chapter twenty-two
Tabor’s stomach growled as they traversed the outskirts of the suburbs, but Garrick and Zackery ignored him. The brutes had taken turns gorging themselves on a weakened deer who hadn’t made it to safety with the rest of her herd when they came across the animals nibbling on clovers at the bottom of the hills at dawn.
The clear sky and nearly full moon had allowed them to trek over the hills and into the wasteland through the night. Tabor’s muscles ached in places he’d never felt before and without the shade of trees, the blinding sun felt like it would melt off his face.
At least he wasn’t the only one experiencing the discomforts of being exposed to the elements. Sweat poured down Zackery’s forehead. Every couple of seconds the mongrel had to swipe his meaty fists over his eyes and blink with the rapid speed of a hummingbird’s wings in flight.
The blood and saliva had dried up inside Tabor’s mouth, leaving behind a mouth full of fuzzy cotton. He constantly had to fight the urge to gag. If he started, he might suffocate himself before he had a chance to get away. Tabor was damn near ready to trade in his own tongue for a single drop of water.
Garrick set a brutal pace, charging across the dusty land with a crazed determination that bordered on madness. It wasn’t as though stopping would provide relief, nor could Tabor complain . . . out loud. He kept expecting his body to reach the point of collapse, but somehow he continued trudging forward, hunched over in a feeble attempt to hide from the sun.
The sky rippled above decaying rooftops as heat rebounded off gray shingles. Old human dwellings had always filled Tabor with foreboding, but right then the shade beneath those disintegrating roofs was the most inviting sight he’d seen in hours.
Garrick kept clear of the homes, leading them along the outskirts with its desert-like terrain of dry, cracked earth and stringy weeds that formed haggard patches and petite wildflowers. A gentle breeze blew over them and Tabor’s body sighed with relief until the air went still. He could practically hear the drip and patter of Zackery’s sweat as it splattered over the sunbaked dirt. There was no more conversation between Garrick and Zackery—only stillness as vast as the open wasteland. Tabor wouldn’t have had the energy or saliva to spare for speaking even if he were able to.
That day lasted longer than any Tabor had ever known. He was beginning to think the sun had gotten stuck at its pinnacle or turned territorial like a bitch who had kicked the moon out of the sky for good.
As the day inched on, Tabor began hallucinating. First, he saw a wolf running in the distance. His heart had lurched with hope that Sasha had come after him, but his wish withered to dust when he realized she was advancing from the wrong direction. After that he began seeing shimmering lakes in the distance with blue waters that glistened and beckoned his feet forward with false assurance. He even saw his mother, waving to him from the east. Rather than run from him as the wolf had done, or evade him like the lakes, his mother ventured closer—close enough to stick her tongue out at Garrick. For the first time, Tabor wondered if he was going to die.
Trees sprang into view in the near distance—another mirage angling for his mind. The island—made of foliage—became taller and denser with each step and managed to remain in place. Soon he could make out a large pond encased in the greenery unlike the lakes in the sand. Maybe Tabor’s body was giving up and slowly easing his consciousness into the great beyond, a lush landscape of water and shade. Would the wolf be waiting for him there? Would his mother? Perhaps they were one and the same.
Zack panted beside him and gaped at the distant pond longingly.
No. No. No. Zack and Garrick weren’t allowed in Tabor’s utopian afterlife.
“We’re almost at the first campsite,” Garrick announced with pride, as though he’d discovered a new continent rather than stumbled upon a parcel of land that had likely been an urban park at one time.
Garrick kept the same brisk pace Tabor and Zack now matched. Tabor was ready to pitch himself into the pond headfirst and suck in whatever water he could through the gag. He wanted to submerge his entire body.
Step by step they neared until the first stretch of shade slid down their bodies and grass cushioned the soles of their blistered feet. Tabor could have hugged the trees if his arms were free and he weren’t so intent on the pond. Ten paces from the water’s edge, Garrick stopped and stared at the trunk of a tree.
Zack made to move past him to the shoreline.
“Wait,” Garrick said.
Halting his plodding footsteps, Zack folded his arms and dropped them heavily across his chest. Tabor kept walking toward the pond.
The two oafs could stare at tree trunks until they were blue in the face; he had his own priorities.
But with only eight paces left to go, Zack snatched Tabor’s upper left arm and yanked him back.
“What is it?” Zack demanded. He squeezed Tabor’s shoulder while glaring at Garrick.
The elder continued inspecting the tree trunk and vines with clusters of three leaves, pointed at the tips, clinging to bark.
Tabor’s mother re-emerged—this time inside his head, her singsong voice trilling, “Leaves of three. Let them be.”
Garrick glanced over his shoulder at Zack and Tabor once before reaching out and yanking several leaves off the vine.
“Dummy,” Tabor thought right before Garrick lunged at him and jabbed his fingers under the gag, stuffing the leaves inside Tabor’s mouth before he had a chance to react.
“What are you doing?” Zack bellowed, his eyes rounding.
“Hold him,” Garrick yelled, but Zack let go and stepped back with a wide-eyed expression of horror.
Having his arm released didn’t matter; the bitter leaves were inside his mouth, plastered to his tongue. Tabor gagged and stumbled backward. His bound wrists flew up, fingers clawing at the gag which he pulled loose enough to yank down to his chin and spit out the noxious plant. They fell in a wet clump at his feet, covered in saliva and old blood. He attempted to spit out every last trace of the toxic leaves, but his mouth was drying back up and Garrick grabbed Tabor roughly by the chin in one hand, while jerking the gag back in place with the other.
Tabor gagged and rasped for breath, certain he was going to choke to death. Garrick pushed him to the ground.
“Stay with him while I rinse off my hand,” he said with cool detachment.
Tabor no longer saw him or Zack. His eyes were closed as though shutting out the light would cause less interference to his nostrils as he wheezed in breaths. His throat was scratchy. It tightened as though the leaves had taken root upon entering his mouth and formed vines that were squeezing off oxygen before consuming him altogether.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Zack demanded after Garrick returned.
“Your turn. Go rinse off while I watch him,” Garrick answered.
“What about him?”
“With any luck he won’t be able to speak for a while, which means we can dump him here and save ourselves another day and a half of walking.”
“I thought you said he might follow us back if we left him too soon.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Garrick answered, a smile in his tone.
Silence followed, or maybe Tabor blacked out; he couldn’t tell for sure until he was jolted upright, onto his feet, and into consciousness—a state of mind he was finding highly overrated.
“Follow me,” Garrick said as flashes of light appeared over Tabor’s vision.
He blinked away the remaining haze, noticing angry red welts on Garrick’s right hand as his fingers curled in. The rash covered the brute’s wrist and spread down his arm. If only it continued south, straight down to his hairy balls and limp prick. Too bad the thing wouldn’t fall off for the buzzards to pick apart.
Zack walked behind Tabor, giving him a push when he stopped. After the first shove, Tabor didn’t stop because he didn’t want Zack’s hand on him again. As they passed the pond, Tabor looked from the water to Zack with a mind clouded in rage. Although his look wasn’t enough to cause Zack to combust on the spot, he had enough sense to lower his head and stare at the ground to avoid Tabor’s scorching glare.
The cooling shade did nothing for Tabor’s burning throat. He never imagined it could feel worse than before, but now it was like trying to breathe through a thin reed.
His wolf howled for release. Water! Food! Oxygen! The beast within would provide him with all his immediate needs.
Tabor pitched forward and took several stumbling steps away from Zack and fell to his knees. They throbbed from the earlier impact they’d taken from Wolfrik, but pain was nothing to the lack of oxygen inside Tabor’s lungs. Usually he was faster than most shifters, but that required focus. His body quivered and arm hairs rose, turning to fur.
Garrick whipped around, eyes expanding in alarm. “Pick him up! Now!”
Tabor tried to hurry, urging his face to elongate into a muzzle—imagining the easy flow of oxygen between his fangs and down his throat.
His jaw and teeth began to transform until he abruptly lost hold of the shift when Zack yanked him off the ground. Tabor’s growl was cut short—a fleeting moment of release that made Tabor twist out of Zack’s grip and land on the ground in an attempt to try again.
Garrick’s fist was on him like a lightning bolt, striking his left eye from above. This time he didn’t blackout, but it was enough to temporarily stun Tabor as the bastard loomed over him like a storm cloud edged in black.
Light faded as Tabor’s left eye swelled shut.
Garrick ground his teeth.
“Try and shift again and I’ll punch out your right eye. You want to be mute and blind?” He stuck his face inches from Tabor’s. “That what you want, boy?”
Tabor’s left eye throbbed too much to narrow. Instead, he glanced at the blazing red rash on Garrick’s hand with his good eye and smiled through the gag.
Garrick’s eyes flashed. “You little shit.” He struck Tabor again, but this time he was prepared and jerked his head sideways, taking the blow against his right temple rather than his eye. Rather than try again, Garrick scooped him up from beneath his arms. “It’s time to get rid of you once and for all.” Once Tabor was on two feet, Garrick latched his arm around his and dragged him forward.
It was one thing to get the occasional shove from Zack, another to be yanked along by Garrick—the prick’s fingers digging into Tabor’s bicep. Tabor jerked out of Garrick’s hold only to be snatched by Zack, who latched on to his other arm.
“Not much further,” Garrick said.
Light flickered over Tabor’s one good eye, sun poking at him through the branches. He should just go along with them—let them ditch him so he could shift and be on his way. His swollen throat meant no spells until it cleared, but his wolf had no use for words.
A worn trail appeared ahead through the tall grass. An area had been cleared and a fire pit dug about a foot and a half around. Charred branches sat in the bottom and five stumps were arranged around stones circling the fire pit.
As they passed the dormant fire, Tabor twisted and shoved at Garrick and Zack; it wasn’t in his nature to go along quietly.
It was while he thrashed against Zack’s hold that Garrick stopped, bringing them all to a halt. Zack’s attention flicked away from Tabor and was quickly followed by a sharp inhale. “What is that?” he asked in horror.
Two feet in front of them the ground gave way to a small, deep pit the length of two tall men. The earthen floor at the bottom had barely enough room for three humans to lay down side by side. Hundreds of claw marks lined the lower walls—they raked across Tabor’s soul. If his throat could have tightened any more, it would have. He took a step back, but Garrick still had his arm crushed in his grip.
“He won’t be following us home,” Garrick said proudly.
The sound of his arrogant, unfeeling voice and the sight of the sickening pit made Tabor’s stomach roil and twist. He felt like vomiting, but his stomach was empty, his throat closed, and his mouth gagged. With no food in his belly, he felt acid trying to rise up his blistered throat.
“We can’t leave him in there.” Zack spoke from beside him, barely audible, as though his own throat had swollen shut.
“It’s too late now,” Garrick said. “You know what would happen. Banishment. Possible death. This one would try to hunt us down. Sasha might, too.”
Hearing Sasha’s name sent a spear ripping through Tabor’s heart. He silently cursed ever falling for the proud she-wolf. Loving her had been the worst mistake of his life.
“I won’t do it; I won’t put him in there,” Zack said stubbornly.
“Then I will,” Garrick said.
The next moment Tabor was flung forward, sailing through the air . . . then he dropped like a stone. He landed feet first before falling sideways. Unable to fling his arm out with his wrists bound, he landed roughly on his right shoulder with a crushing force that made his bones shriek. Stunned, he lay on his side trying to determine if any bones were broken. He didn’t think so. A lifetime of living in the woods had trained him to protect both his human and wolf body. This wasn’t the first tumble Tabor had taken, and he’d managed to bend his knees and take the initial impact on the balls of his feet before angling his body sideways. The drop wasn’t terrible, but without a rope, he wouldn’t be climbing out on his own.
He remained on the ground, eyes closed, exhaustion and despair overtaking him. Now that the cursed journey had reached its end, he wanted Garrick and Zack to go away so he could shift and heal the wounds Garrick had inflicted over him.
“Is he okay?” Zack asked from above.
Tabor wished Zack would quit acting like he’d developed a conscience. It was too late for that. It had been too late the moment he agreed to help Garrick abduct him.
“It’s a short drop; he’s fine,” Garrick replied. “Probably playing dead to try and lure one of us down there.”
“We can’t leave him in there.”
“Buck up; it’s done.”
“He hasn’t had food or water.”
“The humans can take care of him.”
“The way they took care of Wolfrik?” Zack demanded.
“We don’t know that humans did that to Wolfrik.”
Zack made no response. Silence tunneled down the pit, circulating through the confines of dirt and stone. Cool, soft earth pressed against Tabor’s cheek. The floor of the pit wasn’t as compact as he would have suspected, but moist and airy, as though it had recently been dug up. In his mind, he saw the claw marks etched into the earthen walls. How many wolves had tried to escape this pit? How many had tried fruitlessly to dig their way out?
Tabor’s chest rose and fell with labored breaths. Had Garrick and Zackery finally left? Despite the silence, he sensed them still standing at the edge of the pit, staring down. He wouldn’t give Garrick the satisfaction of looking up from the depths of the shadowed pit.
Tabor waited and soon heard Zack’s voice drift down. “I won’t leave him in there.”
There was a scuffle above and a shower of clumped earth and small pebbles rained down. Garrick snarled.
“You either leave him down there or join him, but decide fast. I’m going home.”
Tabor didn’t hear Zack’s answer—if there even was one—only Garrick’s satisfied response of, “Wise choice.”
Retreating footsteps alerted Tabor they were truly leaving him behind. It wasn’t long before the scent of smoke wafted into the pit—Garrick must have started a fire to signal the humans.
Son of a bitch. Bastard. Swine.
Tabor hated Garrick with glacial force. Hunting him down wasn’t such a bad idea.
First, Tabor had to get free of the hell pit.
He rolled onto his back and pulled the gag down, rasping out a breath that provided small relief through his scratchy throat. He pulled at the dirty fabric until the tight knot reached his fingers and he was able to tug it loose enough to untie. The binding on his wrists would be easy to step out of once he shifted, but he hadn’t wanted to risk the gag biting into him any more while his body rearranged itself into a mammal.
Free of the cursed gag, Tabor shifted without further interruption—his claws sinking into the rich soil and pressing against the pads of his paws. Air flowed into his lungs. His throat and chest relaxed. He could see out of both eyes, bringing the loamy confines of the pit into sharp focus. The scent of old wolf urine and feces surrounded him. It coated the walls and mingled with the smell of fire and smoke.
The fur rose along the ridge of Tabor’s back as instinctual panic overwhelmed his wolf’s senses. No longer plagued by aches and pains, his immediate concern shifted to his earthen imprisonment. As a human, he could have laid still and tried to work on a plan, but his wolf walked in circles, growling in frustration, never stopping even as the day wore on. It wasn’t until night fell as deep and dark as the pit that Tabor shifted into human form in order to lay still. Immediately his entire head throbbed and throat ached, his breath wheezing out in scratchy rasps. He had trouble deciding which form was worse.
Definitely human.
In addition to the exhaustion, aches, pains, and respiratory problems, his mind seethed out of control—hatred consuming him for Garrick, Zackery, Wolfrik, and Sasha. Two days ago he wouldn’t have believed it possible to loathe her with such lethal passion. He would have sacrificed himself to save her—he nearly did.
Now—while he lay at the bottom of a dark pit—Sasha might very well be lying with Wolfrik.
Some rational part of his brain argued that she wouldn’t immediately lay with Wolfrik after learning Tabor had gone missing. No, she’d wait an acceptable length of time. Certainly not three years. Maybe not even three months.
Teeth gnashing, Tabor decided it was time to shift again. Better to be a wolf.
But would the wizards at Balmar Heights allow him to shift into his animal form once he joined their community? Tabor laughed mirthlessly right before beginning the shift. Trapped in that abyss there was a good chance he’d never find out.