Wicked Hunt

Chapter Twelve, Part II

Rafe: Whispers On The Wind

Viktor should have known better than to trade with the western cities and do dealing with their dark sorcery. Not only did they shelter the three witch covens in Verlic, but they had also shown disdain for the king on more than one occasion. They made Rafe uneasy, even if the king did not place any merit in the suspicions these days.

"Interesting," was all Rafe said, and Viktor gulped audibly. The man's meekness only made Rafe want to make him more uncomfortable.

The Commander leaned back in his chair and let the lord before him fumble about, thinking he was going to get bitched out by the king's trusty Commander. Depending on what the man told Rafe, Viktor just might be right to be nervous. A flicker of a smile played across Rafe's lips at the thought.

"Would you like some bread?" Viktor waved a hand toward the coarse stone positioned on a serving plate, but Rafe shook his head.

"I want to know what Five-Fingers has been up to."

"Oh Phineas?" Viktor asked, stalling for some time. "He's around."

"What's he getting into these days?" Rafe flexed his fingers, the knuckles cracking sharply. Eying his hands, Viktor shivered. He'd always been afraid of everything; a weak piece of parchment just waiting to be swept away by the wind. Or crushed, the Commander mused as he clenched his fingers into a fist again. The lord's weak temperament had not made him a favorite in the king's eyes, nor was he well thought of among Rafe and his men. The man had allowed a thug to take control of his city. He did not deserve respect, and yet because Five-Fingers liked to operate only in the shadow of responsibility, Viktor remained the lord. He was used as a buffer between the law and the criminal.

"He's away," Viktor continued with an air of fake nonchalance. "He has been for some time." His eyes turned into tiny dark beads, darting everywhere but Rafe's face.

"Where." Rafe growled the word lethal enough to sound like a threat. His patience was running thin. He did not like games. Viktor contemplated, finally staring into Rafe's face meekly. Rafe glowered back, daring the man to look away as he fingered the goblet in front of him. Finally, Viktor did.

"Been hanging around Hawthorne actually," he whispered. Rafe glance back at the wine.

"Why?" Rafe asked. "And speak up, Viktor. You're mumbling."

"Lord Jamal," Viktor replied cryptically. Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Enough with the riddles, Viktor. Out with it." His words were harsh, and Viktor flinched. Rafe felt his anger hinging on the edge of a fuse, almost to the point of ignition. The man before him set his mouth in a firm line. Rafe blinked. "Tell me about Five-Fingers and Jamal Denizen." Still Viktor remained silent. His resolve both surprised and irritated him, grating on the frayed nerves that lack of sleep had worn thin.

Perhaps that's why Rafe did what he did next.

In a frenzied blur, the chair he had been sitting in was flung back. His goblet went flying, crashing on the wall behind Viktor's head. The ugly rug beneath the table curled up to try and trip Rafe as he lunged for Viktor, eliciting a hiccupped yelp from his wrinkled lips. Before either man had time to breath, Viktor was pinned against the far wall with Rafe's elbow jammed into his windpipe, their faces inches apart.

"I-" Viktor squeaked, eyes frantic and red rimmed like a field mouse caught in the vise of a predator.

"Denizen and Five-Fingers," Rafe hissed, shoving his elbow roughly into Viktor's chin. The dining room door swung open. Footsteps shuffled into the room. Viktor's eyes widened as he glanced at the servants who had entered.

"Dessert?" the woman asked carefully.

"Send her away," Rafe seethed. A flicker of rare defiance flared up in Viktor's eyes. Rafe pressed harder.

"Later Belinda," Viktor coughed, his voice laced with forced calmness. Rafe heard a bowl clatter upon the wood of the table. The door was swiftly slammed behind the girl.

"Now," Rafe said, shifting his weight and using his free hand to hold up the elbow beneath Viktor's chin. He pushed even harder. Viktor yelped with pain. "Where were we?" Viktor tried to speak but only got out garbled gasps. His face turned a sickening red. Rafe watched him struggle for breath, his cheeks slowly turning purple.

That's it boy. His father's rough voice, muffled by the cold water. Drifting further away as Rafe sank lower and lower. Hands stretched to the surface, trying to break through the smooth glass. Soon, you'll learn. He could hardly hear the words as inky blackness tugged at the corners of his vision. The water beneath beckoned...

No air.

Suffocating.

Drowning.

No.

Control.

Startled, Rafe released Viktor. He slumped against the wall as Rafe backed away from him. Both men were panting, gasping for air. Rafe struggled as if he had been the one pinned. He swallowed, blinking. He stood up and ran a hand through his hair. Viktor still set crumpled in front of him, rubbing his neck and trying to wipe his eyes.

Steel yourself, Rafe chastised. His father's face swam before his eyes, stern and harsh.

It's not the Verlic way, boy. That's not how we do things here.

Yes, sir. Rafe almost said the words out loud, could feel them burning on the tip of his tongue. The anger at himself bubbled up to the edge. He eyed the wall, his fingers longing to curl into fists and pummel the cool stones.

What the hell? he thought instead. He hadn't had this many visions and thoughts of his father for years. Why was he showing up now?

The Commander moved so that his back was facing Viktor still cowering on the floor. He forced his shoulders up and straightened his back. Lord Forest did not need to see the him so close to losing control. Rafe squeezed the bridge of his nose, forcing his eyes to dry.

"I'm only going to ask one more time," he said sharply.

"Five-Fingers only visited Hawthorne," Viktor hiccupped. "That's why he got the wine."

"Why did he go there?" the Commander pressed. Rafe flexed his fingers as they were taken away from his face and took a long breath. Slowly, he turned back around. Viktor flinched at the sudden movement.

"He said... he claimed... there was something unsettling in the... air." Viktor sniffed. "Said there was... dark... dark whispers on the wind, talk of wickedness and sinister deeds."

"Nothing new in Verlic." Rafe shifted his weight. "A man like Five-Fingers would love talk of wickedness and depravity." He leaned forward. "What's really got him so frazzled?"

Viktor coughed into his shoulder, and Rafe stepped forward. "All right!" Lord Forest threw up his hands in defeat. "The Black Stag."

"Why?" Rafe demanded. "Why would he go to Hawthorne because of the Black Stag?"