Epilogue, p.28
Epilogue, page 28
To my relief, he started to move more deliberately. He was getting control of his body again. Time to start the real work.
“Daniel Whitman.” I stood behind him, his chair facing the television, tuned to a dead channel. The dancing snow of signal noise on the screen played out on the walls as a flickering light show around us. It was all a show, all an act, but one I could play well.
Whitman tried to twist his head around to get a look at me, but he couldn’t quite turn far enough.
“The fuck is going on?” His voice was surprisingly low-pitched. A deep baritone that would have worked wonders on a radio show or a podcast.
I wanted to intimidate him. I wanted to get the information I’d come for, and nothing more. I wasn’t trying to make an ally. I wasn’t trying to create a new resource or contact. This wasn’t usually the case, but in this circumstance, I didn’t much care what happened to Whitman in the end.
“You live alone. Probably a poor choice.”
“Uhh, okay?” He continued to struggle in his chair. I stayed calm behind him. I was confident in the restraints, at least for the length of time I needed. He wasn’t going anywhere soon.
“It’s time for you to start talking, Daniel.”
“About what?” He sounded less confident now. Good. He was wearing down.
“You’ve been emailing with someone lately.”
“I email a lot of people. That supposed to mean something?”
“About a certain fantasy world called Cyraveil.”
Whitman stopped struggling. “Wait, you’re that guy?”
“Yes. So start talking.”
“Dude, what the fuck is this? Some kind of hardcore RP shit?”
“You think this is role playing?” I snapped. I felt my temper flare.
My chest got hot; my face burned. I didn’t move on him yet, but I thought about it.
“Wait, wait, wait. Don’t tell me you actually believed all that?” Whitman said, his voice uneasy. “Okay, listen. None of that was real, all right? I was just messing with you. Ha-ha, good times. Now untie me, okay?”
“Tol deka danedek so vei!” I roared. I’m sure I got the pronunciation a bit wrong, but it wasn’t like Jen was around to correct me.
“Uhh … what?”
“Don’t you fucking lie to me.” I punched him in the back of the head. Not too hard, but enough to cause some pain.
“All right, dude,” Whitman snarled, recovering faster than I expected. “Soon as I get out of this, you’re in a world of pain.”
“Whatever you say. Now, talk to me about Cyraveil.”
“It doesn’t exist, you idiot.” His head twisted back and forth, but he still couldn’t turn far enough to see me.
He was lying. He had to be lying. My mind wouldn’t accept any other conclusion.
We could be here awhile.
This went on for an hour at least. I would ask him to elaborate on some part of Cyraveil, reveal more of his knowledge. He’d claim ignorance or spit some insult, and after a while, he just stayed silent. I didn’t threaten him physically, or attack him again after the first strike. I hadn’t intended that. I wished I hadn’t escalated so quickly. I might have gotten what I needed much faster, with much more cooperation, if I hadn’t been so reckless.
I knew if I could just outlast his patience, I would win. I wouldn’t allow Whitman any sleep, or any respite whatsoever from the questioning. I’d done this before, more than once. Sooner or later, he’d have to give in and answer my questions, and I’d be on my way home.
“Did you ever come across any of Feindorf’s Tablets?”
“Nope.”
“When you crossed, did you end up in Caladi or Laodrannen?”
“Crossed what, the Willamette?”
“Did you ever meet up with any Sylves? Maybe get invited to their forests?”
“Depends, were they cute?”
It continued like this, flippant responses that irritated me, but didn’t set me off. I had interrogated men before, and I had the patience necessary for this kind of work. Men always broke, given enough time. Some men required far more work than others, but it always came down to finding the one thing they couldn’t live without. Could be physical, could be emotional, but every man, without exception, had a weakness. I just had to uncover it, through sheer force of will.
Jen and Matt could never know, but I’d engaged in some less … noble tactics while we were campaigning, both on Reynir’s side and on theirs. It was a fucking war, okay? For all Matt’s sentimentality and righteousness, he was a fool when it came to gathering intelligence. Sure, he might win the hearts and minds of the people as we “liberated” villages, but it was thanks to my men and my network that we weren’t ambushed in the ass at every turn. Reynir and I played the same games. Hell, he basically taught me how to wage war. Fight smarter, not harder; that was my shamelessly stolen catchphrase.
Smarter was the key, and gaining intelligence came down to two simple steps: Find the person who knows what you need to know and get them to tell you. Could be anyone, and here’s where most people screw up: it could be absolutely anyone. Nobody’s out of bounds. The hooker hanging out by the tavern, the kid playing on the street corner, the old hag who rarely leaves her front porch. Any of them could be valuable, and I couldn’t afford to have reservations about who we picked up and … questioned.
I wasn’t needlessly cruel. Most of them got off pretty light, unless I had reason to suspect they knew more than they were letting on. Even the ones we had to slap around a bit were returned to their lives as if nothing had happened. No, it was the small few, the true loyalists to the Cellmans near the end of the campaign, who brought out the worst in me.
I’m not proud of it, but it got results. It probably shortened the war by weeks, if not months. It was worth it. I saved lives, sent men home to their wives and families sooner, prevented pain and tragedy. I don’t regret what I had to do. One of those interrogations lead me to Jen, deep in the Pit at Vennenport. I’d rescued her against all odds, on a longshot hunch and the mumbled confession of a man who’d just lost every single one of his teeth.
I’d never regret that man’s death. I couldn’t forgive myself for not moving on him sooner.
I was beginning to get impatient with Whitman, even as I continued to ask him question after question about Cyraveil.
“What’s the best place to get sylvandine in the Saenvalands?”
“Is that a Sylf thing?”
Yes! I’d caught him in a lie. “You know about Sylves. You’ve been lying this whole time.”
“Man, you mentioned them earlier!” he protested.
“Wrong!” I cried. I pulled out my phone, shoving it eagerly in front of his eyes. “Not once.” I scrolled through every message we’d sent, one by one. “I’ve never used ‘Sylf,’ not one time. I only called them elves. Where did you hear that term?”
“You said it yourself!” Whitman shouted. “Like an hour ago!”
“Stop lying to me, Daniel.” I walked around and crouched down in front of him. Some vulnerability now, since I’d caught him in a lie. I would play off this anxiety, this fear, and offer him a way out. A friendly gesture. “Just get it over with. Tell me what I need to know.”
“Holy shit, you’re young.” I suddenly realized I hadn’t actually shown myself until now. Was that my intention? Did I just make a mistake?
No, of course not. I was an expert at this. I didn’t make mistakes.
“I can be a friend, Daniel. You remember Cyraveil. You remember
what sort of place it is. Tell me you wouldn’t want to go back there.”
“You’re fucking insane.” Daniel resumed trying to rock his chair back and forth, but it was surprisingly sturdy, and I’d reinforced the sides a bit too. He didn’t move more than an inch.
“Once you tell me, I disappear, and your life goes back to whatever you want it to be. This doesn’t have to be hard.”
“I told you already, I made all that shit up. I was bored, and it was better than just trolling some random image board.” One particularly hard shove and he began to tilt off to one side. I reached out and caught him, righting him before the chair tipped over completely.
He couldn’t have made it up. I needed the truth. I needed my way back.
“You weren’t lying. Tell me how to go back.”
“I don’t fucking know!”
I slapped him across the face. Hard.
“Answer me!”
“I don’t know!” he cried. Tears were forming in his eyes. I felt awful, sick to my core. I didn’t want this, any of it, but I’d burned every bridge. I knew I couldn’t continue living like this. I couldn’t face my parents again. I couldn’t face my friends. I certainly couldn’t face Jen again. Not without a way back. I had to keep going.
My foot slammed into his chest. The chair tilted over backward. With a sickening thud, his head smacked into the floor. My heart was racing.
Instantly, I was at his side, checking for bleeding. Thankfully, my hand came back dry. What was I thinking? Why did I actually attack him? He groaned underneath me, his feet still tied to the legs of the chair.
“Please, let me go,” he moaned. “I won’t tell anyone. Promise.”
I couldn’t take that chance. He’d seen my face. There was no reason for him not to tell the police, tell anyone who I was and what I’d done. They’d lock me up. They’d put me in a mental ward. I had to leave this world tonight.
“You know what I want,” I said slowly. I hated myself.
I hated everything about this.
It had to be done.
“I don’t know what you want. I’m sorry. Fuck.” He tried to reach up to cradle his own skull, no doubt throbbing in pain, and the plastic cuffs scraped hard against his wrist.
“I just need to go back.”
“So go back, you fucking psycho!” he screamed at me. His eyes flew open wide. “Go back!”
“Tell me how!” I roared. “Quid pro fucking quo, Daniel!”
I was losing control. Worst of all, I could feel myself losing control. It was like I was watching myself on video, as another me took charge of my body. This new me stood up and dropped his foot onto Whitman’s chest with a thud.
What if he really knows nothing? the old, reluctant me cried out.
He has to know! this new, vicious me snarled in response.
I watched as my body began to beat Daniel Whitman savagely, and I felt helpless to stop. He tried to roll away, but the restraints kept him anchored to the spot.
I saw blood. Why? Why couldn’t I stop?
A banging sound. Raised voices.
Was I imagining them? Whitman hadn’t yet answered me. I had to keep going.
Had to keep going.
Had to force him to answer me.
It was best for everyone. Once he told me the truth, I could return home and be gone from this world. No more trouble to anyone. A quickly fading memory.
My foot swung for his face. He twisted away, trying to avoid the blow, which I’d telegraphed too much. It never landed.
I was tackled to the floor. A man in a plain suit, with a rough face and beady eyes.
I knew this man, didn’t I?
He was shouting something, but I couldn’t hear him. My mind was still transfixed by the sight of Daniel Whitman, battered and bruised, bleeding all over the floor. My eyes were pulled wide, as if a sheet of fog had suddenly lifted away. I saw him moaning, saw his beaten face and terrified expression.
As I was dragged to my feet, handcuffed and restrained, I remembered—I had mentioned Sylves to him. It sprang to my mind as I was manhandled out the front door. I’d screwed up. Whitman was just an innocent bystander, whom I’d brutally assaulted out of some insane fixation on an impossible quest. Blake would hate me if he saw what I’d become. What I’d just done.
“I’m sorry,” I cried out. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I needed Whitman to hear me. I wanted to give him something, anything to show I regretted what I’d done. That he hadn’t deserved it. What I’d done was unforgivable, and he’d paid the price.
I barely heard a single word from the uniformed officer.
The back of the cruiser was hard plastic, with a small space for my handcuffed wrists. They transported me through the dead of night, the rain coming down hard and creating sheets of distorted light as we passed through the empty streets. I watched each flash of color as we rolled along, felt every bump in the road as shockwaves through my throbbing skull. My head was pounding, reliving every moment of what had just happened over and over again, searching desperately for answers on how I’d sunk so low.
I’d known it was coming all along though. In some distant corner of my mind, I’d known I wasn’t long for this world one way or another. Either I’d manage to escape or I’d burn out trying. I could never coexist with these people, knowing what I knew, having seen what I’d seen. At some point during the last few days, I’d given up hope of ever living here again. I’d assumed my life would end soon. I had just hoped it wouldn’t be like this.
Never like this.
We reached the station, and I was processed. My body felt numb to the touch. I could barely comprehend the situation unfolding around me, even as they tried to explain a half-dozen times. I think they assumed I was insane, the way they were handling me so gently. Maybe I was insane. I couldn’t exactly disagree. I was surrounded by tall, faceless shapes in vaguely defined uniforms, with deep booming voices that only allowed every third word or so to be understood. I had to string together sentences from the scant clues context could afford me.
I was taken to a smaller room, completely isolated, and given a cup of water. They left me alone. At first, I assumed they’d gone to fetch a parent or guardian, but then I remembered: I wasn’t a minor anymore. They could do whatever the hell they liked with me.
There was no doubt I was being watched. I tried to find the camera, but all I could see were thick stone walls, rising up as the first of no doubt endless cells I’d be thrown into. Ah, Reynir. I’ll be doing your family line proud. I’d end up in a cell just like his great-grandfather—but unlike the Cellman patriarch, I doubted I’d be breaking out anytime soon, much less conquering a whole slaving kingdom as I went. Not much to conquer out here in the middle of suburban Oregon.
A man came back into the room, wearing a plain suit. Perhaps they were afraid to leave me alone for too long. I couldn’t blame them. He looked kind enough, but I was in no mood for games. I didn’t acknowledge him at all. My eyes were fixed on the upper corner of the room, unmoving. I had a vague sense that talking to the police would only make things worse for me in the long term. I didn’t see how much worse things could get, but for now at least, I was determined to remain silent.
I heard him droning on, but I stayed resolute. I wouldn’t be broken again. I’d hold out.
So, of course, he played a trump card.
“… recommend you be committed.”
How could he have known? My deepest fear, and he struck right at it, sending the whole of my being into cold shivers. I felt my body seize up at just the words, let alone the terrifying images that accompanied them to my mind. I snapped back into focus and looked him straight in the eye.
“Can I make a phone call?”
“Well, we’ve already attempted your father, and his listed legal counsel. Until we can make contact, unless you have another form of legal counsel—”
“No.”
“Then I suggest you keep silent, kid.” He looked sympathetic. I didn’t need sympathy though. I needed my exit. I needed to make sure I did not end up in that hellish place.
I needed someone to vouch for me. Vouch for my story. Make me credible.
I needed someone nobody would ever doubt.
I’d get him here. I’d use this cop’s sympathy to my advantage. No matter what it took, he’d come and he’d find a way out of this mess. Like he always did.
Matt would know what to do.
CHAPTER 18
JEN
“Look, what harm could it do? The kid’s a mess.”
“You saw what he did to Whitman.”
“He’s desperate, and things will go a lot smoother if we can get him to start talking. Anything we can get on record.”
“I’ll get him to—”
“Let him call his friend.”
“Sir?”
“A friendly face might do him some good.”
“You’re starting to sound like a broken record.”
“Who’s in charge again?”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”
“I saw that.”
Dear Mom,
Matt and I had to leave. We’re not running away from home, so don’t worry about that. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re the best. But … something’s come up and we have to go. We might not ever come back.
I wish I could tell you it’s nothing dangerous, but it might be. Just trust me, okay? This is something really, really important. I want to tell you, but I
“Masasak nara volavus sel nara kelendil,” I cursed under my breath. I wanted to comfort her, not send her into a blind panic.
“What’s up?” asked Sara, leaning over my shoulder. I tried to crumple up the letter, but she laid out a hand to stop me. “Jeez, your handwriting has gotten awful.”
In response, I flipped the sheet over and wrote out a long, elegant string of Etoline—something very rude I’m not gonna repeat here.
“I’m just going to assume that’s an insult.” She frowned. “What are you trying to write?”
“… A goodbye,” I said quietly.
Sara hesitated, glancing over her shoulder at the stairs. Mom still wasn’t home and wouldn’t be for a few hours at least. “Aren’t you going to talk to her in person?”
I sighed and leaned back in my chair. “I don’t know.”
“Huh?”
I glanced at the clock, which put us well past midnight. Mom still wouldn’t be home though. Last call for drinks wasn’t until two thirty in the morning, and she had to stay after a bit to close up. I used to try to stay up late waiting for her to come home, but I rarely made it that far. I’d wake up the next morning with my alarm ringing in my ear, or sometimes with the sunrise, having been magically transported back into my bed, nice and snug. On the rare occasions I’d actually seen Mom come home, she’d greeted me with a warm hug—and then grounded me for staying up so late.
