Текст книги "Bound to the battle god"

Автор книги: Ruby Dixon

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 40 страниц)

2

When we get back to the office, Sherry doesn't speak to me for the rest of the day. She’s either mad because the fortune teller was rude to her, or she thinks I’m crazy. I'll take her out for lunch tomorrow and apologize up and down. She'll forget all about it, other than teasing me at the next office happy hour. Now that I’ve had a few hours to stew on the reading, it does sound a bit like the usual “you're going to meet a man” schtick. As we left, Sherry filled my ears with how gullible I was to fall for it.

Maybe it was a silly thing to do. I don’t care. I finally feel like I'm getting somewhere.

A man. Like a force of nature.

The lovers.

You're about to begin a journey.

Those thoughts repeat in my head over and over again as I shut down my computer at the end of the day and gather my things. More than that, though, I keep thinking of what she said about my…glow, or my aura, or whatever she called it. My spiderwebs.

You're about to begin a journey.

I wonder what that means. What damn journey? I've lived in the city all my life. I've worked at the bank for five of those years, and went to college here prior to that. I don't travel. There was never the money growing up, and there hasn't been a reason since my parents died while I was in college. There's no one to visit and no extra money for pleasure trips. I rarely date. I have friends, but I never hang onto them for long. They transfer to different departments, or move away, or get married and then we drift apart. I’m always more or less alone.

I'm boring.

So why me? Why is this happening?

I can't help but feel that the voice in the next apartment was reaching out to the wrong person. Maybe that's why he stopped talking to me. A psychic wrong number.

I don't know that someone as unexciting as Faith Gordon is destined to be the lover of a force of nature. I mean, my last boyfriend left me for an accountant. If that doesn’t tell you everything about my life, nothing will.

Even so…I could use a little adventure. "Well, King of Pentacles,” I dare the air around me. “If you've got something to show me, you can start that journey any freaking time now. I'm just saying. I get vacation time in two weeks."

The office is silent.

Maybe the King of Pentacles is more of a night shift sorta guy.

I wake up in the middle of the night, alert for no reason at all. My ears strain, trying to make out sound. There's only the distant rumble of thunder, an oncoming storm. I sit up and listen for voices, but there's nothing. So why am I awake?

Then, I hear it. There's a distant sound of drums. At first I think it's the storm brewing overhead, but it's got too even a beat, and when lightning clashes a short distance away, it sounds dissonant to the music. I get to my feet, wondering if it's someone playing a CD too loud.

But it sounds like it's coming from next door. The empty apartment.

Oh shit. It’s him. It has to be.

I get out of bed, sliding to my feet, and tiptoe across the floor. I move toward the shared wall, the one that faces the so-called empty apartment. We're at the end of the hall, so there's no one on the other side of that particular wall except for it. I put a hand on the wall itself and then press my ear to it, listening.

Nothing.

Frustrated, I lean back and study the wall. Maybe it’s not it. Thunder rumbles overhead, and the music's gone. Something about this feels wrong. All of it feels wrong. It's like…like I'm hearing something I shouldn't. Getting a glimpse of something that I have no permission to access.

The music starts again, and the hair stands up on the back of my neck. There's a low wail of a flute, and the drums begin their ceaseless beat once more.

This is not my imagination. My imagination can't even remember the lyrics to TV jingles, much less an entire song. I have to know what this is. Even if it's just someone messing with me, I'll be happier knowing than just wondering. I can’t let the opportunity pass by again.

I pull on a pair of pajama pants to go with my pink pajama top, and a pair of slippers. I head to the front door of my apartment, and then pause, checking the clock. Four in the morning. Okay, that's a shitty hour, but it's still reasonably safe to assume I could be up, if I need the excuse. With that in mind, I open my door and head into the hallway.

It's a matter of steps to the neighbor's door. I head directly to it, suck in a steeling breath, and then knock.

There's still no response. I try knocking a third time, and when that elicits no response either, I get down on hands and knees and peer under the door, looking for light. I don't see anything.

The apartment's as vacant as it ever was. That doesn't make sense.

I frown at the door for a minute, then decide I have to know. I head back into my apartment and return with my credit card. I glance up and down the hall, hoping that no one's watching this. If someone is home and I'm breaking and entering, this could be really bad. But I have a hunch. If I'm right, there's no one home…and I'm just crazy.

Yippee.

I slip my credit card into the door and wedge it along the lock, trying to flick it open like they show in movies. Either luck is with me or it's easier than it looks—the door falls open and my credit card falls to my feet in two pieces.

Well, shit.

I'll worry about that later.

I stare into the darkness of the apartment.

Even from here, I can tell it's empty. I flick on the light switch by the door and look at nothing but dusty countertops and a discarded box half full of packing peanuts in one corner. No one lives here. No one has lived here since my neighbor left. "Hello?" I call out, just in case.

There's no answer. I didn't expect one. The floors here are tile, and my slippers are leaving prints in the dust. No one's been in or out of here in weeks or months.

"Well, what the fuck?" I mutter to myself. I shuffle to the wall that is adjacent to mine and press my ear to it. No music. I turn and look at the other wall, but it's nothing but windows and skewed mini blinds.

The music starts again. This time, the drums seem more urgent, the pipes wailing more frantically. It's not any louder, but there's a real sense of…immediacy to it.

Like it’s just in the next room.

I open every door in the apartment, peering into closets. They’re all empty, but the music continues, always just the next room away. Eventually, there’s nowhere else to look, and I groan, putting my hands to my forehead. “Either show me or leave me the hell alone, all right?”

God, I sound crazy even to my own ears. But this is just getting ridiculous. I can't sleep. It's interfering with my job. My friends think I'm crazy.

I'm not entirely sure that I'm not crazy. That all of this isn't just my brain deciding to go haywire and self-destruct, and it's picking some bagpipes and a catchy beat to do it to.

Frustrated, I lean against the kitchen counter. As I do, a light flicks on under the bedroom door.

Well, that’s not creepy at all.

I look down at my feet. I’ve left trails in the dust on the floor. No one’s been inside here for months.

The prickles on the back of my neck start again. I should turn around, maybe. Go back to my apartment, shut the door, go back to bed and forget I ever heard anything. I turn to the front door…

And pause.

And slowly turn back to the closed bedroom door.

I need to know what's going on. I need to know who the King of Pentacles is and why I have a “spiderweb” aura. Mostly I just need to know if I’m going crazy.

If this is a mistake, I suppose there's only one way to find out.

I open the door and step inside.

OceanofPDF.com

3

It's daylight.

I squint up at the blinding sun, surprised. There's not a cloud in the sky and the sun overhead beats down on me, hot and relentless and bright. How did it get to be daylight? Midday?

I wait for my eyes to adjust, wiping streaming tears from them as the too bright light makes my head pound. Slowly, I become aware of the world around me.

“Out of the way!” A man shoves past me, glaring.

“Sorry,” I say automatically, moving aside…to where? I stare around me as the bright glare adjusts and now I can see.

I can see everything and…holy shit.

Toto, we are not in Kansas.

It's a marketplace of some kind. I think. Or a city? It's hard to tell. I see tall stone walls, at least fifteen feet high, and they cage me in on both sides. I must be standing in some sort of road, then, because underneath my slippers, it's dusty and dirty and there's not a patch of grass to be found. Nearby, an animal brays and I turn to see something in a harness that looks like a land-hippo, with a man leading its bridle. As I watch, he pulls a buff colored scarf over his bright red hair like a hood and glares at me.

Am I…on a movie set? But even as the idea crosses my mind, I know that can't be true. This is something bigger. Something vastly more different. I cross my arms over my chest, exceedingly aware that I'm in pink pajamas. I'm not wearing a bra and I feel a little conspicuous as I look at everyone around me, trying to absorb the picture.

Where the hell am I?

Why am I here?

I frown at my surroundings. The stone walls stretch out as far as the eye can see, and so do the dusty streets. I walk forward, dodging piles of animal poop in the middle of the streets, and people pass by, dressed in the same loose, flowing clothing that the man with the land-hippo was wearing. They all look at me as if I'm crazy, but no one stops to talk to me. A few women whisper as they see me.

Well that doesn't make me feel uncomfortable at all.

I pause, trying to figure out where I am and where I need to go. Can I turn around? I look behind me, but there's no hint of the room I was just in. There's no door, no nothing, just stone walls, people leading around land-hippos and the occasional shabby-looking booth propped up against the walls.

There’s no obvious route home.

I pinch myself. Hard. Twice, just in case the first one didn’t count. Nope, I’m awake. Awake and hating this. I look around one more time for a door or a portal of some kind that would have dumped me here, but there’s nothing. It’s entirely possible I’m having a stroke or I’m in a coma or something and my brain is firing up fantasy scenarios, because this definitely looks more like Game of Thrones than Chicago. I gaze at the land-hippos and try to match them up with known animals on Earth, but I come up with a blank. I don’t think these are Earth creatures. And if that’s the case, where am I and how did I end up on another planet? I hesitate, and when a woman with a large basket on her hip pauses to adjust her load, I approach her.

“Excuse me,” I say brightly. “I seem to be lost.”

She frowns at my mouth, as if my words sound weird. Her gaze slides down to my clothing. “What’re you looking for? An inn?”

“An inn would be great. I don’t suppose you can tell me where I am?”

Her uneasy look grows. “The slums?”

“No, I mean here.” I gesture at the ground with both hands. “This city. Where is this?”

The woman’s brows go up. “Aventine?”

Aventine. Okay, that’s a start. I beam at her, trying not to panic. I’ve never heard of Aventine, but I’m admittedly not the best with geography. “And are we still on Earth?”

“Earth?” she echoes.

“The planet?” How has she not heard of Earth?

She makes a gesture over her chest—probably to ward off my crazy—and shakes her head, walking away. “Leave me alone.”

Right. Just makin’ friends wherever I go. I bite back a sigh of frustration. It’s obvious I don’t fit in here, which means that not only is this not Chicago, this is definitely not Earth. It’s also hot as blazes, the air dry. Considering it was sweater weather back home, I’ve definitely changed locations. I glance back at the woman with the basket, but she’s disappeared into the maze of crowded alleys.

All right then, I’m alone. Hot panic simmers in my chest. I can’t be stranded here. I don’t have my purse, or money, or even a fucking bra. I don’t have shoes. I don’t have the faintest idea of where the hell I am or how I got here. I want to press my hands to my forehead and cry. I want to collapse, but I know all of that won’t do any good. So I take a deep, shuddering breath, straighten my shoulders, and try to figure out where I am. If I got dumped here, it stands to reason someone will know how to put me back. I just have to find that person.

Somewhat calmer, I put my hands on my hips and gaze around me, trying to figure out my next move. The music continues somewhere nearby, low and urgent, and I decide I might as well follow it. Seems about as good an idea as any other idea.

I head forward through the dusty streets of…wherever I am. One thing I've learned about people thanks to five years in a corporate environment is that if you look confident, people will assume you know what you're doing and where you're going. So I put confidence in my step and stroll forward like this is all part of my master plan.

Fake it until you make it and all that.

The stone walls snake around, and I follow them until they fork, splitting in opposite directions. One way seems more crowded than the other, so I pick the less crowded path.

Almost immediately, I regret it. It opens up into what looks like a big open area in the city, and here there are rows and rows of tents like something out of an old war movie. There are more land-hippos and more men. Armored men. To a one, they're all dressed in an overcoat of a dark red over armor. It makes them look alarmingly badass.

And they’re all looking at me.

I get that uncomfortable prickle along my spine. Clearly, I'm not supposed to be here…wherever here is.

Clearly, this is very, very bad. I’ve stumbled out of a marketplace in the slums and into a war encampment. I turn on my heel, moving back toward the walls I've just—stupidly—wandered out of.

A hand grabs my shoulder. “What have we got here?”

A man in armor gazes down at me. His face is craggy and rough, unshaven, and he stinks of sweat. He eyes me like I would a new flavor of cheesecake.

I try to feign a smile.

“You look like you’re lost.”

Boy he has no idea just how lost I am. I gesture back where I came. “Sorry. I didn’t see the sign that said ‘no girls allowed.’ I’ll be heading out now.”

His hand just tightens on my shoulder and his eyes narrow at me. “Who’s your overlord?”

“Pardon?” I try to slide out from under the grip of his gloved hand, but he yanks on my arm instead.

“Your overlord,” he says, leering at the front of my pajamas. “If you’re from Aventine, you’ll have an overlord and a house symbol showing your allegiance. Wanna flash those for me?”

“Oooh, they’re in my other pants,” I say brightly. “But if you’ll just let me go—”

He clamps down tighter on my shoulder. “We’ve got ourselves a runaway slave,” he bellows. “Rodrick!”

A man starts running toward us. “Yes, Commander?”

“I’m not a slave,” I protest, jerking at the man’s grip. “Let me go!”

The commander backhands me and I go flying to the ground. “Rodrick” hauls me to my feet as I stare at the men in shock.

Someone just hit me. I touch my face in stunned surprise.

The commander just gives me an icy look, then focuses on Rodrick. “You know what we do to those who have no allegiance, don’t you?”

“The slave pens, Commander?”

The man nods. “Make sure she brings a fair coin. She’s got all her teeth.”

I’m the unluckiest woman ever.

I push my face between the metal bars of the slave cage that’s been my home for two days, trying to see the man that’s just walked up. He gives me a look, and I try to smile prettily at the man in front of me, since I’ve learned that no one listens to a pissy slave. “Hi there. Are you from around here? Because I’m not and I really, really need to get out of here.”

“Shut up, tart,” the man says, barely glancing over at me.

Rude, I think, but I’m not surprised. No one in this place has even heard of the word “manners.” I’m now two days into this new world, though, and I’m determined to find a way home. I’m long past hysterics, long past tears, and have ended up in the grim-resignation end of things. I’m here in this shithole, now I need to figure out how to get out. And getting out means getting out of this slave cage, first of all.

If that means being nicey-nice to this guy, I’ll do it. So I flutter my lashes, give him a chirpy smile, and try again. “I’m from Earth. Chicago, actually. I know everyone thinks it’s all crime ridden and cold, but it’s actually pretty awesome. Great nightlife. Fantastic museums. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it?”

And I beam like I’m not in a slave pen on some Conan-esque planet, wearing manacles and what can only be described as a half of a skirt.

I’m going to get my way out of this place with the power of positive thinking, damn it.

The man just narrows his eyes at me. He glances over at the man in front of the slave pen and gestures at me. “This one’s got a mouth on her.”

“That can be fixed,” the man says, counting coins in his hand and not looking up.

I swallow hard, thinking of the guy I saw have his tongue pulled out yesterday. Okay. New plan. “Did I say Earth? I meant…east. Totally meant east. Absolutely, one hundred percent from this land.” I try to slide back behind the other slaves shackled in the pen. I only moved to the front because this guy looked clean and wealthy and maybe would be reasonably nice to a poor, down-on-her-luck woman that isn’t supposed to be in a slave pen.

Or isn’t supposed to be in this world at all.

No such luck, though. The man points a finger at me and looks over at the guy counting coins. “I’ll take that one anyhow. Best looking of the lot.”

The slave-master finishes counting his coins and grunts. “You’ll want to collar her. She doesn’t think she should be a slave.”

They both share a chuckle at that, and someone puts a hand to my back and shoves me forward. With a yelp, I stagger to the front of the pen, and then I’m hauled out. I would say it’s an improvement from the cramped, filthy pen I’ve been stuck in for the last two days, but given that I’ve just been sold as a slave?

“Improvement” is debatable.

So I smile at the soldier that bought me, determined to make a friend. If I can win him into friendship, maybe he can explain to me what I’m doing in this weird-ass world and how I get home. “Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Faith. I’d give you my hand to shake, but I’m a little tied up at the moment.” I raise my shackled hands and put on my most winning smile.

The soldier stares at me. He smiles, then crooks a finger.

Even though it feels like a trap, I lean forward. “Yes?”

He grabs me by the neck, and then something rough and metal locks around my throat. A collar. I choke, raising my manacled hands to claw at the hair caught between my skin and the collar, since it feels as if it’s all being pulled out. He slaps my hands away, then grabs them and loosens the manacles before snapping my lead chain to my collar. “Follow me, tart.”

Coughing, I stumble after him when he tugs on my lead. “My name’s not Tart. It’s Faith. And I feel like we really need to talk—”

The man comes to an abrupt stop, and I slam into his front. He gives me a shove backward, scowling. “I say I wanted you to lip off at me, Tart?”

“No—”

He glares again, and I go silent. I know when to take a hint. Fighting back frustration, I follow behind the jerk—my new owner—as he heads out of the slave pens and into the busy Aventine streets.

“Pleasure doing business with you again, Sinon,” the slave-master calls.

His name is Sinon. I file that bit of information away, because knowledge is power, and right now I am absolutely on the low end of both knowledge and power. Words burn in my throat, because I desperately want to talk to this man. I need him to listen to me. I need him to realize I’m not from the filthy streets of Aventine, or anywhere else in this land. I’m not from here at all.

I’m from freaking Chicago.

I’m still not entirely sure how I got here. The kids from Narnia went through a wardrobe dresser and became kings. The chick from Outlander touched some stones and ended up with a hot kilted Scotsman.

Me, I knock on my neighbor’s door because I hear voices shouting, and the next thing I know, I’m being shoved in a slave pen and referred to as “Tart.”

Hollywood has definitely misled me.

The most frustrating thing of all is that no one will listen to me. I’ve told everyone I’m not a slave, that I’m not from here. What did I get?

First, I got backhanded.

Then I got shoved into a slave pen.

Now I’ve been sold and I’m following behind Sinon, the bitchiest soldier ever, all because I was trying to be a good neighbor.

“You keeping up, Tart?” Sinon growls as he pushes his way into the busy streets.

“Absolutely.” I hop behind him as quickly as I can, considering I’ve got no shoes. Even though I don’t like this guy—and “don’t like” is being kind of mild—I know I can’t be left alone on the streets of Aventine. I learned that lesson already. I don’t have a “mark” that shows I’m from here, and everyone that doesn’t gets enslaved because apparently Aventine is at war with someone.

Despite the flowery name, this place is a lot more like a barracks than any city I know of. The streets are nothing but trodden mud, there are soldiers crawling everywhere, and all around the city there’s an enormous stone wall. It’s like a fort. A scuzzy one.

And all of the soldiers that pass by in their regiments, that file out of the city on the regular, and that pour forth from every tavern—all male.

This is not a good place to be a slave girl.

Or a girl, period.

Sinon grunts as I trot up to his side like an obedient little waif. “That’s better. Follow close. We’re going to a special party and then I’m passing you over to your new owner.” He gives me a thin-lipped smile that shows yellowing teeth and dark gums. “So behave and I won’t bruise you up before then.”

Whee. I don’t know if I should be excited he’s not going to be my permanent owner or if I should be scared. “Who’s my new owner?”

He doesn’t answer me. Just yanks on my chain again and leads me through the crowd of soldiers.

I study him as we walk. He’s thick-looking, but that might be the layers of padded armor he’s wearing. His head is shaven bald and the stubble there is a mixture of gray and black. He’s sweaty and stinks to high heaven, and his nose has probably been broken more times than I can count. He’s got a thick jaw so his shaved head actually looks more like a pear than a circle, and he’s got questionable dental hygiene.

I really, really hope he’s going to pass me off. If the outfit I’ve been given is any sort of clue, I haven’t been sold so I can wash dishes and mend socks.

I really am gonna be a tart.

Since my pajamas were stolen, the only clothing I have now is the same as the other slave women I’ve seen. It’s a long, unbleached skirt. That’s it. No top, no bra, no nothing. Of course, I’m not about to go all bare-titty through soldier-town, so I hiked it up to my armpits and I’m wearing it like a minidress. Every soldier that passes by us stares as if I’m wearing something far more scandalous, and they leer.

So far? Not a fan of Aventine.

“This way, Tart,” my new owner tells me and jerks on my chain again.

I put my hands to the neck cuff, trying to shield my abused skin from the next yank, and trot a little faster behind him. “Where are we going?”

He ignores me. In fact, he keeps ignoring me as we leave the mucky streets and head toward rickety, stinky docks that crawl with cats and fishermen. There are dozens of small boats moored here, and one flat-bottomed barge with a bright red linen top waits at the far end. We head there.

“Where you going?” the man standing in front of the boat asks Sinon.

I wait for Sinon to ignore him. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest in a quasi-salute. “Heading to the temple. They’re expecting me.”

The sailor glances at me. “And her?”

“Tart’s a gift.”

I wave my fingers at him in greeting. Now’s not the time to debate my name.

“Gift for who?”

“Ain’t none of your business, is it?” Sinon’s grumpy.

“It is if you bring uninvited trash to the temple tonight. Prelate’ll have my head.” The sailor crosses his arms and rocks back on his feet.

My owner snorts. “Who do you think she’s a gift for, fool?”

Oh.

Okay, so I’m going to be for the prelate. I guess he likes…tarts. Lucky me.

The sailor smirks in my direction. “If I was placing odds, she’d be a cleaver bride.”

“What’s a cleaver bride?” I ask.

“Shut up, Tart,” Sinon says, and when the sailor moves aside, he pulls me after him without answering.

We ride on the flat-bottomed boat, crammed next to a bunch of other people. Someone reaches out and pinches me, and I slap at hands, wishing medieval plagues on all these armor-wearing bastards. It’s the longest boat ride ever, but eventually we pull up to the docks of the island…and the world is different.

This place is cool and clean and beautiful. I’m surprised. There are green manicured gardens and people in long red robes watering plants from what look like helmets. There are several marble buildings, all of them columned and lovely, and there’s a scent of incense in the air. It’s nothing like dirty, overrun, soldier-covered Aventine at all.

Clearly they take better care of their temples than their city.

We head to the front of the main building. Outside is a massive statue of a man, battleaxe raised. Immediately, Sinon drops to his knees and bows his head.

I wait behind him, fidgeting.

Sinon looks up and gives my chains a furious yank, sending me staggering forward. “You kneel before the gods, Tart! Lord Aron of the Cleaver, the Butcher God of Battle, deserves your respect.”

“Okay, okay!” I drop to my knees. Sheesh.

Sinon continues to glare at me with his egg-shaped head, so I even go so far as to put my forehead to the ground. Sheesh.

I figure a little kneeling won’t matter if I don’t mean it—and I don’t. I have no idea who Aron of the Cleaver is, after all. Clearly a god of some kind in this strange land. Maybe a war god, given that there’s a lot of guys covered in armor around here.

My owner continues to sit in front of the statue, eyes closed, meditating. When this goes on for a while, I sit up and study my surroundings. The statue’s made of marble, and the man behind the upraised battleaxe—Aron of the Cleaver—doesn’t look friendly. Most of his face is hidden behind the axe itself, but his hair is long and straight, held back from his head by a braid at the crown, and his stern, unyielding face has a long, wicked scar that goes from above the left eye all the way down to the jaw.

Pretty sure he didn’t get that from playing darts.

I continue to sit, watching my surroundings. More soldiers move past. Some pause to bow at the statue, some just pause, kiss their sword pommel and continue on. Definitely a war god. Maybe that’s why they were watering plants with helmets.

Though if this is a war god’s temple, why am I here? Why does their prelate want a tart? And what the hell is a cleaver bride? A nun of some kind?

Of course, I’ve been asking the same question for two days. Ten bucks says I’m not going to get an answer anytime soon.

I stare at the statue. If I’m in a new world, maybe the gods can send me home. “I’ll be your best friend, Aron,” I whisper. “Just get me back to Chicago.”

Sinon gets up. He wipes his brow, sweating like a pig in his heavy armor. I move into place behind him. My neck is throbbing from how many times my chain has been yanked, and I’m tempted to pull a Princess Leia on this guy and grab my chain, loop it around his neck, and choke the life out of him.

We head into the temple itself, past columns shaped like swords and statue after statue of the scarred, angry-looking god.

A pair of men in red robes wait by the portcullis. One raises a hand to us. “Halt.”

My owner stops and effects an ornate bow. “Sword Sinon Dantali, here for the annual Anticipation.” He straightens and then gestures at me. “I’ve brought an offering for the prelate.”

“A blonde, I see,” one of the men says with a smirk. “Original.”

“The prelate knows what he likes,” Sinon says.

“Truth. And it’s not like the Butcher God will show his face tonight.” The soldiers bark-laughs, and then one grabs my lead from Sinon. “Put her in with the other offerings.”

OceanofPDF.com