my instincts will take over. I fear what might happen if they do. I shut my eyes for a breath, put my hand on the handle, and push.
The door opens into a wide space, filled with the trunks of trees which seem to rise through the ceiling.
Everywhere I look, I see green. I have never seen anything like this in my short life besides in paintings. The small forest created by the trees in this massive room is filled with underbrush. There are small openings that seem to lead into clearings. As I look at the plants with wonder, a demon emerges from oneof the openings in the trees. I don’t recognize him, but he seems to recognize me as he walks toward me with an urgency to his gait.
He looks young and is not overly tall. He is more slender than Malam. He has the same dark hair and olive complexion, but with blue eyes instead of green. His hair is black and horrendously curly. It looks as though he gave up taming it a long time ago, as it flops into his face, attempting to crawl into his eyes. Of course, as is the case with demons, wings of shadow emerge from his shoulders.
As I look at him, I try to release the frame of the doorway I am clutching, but I can’t seem to make my fingers work. I hear him say something to me, but can’t quite make out the words. However, as I look up at him again, it is as though he’s released me from some sort of spell, and I can suddenly open my fingers.
I move to walk, or limp, to him, but I stumble.
His longer legs close the space between us, and he reaches out and takes my arm, stabilizing me. “You’re not meant to be out of bed yet,” he growls, his voice twisting the words until they are nearly unrecognizable.
Then he directs me by the arm back into the room I just left with a strength I have no chance of resisting. I allow him to help me back onto the bed and watch as he draws some shape in the air above me.
Seeing me watching, he says, “I’m called Chiron.” His voice is rough, and it is clear that he’s not used to speaking in this language.
After a few moments of whatever it is he’s doing in the air above me, his expression grows more worried. He turns to the cupboard and removes a small wooden box. Taking something from it, he walks back to the bed and hands me a small tablet. “Take this,” he says quietly, “the poison still has hold of you.”
