9 - The First Deal

  The afternoon light filtered through the narrow slit in the stone wall that served as a window. It cast faint shadows across the cold cell. He stirred, the sharp ache in his muscles a cruel reminder of where he was. Pain still lanced through his limbs with every slight movement, each muscle stiff from the weeks of restraint. The cold seeped into the deep of his bones. Every shallow breath felt like dragging hot coals through his lungs still. Chains rattled softly as he shifted, testing their strength as his own grew. The magic flared as he called to it, but as before, it quickly disappeared into the collar. Barely a flicker of his crimson and obsidian magic could be felt this time.

  He lay his head back and huffed in frustration.

  It had been days now since he had become aware beyond the pain. These people, they made sounds. Demanding sounds. If he lay still, they hurt. If he cried out, they hurt. He didn’t understand what they wanted.

  Except Soft Hands.

  She was consistent. She was strange. Cried when he cried. Hissed when he hissed. Soft Hands took pain away, didn’t give it.

  He didn’t trust it. She made even less sense than the others.

  Footsteps echoed down the corridor, each measured. The flickering torchlight cast shifting shadows that stretched and shrank with every footfall. His heart quickened, each beat loud and erratic. He tensed, listening closely. His one good eye flickered nervously, his ears straining to hear. The door clanged open, the metal scraping against the stone floor. He sat up weakly, chains clanking, and pressed his back against the stone wall, wary.

  Then, an herbal scent filled the room. He knew it. Soft Hands.

  “Hello, Luka,” she said, smiling.

  He grumbled and retreated as far back into the wall as possible. His wounds twisted and stretched. Painful. But he didn’t lash out.

  Another sound came from behind.

  “I see you’ve been making progress.”

  Another voice, low and stern. The scent of steel and earth accompanied it, sharp, familiar. Frightening. His grip tightened on the edge of the cot, his chains rattled nervously.

  But before he might protest, another scent followed, tantalizing.

  Meat.

  His mouth watered. The Stern Man entered, carrying a tray between his hands. Steam rose from a large bowl. His eyes locked on it.

  “How are you today, Luka?” Soft Hands spoke again.

  He ignored her sounds, focused on the food. His stomach twisted. Hunger, sharp and pained. He remembered morsels being slipped through his lips - too dry. He remembered water on his tongue - warm and acrid.

  This was warm. This was meat.

  Soft Hands fell silent as the Stern Man knelt on the ground, placing the tray on the ground. He tensed, watching the Stern Man as he took the bowl and raised it to his lips. The man’s jaw worked as he chewed. Bread followed. A sip of water. Each action was deliberate. He growled, frustrated.

  Then, the Stern Man placed the cup back down and looked at him.

  “Safe,” the man said.

  He scowled. His hand stretched out, but the Stern Man pulled the food back.

  A sound of protest escaped his lips. He bared his teeth, snarling and pressed his back against the wall. Anger flared - he was being toyed with!

  “Sir,” Soft Hands said, worriedly.

  But Stern Man held his hand up. She fell quiet. He spoke, calm and firm, voice carrying a quiet authority.

  “No fights. You let her work. Behave.”

  Behave. He knew that word. The Stern Man’s eyes were hard, but his hand gestured between food and Soft Hands.

  “Behave,” the man said again.

  The meaning was slow to take shape, but when it did, his gaze flicked back to the food. Hunger gnawed at him.

  He jabbed a finger at the food, a low growl vibrating in his chest.

  First.

  The Stern Man’s brow lifted, surprised. Soft Hands lifted a hand to her mouth.

  “After,” the Stern Man said, shaking his head. He pointed to Soft Hands and added, “First.”

  But his glare darkened. He pointed again, more forcefully.

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  First.

  A tense silence followed. The Stern Man glanced up at Soft Hands and looked torn. Then, finally, he sighed.

  “Deal,” he said, sliding the food forward. “But you behave.”

  Deal? What was that? But when the Stern Man pointed to the food again and said, “Behave,” he understood that.

  Food. Behave. Deal.

  The moment food was within reach, he snatched it, shoveling the meat into his mouth with his fingers. The broth was hot, stinging, but he didn’t care. His eyes never left them. He ate quickly before they could change their minds. Meat. Soft and tender. Orange things. Green things. And the bread - soft and still warm. He ate like a starved man.

  As he ate, Soft Hands approached carefully. He flinched, and paused. His muscles tensed. A low warning growl rumbled.

  “Behave,” the Stern Man reminded him.

  He fell quiet. A deal is a deal.

  Soft Hands reached out and tentatively touched the bandages up and down his arm. He slowed his pacing, chewing as he watched her hands, making sure she didn’t reach for his food. As she worked, he ate ravenously. A sharp sting made him growl. Soft Hands paused. The Stern Man tensed.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  Her touch gentled. The growl faded. The food was disappearing quickly. As he snatched the cup and drank deeply, the Stern Man disappeared only to return seconds later with something new. It smelled sweeter, but still like meat. He sniffed at the air, pausing as he chewed the last of the bread and meat, lips smacking. The Stern Man bit one of the sticks and chewed slowly.

  “Behave,” the Stern Man said again, holding out his hand.

  Three long sticks of meat rested in his palm, sweet smelling. Like Honey. Odd. He dropped the bowl, eyes fixed on the strange food. It bounced off the cot and clattered to the floor. He flinched at the sound, but his eyes never left the meat sticks.

  Soft Hands paused. The Stern Man waited. He sniffed at the air again, tense, cautious. He snatched the sticks but sniffed at them first. The Stern Man straightened but only watched. Slowly, carefully, he lifted the stick to his mouth and tasted it. Good.

  He gnawed at it. This was harder to chew. It took more time, but his teeth ripped into the meat, growling hungrily.

  He didn’t see when the Stern Man nodded to Soft Hands, nor did he see the nervousness in her eyes. There was an exchange of sounds. Brief. Meaningless. He chewed.

  Soft Hands reached, fingers nearing the bandage over his eye. He growled in warning but didn’t pull away as she slowly, cautiously peeled back the bandage, half a stick hanging loose in his jaw. It was painful. His growl turned to a whimper and the stick fell from his lips. Soft Hands froze. Her eyes flickered over to the Stern Man.

  “Go on,” the Stern Man said. “Try it.”

  The bandage lifted. The whimper turned to whining as he pulled back, straining against the chains, but his fingers clutched at the remaining meat sticks. Sticky. Deal. He gritted his teeth. Fresh air brushed over his eye, his cheek, his jaw. Soft Hands gasped at the red, raw burns.

  The change in her expression made him tense. Eyes tight, watery. Mouth turned down. He shifted uncomfortably.

  “Don’t stop,” the Stern Man said to Soft Hands. But to him, the Stern Man said, “Behave.”

  He growled, but complied when the Stern Man reached for his meat sticks. They both ended up between his teeth.

  “Sorry,” Soft Hands said. “Sorry. I’ll finish quickly.”

  And she did, peeling back the layers of bandages again. He gritted his teeth around the meat sticks, unwilling to let them go. Then, it was over. Mercifully. He gave a strangled noise that sounded like relief.

  “That’s better,” she said. “Good.”

  She dabbed gently at his face. The cool balm stung like the first time, but then it cooled. He resumed chewing, flinching every now and then at the sting.

  “Can you open your eye?” Soft Hands asked.

  What? He frowned, confused. She pointed to her eye, closing it briefly before opening it. Ah. His eye. He opened it.

  Nothing. No change. It was like the bandage had never been removed. Soft Hands lips pressed into a thin line of worry. The Stern Man’s jaw clenched. There was something in the man’s eyes that he didn’t like, something unfamiliar. The Stern Man lifted his hand. His brow furrowed, uncertainty gnawing at him. As the hand reached out, though, his instincts surged. He jerked his hand back. A deep guttural growl rose from his chest, primal and warning.

  No deal. Not you.

  His eye burned with unspoken defiance.

  The Stern Man dropped his hand. “Understood,” he said. “I won’t break the deal.”

  Soft Hands, who had paused during the exchange, began to work once more. He didn’t like how long this was taking. He began to eat faster, downing the meat sticks. Just as she finished wrapping the last bandage over his face once more, he swallowed the last of the meat sticks and pulled back from her touch.

  The deal was done. Enough was enough.

  Soft Hands stood quickly, backing away, but there was a lightness to her breath, a brightness in her eyes.

  “Let’s go,” the Stern Man said to her.

  “Yes, sir,” Soft Hands said.

  She gathered her things as he pressed his back against the stone wall, watching their hands warily. But they let him be, the door clanging shut behind them as they left.

  “We did it!” Maeve said brightly, practically skipping over the stones as the guards posted outside the cell turned the key in the lock. “He didn’t bite or snap this time!”

  Bran scoffed. “A miracle…”

  Edain raised a brow but said nothing. Garrick read the skepticism in her eyes. He didn’t blame her. He stood quietly, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the heavy door behind which they kept the Monster of Savidor.

  “It’s a start,” he said. “He followed instructions. Took the food. Stayed calm.”

  But his voice was low, still frustrated. Maeve’s smile faltered a little.

  “It did work,” she said, a little quieter this time.

  Garrick nodded, not dismissively. Maeve exchanged nervous glances with the others. Bran tried to be reassuring, but Edain just shook her head. She leaned closer to the young healer.

  “Just let him think,” she whispered softly. “He gets like this sometimes. It’s fine.”

  Garrick heard her and grunted.

  “Something wrong, sir?” Edain ventured with a not-so-innocent smile.

  “No…not yet. Just feel like we’ve missed something,” he said. He cleared his throat and added, “Nevermind. I’m probably just overthinking things. We’ll probably be able to get more out of Luka tomorrow.”

  Maeve’s eyes lit up. Bran blinked. Edain turned sharply toward Garrick. Realizing his slip up, Garrick closed his eyes, jaw tight as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Luka, eh?” Maeve asked.

  Garrick looked at her sharply. “Don’t start.”

  “You said it.”

  “Only because you’ve been saying it so often.”

  “Not around you.”

  “I should have you court martialed.”

  “You can’t. I’m not one of your soldiers.”

  Garrick growled. That’s when he noticed Bran and Edain watching their exchange like it was some spectator sport. Garrick growled.

  “You are insufferable,” he muttered to Maeve as he brushed past her.

  “Eh, I’ve been called worse,” she said, shrugging as she trotted behind him.

  Edain grinned and exchanged a glance with Bran. “I like her. She’s got fire. Gives the old commander a run for his money.”

  Bran just shook his head. But his eyes lingered on the healer woman, who followed the gruff high commander like a bouncy little puppy.

  He sighed.