Rare Kinds

Chapter 6

Mohan tossed in turned in the narrow grey bed. He hadn't been able to sleep since Roger left. He was deeply disgusted with himself. It was hard to separate his feelings from the beast's within. What it felt it made him feel. What it wanted he was made to want. Its feelings and desires were far too powerful to ignore and fight. He felt helpless and pathetic.

It was probably best that he kept all of it to himself. This thing was more dangerous than he could ever be.

He was thankful that it never had control for long. Not too far into these thoughts he felt it try to rise again and he tired himself out trying to push it back down.

He still could not sleep.

What felt like hours passed when finally he threw the blankets off and sat up. His skin was burning, clothes damp from sweat. His heartbeat sounded in his head like a bass drum, pounding louder and faster. Mohan thought his head would explode.

He wouldn't have minded.

How long had Roger been gone? He didn't know. The fire was out and the grey world outside the window was still dark, the moon hanging high over the city.

Why couldn't he just shut his eyes?

Vigorously Mohan rubbed at his face but couldn't clear his thoughts. His mind was racing as fast as his heart. The room was so hot—why was it so hot? He tore at his shirt so forcefully that he tore at his flesh, unaware of the low growl that escaped from his clenched teeth.

He threw his head back and sighed. The pain was his escape. The smell of his blood was fuel for something he didn't fully understand but had been fighting for as long as he could remember. He felt its power erasing all thought from his mind, dragging his conscious self down and pulling his bloody fingers to his greedy mouth. He went mad tasting them and suddenly everything that was Mohan was pushed to the back of his mind and locked there in the dark.

Something else took over, stretching his body up from the bed, flexing his muscles as if it were trying on a new skin.

Then there was a knock at the door.

It wasn't the soft, friendly knock of Mohan's friend Roger, and it wasn't the innkeeper, for there wasn't any doubt that he had long ago gone to bed. The place was a ghost town right after dark.

It was a knock that meant business.

Mohan's body turned, stalked toward the door and opened it. Two men stood in the dark hallway. Shrouded in shadow, both appeared tall and dressed in the same style (they even had the same kind of breast plate) and their long hair hung in their faces.

The one in front did not look amused—that much could be discerned in the low light—and his friend behind him looked a little anxious; his hand was obviously wrapped around the hilt of a mace which was held at his side, however he seemed too young and nervous to do anything.

"I am Hroth and this is Hund," the first one said in a heavily accented voice. "Invite us in."

When Mohan stepped aside they walked in and he shut the door behind them.

"We know why you are here and we must insist on justice in our own land." The man's accent was unmistakable, but he spoke Kings* rather well for a Northman.

Mohan didn't say anything in return. His back was facing them—his eyes staring blankly at the door.

There was a moment of tense silence before he was addressed again, "The city official told us Olecksi would send a representative. Someone we could speak to on this matter."

Mohan said nothing.

"We cannot let you keep the offender here."

The silence in between his prompts stretched once more and Mohan still did nothing.

"Turn around!" he snapped to Mohan's back, but still got no response.

The two men whispered to each other heatedly.

Finally the one who had been silent, Hund, spoke up and in broken Kings he said, "All right? There is blood," he paused, waiting for a response that would never come. "…your fingers," he finished hesitantly.

A heavy hand dropped on Mohan's shoulder and he turned, his mouth stretching into a grin that should have broken his jaw.

The beast behind Mohan's eyes grabbed the offending hand and ripped it off.

*****

Nick's eyes opened and he peeled himself from the floor. The side of his head was pounding.

"Where am I?" He could vaguely recall, and attempted to deduce just where he was from his surroundings. At the moment he had a nice view. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to see a few dust bunnies and one white sock hiding under a cot.

"On the floor," a deep voice said from close by.

"How…?" but then he remembered Lent dipping his finger into the green bottle and shoving that same finger in his shoulder wound. Then everything had gone dark and he had probably hit his head on something.

"I'd help you up but I'm not feeling very well."

He sighed audibly. Nick had been hoping that everything he had experienced earlier that evening really had been a dream, but the pain in his head made that theory most definitely impossible. He was able to peer over the top of the bed at Lent's face, but didn't look at his eyes; they unnerved him.

"You should have left a long time ago."

"And get killed in the street?"

"You're right," Lent said resignedly, "There are better places to die."

"Who are you people? What are you doing with my file? Why have you guys been watching me? What is going on here?" When Nick finally took a breath it was a big one. All those questions had been building up in him for some time and they had all come out in one big rush.

Lent had looked as if he was about to say something several times but was interrupted by Nick's constant questioning. So Nick shut up and tried to be patient, but couldn't help narrowing his eyes at him from his spot on the floor. He would have tried to get up—maybe try to intimidate him by standing over him—but his head hurt too much to move. Nick continued to gently glare, since even glaring at a decent level was painful.

Lent chuckled a little under his breath. "I like you," it didn't seem that way, Nick thought, despite the chuckling. "Really," Lent insisted. "But I'm not going to tell you anything."

"It may be better to confess since you're on your deathbed."

Lent stared at him as if he'd never seen him before. "You don't know that."

"You don't know that."

Lent sighed, closing his eyes against the conversation. He really did look extremely aggravated now, but was apparently trying to keep his cool.

"If anyone deserved to know what was going on I'd say it'd be you."

"Thank you?" He didn't mean it as a question but it came out that way.

"However I've made a vow," Lent said firmly, now staring Nick seriously in the face. "So no."

This time Nick did look him in the eyes. What would it take for this guy to tell him what was happening? While we're asking, Nick thought, what would it take to get my life back to semi-normalcy? But that was a question whose answer was 'out to lunch' seemingly indefinitely.

"Roger told me things." Nick kept his comment vague, but noted the raise of Lent's eyebrows when he mentioned Roger.

"He didn't," the tone was incredulous.

"He did."

"I seriously doubt it, but if he wants to live dangerously that's his business."

"Isn't there anything you can tell me?"

"Sure, what do you want to know? Besides anything we've just discussed."

Nick thought that he was owed at least some information, but Lent seemed to understand that already and not give a damn whatsoever.

"Where's Roger?"

Lent didn't seem to expect that question and looked down at Nick, appearing more than a little puzzled.

"Why do you care?"

Unexpectedly the wind outside began to howl and shake the windows. Pieces of trash and random debris were swirled around in the air outside. Some crumpled papers and hamburger wrappers pressed themselves against the outside of the window.

There was a loud crack and the whole place seemed to shift. Nick grabbed onto the cot and Lent pushed at him weakly.

"Get off."

Nick wouldn't budge.

Then the lights flickered eerily around them and finally went out completely. Nick and Lent blinked at each other in the dark.

"Shit," Lent said as a door was heard opening somewhere downstairs.

Then there was the sound of footsteps getting closer and closer. Nick froze; he felt the blood leave his face as the footsteps stopped just behind him.

"What's that?" he asked stupidly.

Lent didn't answer; he seemed to be frowning over Nick's head into the dark.

"Who's that," a woman's voice corrected him.

The lights came back on just in time for a blunt object to make excruciating contact with the back of Nick's head. He cursed everything he could think of as his world faded to black.

---

As Nick regained consciousness he realized that he was no longer in the bookshop. He was now on the dingy and wet floor of a smelly cell. The cracked concrete walls that surrounded him had no windows and the only door looked like reinforced steel. There was no way out of this.

But how did he get from the bookshop to here? Come to think of it, how in the hell did he get from Nicholas Chesley, resident crazy person, to hunted man, stalked by the supernatural (he was guessing as he remembered Roger clutching at his apartment building, and most of all Lent's eyes that were like staring at an inky black hole) and locked away in the nastiest, dirtiest cell he had ever seen. Well, it was the first one he had ever seen and it was gross.

Nick sat up and backed against the wall, hugging himself around the knees. He hated being locked up, and he didn't even know what was going on! Why couldn't they at least tell him why they were doing this? More importantly, why couldn't they just let him go back home and leave him alone. The more he thought about it the angrier he became.

He rushed at the door and pounded on it repeatedly with both fists, throwing in the occasional kick for good measure.

"Open this door!" he shouted, hoping that someone could hear him. "Let me out of here!"

He continued in this fashion for what felt like the better part of an hour.

"Stop it!" Lent's voice sounded from somewhere in the ceiling. Nick looked up but the light blinded him. "Sorry, but you're not going anywhere until the pills, or whatever they're called, are absent from your blood."

That thought terrified him and he stepped away from the door, shaking his head.

"No, no, no. Look, you need to come in here." Nick's eyes couldn't focus on anything. He saw his medication in the panel in the wall. Why didn't he think to grab them? "You can't let that happen; you don't understand," his tone betrayed his desperation. He couldn't take the hallucinations. When he spoke again his voice shook. "I need that medication. I see things."

Nick wanted to explain further; he wanted to describe what it was but they already knew. They had his file. They just wanted to watch him fall apart. Lent and that girl, whoever she was. What had Roger's role been in this? Was he just bait to pique his curiosity? To trick him into this weirdness?

"You need to let me out of here. You have to take me home!"

He began pounding on the door again, this time with renewed vigor. He had to find a way out of there. He didn't want to become a part of whatever sick game these people were playing.

Roger had said they weren't dangerous…well, he had said that he wasn't dangerous, but clearly their definitions of what was dangerous were contradictory. There wasn't anyone he could trust and without the medication Nick wouldn't even be able to trust himself.

"You won't be kept in here forever," Lent's voice said. "If you don't calm down I'll send Maria in there to knock you out again."

Nick threw himself at the door, ignoring Lent's words. Clearly it had been an empty threat because no one came into the room. Eventually he became too tired and sore to keep beating against the door and he collapsed near the door, falling asleep almost as soon as his cheek hit the floor.

*****

Roger was hopeful when he took a quick look behind him and was disappointed to see just one person. He was even further disappointed to realize the man was two blocks away and already had his knife out. What sort of thief had his knife out before he was in arm's reach of someone's throat?

Roger walked slower for a block or two, noting a steeple up ahead. It had a vague outline of a sun at the very top from what he could tell in the dark, and it must be attached to the church in which Laët was hiding.

He reminded himself that this was just reconnaissance; he would see how many people were in and how to get out without having to go through the city. It should be easy. His plan was to the knock the guy out and drag him back to Weather Rock. It needn't be any more complicated than that, he thought, and he'd be back before Mohan came to terms with being taken advantage of earlier that evening.

He glanced back again but the thief was still hanging back a block or so, knife still out, but maintaining his infuriatingly slow pace.

Roger stopped and hung his head. There was no one else around. He had been walking around for at least two hours. Why didn't this guy just rush him with the knife? At least give it a solid try! There wasn't anyone here to see it. Roger took a moment to look around, really taking it in just how creepy it was that the whole place seemed to just shut down after dark.

That poor thief was really hurting for business.

He looked back at the guy, waiting and watching. The thief took a few steps forward, then stopped and looked around, took a few more steps forward, stopped again, and continued this pattern.

Roger watched for only a few moments more before he gave up and decided to meet him in the middle just to get the whole bloody thing over with.

As he got closer the thief raised the knife, his hand shaking quite a bit as he pointed his weapon at Roger's face.

"Sorry," he said.

Roger cracked a smile.

The thief was extremely dirty and it was for that reason that Roger didn't take a deep breath. The thief's hair was cropped evenly all over his head, and his face--although shaved recently--was bruised and cut here and there. His coat had quite a number of holes in it, through which Roger could see a dingy shirt that used to be white from what he could tell. His pants were torn around the knees and the hem, but his shoes were clearly a great deal newer than the rest of his attire. He must have stolen those recently.

Roger shook his head, amused. "I can tell your heart's not in it."

"I'm not going to hurt you," the thief whispered, his voice cracking just a little.

"I believe you," Roger said.

Roger took a step forward and the thief took a big step back.

"Stay where you are!" he shouted without warning causing Roger to wince a bit and cover one ear, but just as he finished screaming his piece a large man stepped out of the shadows from behind him and knocked him unconscious.

The poor thief fell to the ground, his knife freeing itself from his fingers and clattering into the street.

The man that stepped out of the shadows and put away the club he had used on the thief.

He was obviously a Northman. He was bald and had deep, nasty white scars marring his scalp and face. The one that ran along his cheek made his smile look ridiculously comical and terrifying at the same time.

Roger gave him a friendly smile and tipped an imaginary hat.

"You are Roger," the man said in an accent that he found extremely irritating, "I pay him to follow you from your cheap lodgings."

"You're one of the Northmen," Roger said, the smile gone from his lips. He was unable to stop rudely staring at the man's disfigurement. "What happened to your face?"

"I am told you are dangerous," he said this as if it weren't true. Roger found that extremely insulting. "So I kill you and go back to my hotel."

What a relief, Roger thought. He had been initially so disappointed when it was just the incompetent thief. He had never been so happy to meet someone in his life! He had expected a go at diplomacy and was pleasant surprised.

He put a hand on his hip and stared at him as he thought about what to do about the situation. The Northman was polite enough to wait for a response. What he really wanted to do was invite the Northern bastard with the horrible accent to just go ahead and try. Roger refused to believe that he didn't have time to squeeze this guy's head until it popped like an overly ripe tomato.

Just thinking about it brought him such satisfaction.

However, Roger couldn't kill this man no matter how annoying he was. If he did Mohan would be extremely disappointed, the Master would probably reassign him or worse maybe partner him up with Maria, and he would definitely never be trusted on his own.

The Master would go on and on about how frustrated he was that he always had to clean up Roger's messes and he'd never hear the end of it. Worst of all, he'd probably never see Nicholas again. Maria would probably brag endlessly about uncovering his secret and how she finally was able to take something that was rightfully Roger's.

By the look of the man's breastplate he wasn't just any ordinary annoying guy either. His clothes were far too impressive and covered too much of his body for him to be a regular Northman.

The Master had mentioned that the Northman Laët had injured was next in line for their throne, so this asshole must have been one of the men that was supposed to be guarding him at the time. And he just couldn't go around killing royal guards, could he?

Unless he was really good at covering it up… and he was so very, very thirsty. The Northman seemed to have realized that he reached a conclusion and broke into a feral grin that rivaled his own.

"Ready to be killed?" he asked, pulling his sword from a scabbard on his back.

"Why don't you go ahead and try?"

*****

The Northman called Hund stared at where his hand had been in shock. His friend behind him drew his sword as he started to scream. Mohan shoved the detached hand in his mouth to shut him up and pushed him aside to the floor. It would do no good to be discovered like this.

As Hroth began to swing the sword in Mohan's his direction, their eyes locked and the Northman's arms stopped mid-swing. The man's eyes dilated as a dreamy expression took over his features. He dropped to his knees, the sword useless but still in his hands. He stayed there, watching within a body he could longer control as Mohan picked up his friend by his throat and pulled the hand out of his mouth.

The man immediately began to plead in his native tongue, his voice raspy and distorted due to Mohan's grip. He really did look so young, too young to be finding himself in such a predicament. Hund, the beast decided, hadn't lived enough yet to satisfy him.

"It's been so long…" A dark voice hissed from Mohan's lips. It snaked out of his mouth in the form of black smoke, making Hund cough on his words. "…since I've had something substantial."

The beast turned his attention to the one on his knees.

"Kill yourself."

The man stared blankly up at him as he took off his breastplate and let it fall to the floor beside him. He then raised the weapon in his hands robotically and stabbed himself in the stomach. He pushed the sword in all the way to the hilt and twisted it.

Mohan threw the Northman he held by the throat against the wall, leaving him gasping and frozen with shock. Hund could only watch as the beast and descended on Hroth in a fury before he slumped to the floor. The beast dismembered his companion and consumed him bones, soul and all, leaving nothing left but his armor—empty and covered in blood on the floor.