Chapter 24: 28-29. The Warehouse // The Heartbeat

Traumatizing content advisory: Physical abuse of a child

 

Rorri

 

The patrolman sprinted towards the sound of Bilge’s bellowing voice, overlooking the suspicious coat atop the spiked fence. Rorri breathed a deep sigh of relief, uttering a silent, heartfelt thank-you to whatever god had heard his prayer.

Two buildings occupied the fenced-in section of the complex, both considerably larger than any of the privately owned units nearby. The warehouse door was held together by a simple, unusually thick padlock, but there was no handle or latch. The lock connected two solid metal plates together, one of which was bolted to the frame, and the other to the edge of the door. He couldn’t see any other guards. Only dirt, pebbles and air stood between him and the target. But, after his first near-miss, Rorri thought it might be best to actually wait for the second signal before charging in with reckless abandon. As he waited, he started to think…

There weren’t many brown elves in the city. How easy would it be for the Guard to find him, even if he was just a glimpse in the corner of someone’s eye? He should’ve brought a hat to tuck his ears into, so he might be mistaken for a sharp-featured human, but it was too late for that… He didn’t have a weapon, either – he kept meaning to buy a knife or something with which he could defend himself, but the thought of shedding blood nauseated him, and he probably wouldn’t be able to stab anyone anyway, if it came down to it.

Rorri shook his head and took a deep breath. He couldn’t bog himself down with such thoughts—

 

Anxiety is actually quite useful in magic…

 

—so he reminded himself that he had a job to do, a job he knew he could do, a job he was good at, and there was no reason to worry about its outcome. No reason at all.

And yet, as his tutor’s words bounced about his head, vivid images of consequences burst behind his eyes: The inside of a jail cell, cold stone walls and iron bars and nothing to wear but rags. A slow walk to the gallows, arms in manacles, an angry crowd taunting, condemning. Shacia, alone in her study, waiting for her tutee to arrive…

No, no, no – he was good at this – there was no reason to worry. He was better at this than anything else, better at this than art or magic. He’d never been caught before, and even though the stakes were higher this time, it was, as Bilge had said, nothing he wasn’t used to. Get in, pick the lock, plunder, get out. He might have been a bit quick to jump the fence, but that was a minor mistake, and it turned out fine. These things always worked out.

 

“IT’S THE WIDOW!”

 

Rorri’s body remembered its purpose. He flew across the grounds and reached the lock in seconds, picks already in hand, then knelt beside it and gently persuaded the pins to lift and click. Before long, it popped open. Rorri couldn’t help but chuckle, tickled to know that the King’s security was easier to bypass than his bedroom’s. He slipped through the door, leaving it slightly ajar.

As soon as he breathed in the warehouse’s stale air, a pungent, musty, bitter smell overrode every other sense that he had. He could taste it on the back of his tongue, picking out different notes of earthiness and spice, and even hints of sweetness in the din of odors. Faint cords of sunshine skimmed through the crack in the door and a small slatted window, barely touching the shelves and crates, but Rorri sensed well enough with his nose to know what was hidden inside.

Labeled paper bundles littered the evidence locker. Racks overflowed with them, burlap sacks bulged with them, and judging by the stench, each one was bursting with drugs he couldn’t begin to identify. Rorri’s mouth watered, like a child at a candy merchant’s stall. He wished he could take his time to test and explore, but time was short, and he had a job to do. He weaved in and out of the rows of shelves, sniffing bundles and stashing away the ones that stung his eyes. His pants quickly started to sag. He had to cinch the drawstring uncomfortably tight to keep himself from tripping. Once his pockets were unreasonably packed, he headed for the door – but something tugged him back. He couldn’t waste the opportunity.

Rorri sniffed about the locker like a bloodhound, scanning each package for the four letters which made up one of the only Human words he could recognize. Frankly, he deserved a bonus. He was always the one playing the most dangerous part in these schemes, and ultimately, it would save the group a lot of money if he wasn’t spending his share on something he could have plucked up for free while he was there.

Finally, he found what he was looking for:

 

CASE NO. 147592

“SNOW”

423 HYDE WAY

 

Rorri grinned, kissed the package, tucked it into his coat, slithered out the door, re-secured the lock, and slunk around the corner. Confident he was in the clear, he skipped across the dusty, open space between the warehouse and the fence. He couldn’t wait to open up his prize when he got home, to see the look on Bilge’s face when he presented the bounty—

Creeee…

Rorri froze. The gallows flashed behind his eyes.

 

Pak

(Grandmother’s House)

 

My finger barely grazes the point. My blood beads where it pierces my skin. The weapon’s green tinted veins pulse bright red, from the tip to the end of the handle, as if it’s absorbed a single beat of my heart. I whimper and drop it, withdrawing my hand into my belly—

 

BA-DUM BA-DUM BA-DUM BA-DUM

 

—but it’s too late. The red bead falls, like the first drop of rain at the start of a terrible storm. It plunges into the rug – the soft white rug.

 

No… No, no, no…

 

I try to rub the blood away, but the stain only spreads. My voiceless, childish mind whimpers, screaming, panicking—

You are reading story The Thief’s Folly (Book One of the Bloodlines Duet) at novel35.com

 

NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO

 

The room spins. I can’t stand without toppling over. I can’t hear over the weapon’s sickening heartbeat pummeling my ears. I whimper, plead, pound my skull with my tiny fists, over and over, desperate to wake up from this awful dream, but I’m not dreaming. I fall to my knees, sobbing, begging the blood to go away, though I’m still too young to speak. My heart begs. My mind begs—

 

G O A W A Y

 

—and the weapon disappears with a soft pip. But the blood stays put.

 

BA-DUM BA-DUM BA-DUM BA-DUM

 

My finger screams with pain, throbbing, gushing, staining my hands, my shirt. I stumble out the door, down the hall, down the stairs, through the door to my room. I crumple into my dark corner, shivering, twitching, sucking the blood from my finger…

Eventually, I grow still. I’m so tired…

 

The door flies open and collides into the wall with a sharp crack. I shrink, I try to disappear, but I can’t shrink small enough. I never disappear.

 

(Please don’t make me watch this…)

 

She grabs my wrist and yanks me off the ground. My shoulder pops out of its socket. I scream. She says nothing. I have never known her silence. When she finds the dried blood on my hand, she throws me into the wall – CRACK—

 

(Someone must have heard me…)

 

I cry. I wail. I try to stop crying, because it just makes her angrier, but I can’t stop. She kicks me, screaming, grunting, spitting.

 

(Why didn’t anyone…?)

 

I float away…

 

From above, somewhere far outside my body, I watch.

 

She beats the gray child, until his only motion comes in the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

His eyes leak beneath the swollen, bruised skin. He drools red.

She leaves.

He survives.

When she returns, she brings him a bowl of hot soup and a blanket.

She sits with him. She reads him a bedtime story.

He struggles to lift the spoon, and keeps one swollen eye on her shadow,

watching it flicker in the candlelight.

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