The Blood of the Covenant

Chapter Eighteen: Micah

 It was crazy what a fresh pair of clothes and a shower could do to make a person feel better. Sure, the "shower" had been with a water hose out back behind the warehouse, and sure, the water was ice-cold, but he was fine with that. It was soothing on his sore muscles, and it felt wonderful to scrub off the film of dirt and dust that coated him. He washed the blood from his face and the grime from the rest of him. Thank God they'd found this hose.

It'd been a couple of days since he'd first arrived at this warehouse. He and the others, upon returning from the store, had explored the upstairs and found a hallway of old, dusty offices. They'd decided to make them their bedrooms.

It had taken Micah a moment to convince himself to go in. It took even longer for him to pull out his cot and sleeping bag. He hated rooms like this. The dust in the air tickled his skin, caught in his nose, and clogged his throat. It had reminded him of that suburban house he'd visited not too long ago. Or rather, of the dusty basement underneath it.

He'd cast the memory that rose at that thought away immediately. Or at least, he'd tried to. Wisps of it had still haunted him as he pushed aside old furniture, and as he'd knelt on the floor to set up his cot.

Voices had whispered on the borders of his range of hearing. His torturer's drawling taunts had followed him around the room. I'll kill you. I'll kill Matthew. I'll kill that traitorous bitch Adelaide. I'll kill you all nice and slow. I'll take my time. There's no rush. No one cares about you. No one is coming to save you.

Micah had squeezed his eyes shut, clutching at his shirt, at the scar that ached on his chest as the memory surfaced. Arc. That had been the man's alias. Named for the razor-sharp arcs of air he made with the flick of a wrist.

Or worse. The sweeping of an arm.

Stop. He chided himself. He's not here. I'm safe.

But still, he hadn't slept easy that night. Or at all. He'd been haunted, harassed by his own mind. Memories of those days locked in the basement had bombarded him. He'd laid there on that stiff, uncomfortable cot, unable to keep himself from remembering.

He'd remembered bleeding from that long, deep gash on his chest, aching from the beatings they'd given him for betraying them. He'd remembered Stephen's taunts, his threats. His promises to kill everyone Micah cared about. He'd remembered those long hours in that dusty room, the lightbulb overhead flickering as it threatened to go out. He'd remembered how he couldn't even feel the dull ache of hunger and thirst over the rest of his pains as he laid on the ground, hands bound behind his back.

And worst of all, he'd remembered that third day. When Stephen came in wearing a sadistic smile and bearing a strange-looking bottle in his hands. He'd remembered how Stephen declared that Micah was a traitor, a failure, and that he wouldn't have to worry about working for Pardus anymore.

That had been the last thing he'd ever seen.

After three nights of sleepless stirring, Micah was exhausted. In dire need of caffeine. He hadn't changed out of the now-nasty outfit he'd worn since first meeting Scythe all those days ago, trying to stretch out its use before he changed into the new clothes he'd gotten from the store. After all, they didn't have any way to wash their clothes.

So when Lian had announced the discovery of a functional water hose outdoors, he, along with everyone else had been thrilled. They'd lined up to take turns with it, all eager to get clean.

In this cooling September weather, it was rather uncomfortable showering outside. The water was far from warm, and the wind only brought chills with it. When he'd finished washing off, he'd been unbelievably cold. Being an AEM had its perks, but this was not one of them. He was extremely sensitive to the cold. It was absolutely miserable for him. So he spared some of the thermal energy he had stored deep within to coat his skin in a thin layer of warm crystals, heating himself up.