Waylon's Crossing - 36. Chapter 36: Coming Home

So, I apologize for the delay.    Thank you all for reading along -- I sure hope you enjoyed the ride!

Waylon's Crossing
Chapter 36: Coming Home

Alan ran from the park with a thousand thoughts milling around his mind. He considered each one quickly but carefully as the seed of an idea started to suggest itself. Rounding a corner, he barreled straight into a cluster of men. Before he could draw two breaths, they had him pinned against a wall bringing tears to his eyes and a moan to his lips. His shoulder wound throbbed and blood dripped from the torn stitches. Jacen would be so mad!

Hands patted him down, lingering over the curve of Alan’s ass. He gulped and tried not to cry.

“Nothing,” said a gruff voice. “Just some kid.”

They spun him around, tossing his back against the wall when he slumped forward. They stared at him, poked him, asked questions, but Alan couldn’t breathe! He covered his ears, squinting as he turned his head rapidly one way and then another.

“Ky…?” Where was he? His pairling was frightened; Alan could recognize the panicky, fluttery feelings drowning him. Given a minute to think he’d wonder when Kynan would learn the control necessary to not overwhelm with his new sensitivity.

Hands slapped Alan’s cheeks but he could only stare dazedly back, finally slumping to the ground where they shoved him.

“Crazy little shit,” a disembodied voice snarled out of the gloom. A kick to the ribs closely followed.

“Forget him.”

Alan grunted and curled up to protect himself. He waited for more kicks or punches, but after a few minutes of half-shouted conversation, the whole group moved away. Only gutter water remained, soaking into Alan’s shirt and trousers. He was shivering by the time he dared moved, cautiously setting a palm in the mud on his way to pushing upright.

A sudden impact came, but it wasn’t what Alan expected. Rather, his seeking hand thumped lightly against a soft and yielding surface. He raised himself further to look while his nose told him about blood and an old man’s cologne. He quickly shook the man’s shoulder, but there was no response.

“Hey.” Alan got a better grip on the shoulder and used his other hand to support the man’s neck. “Hey, you okay?” The body flopped over and as Alan’s eyes went round, he started to hyperventilate.

“Oh! Oh, shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.” He snatched his hand back, staring from his fingers, covered in sticky blood to the dead man’s eyes. They were wide open and staring. The man’s chest looked gnawed upon and his head lolled half-severed on his neck.

Alan shot to his feet and around the nearest corner where he promptly gagged. The urge to throw up was strong, but his stomach was empty. Since heading off on his insane mission to find Kynan, Alan had lost all track of whether he was eating breakfast or lunch or dinner; whatever it was, his most recent meal had been too long ago. He should be eating breakfast right now and worrying about all those glass rods he’d broken during his last night at the forge. It all seemed like a lifetime ago.

In that old life were the forge, his parents, and his sisters. The forge with all those weapons just laying out; the forge with the parts to his airship and Kynan’s new and improved guns; the forge that no doubt anyone with a brain would loot when the city went to hell around them.

Alan clung to the bricks and wanted to curse Kynan for leaving him alone in his head. What should he do? He wanted to crawl into the nearest hole and hide. How did he ever think that going with Kynan into … battle -- no word felt quite strong or descriptive enough -- anyway, he couldn’t do this! He was just a smith, and not a particularly good one, either.

“Dad.” Alan looked out over the dark, shadowed streets and bit his lip. His father was a good smith, even if he was an ass. Well, he was protective -- too protective -- but he was an alpha wolf and that was in his nature. Alan had never felt that desire to build and rule a pack of his own, so he and his father would never see eye to eye. They’d argued plenty over the years about Alan’s aloofness, his ‘stupid projects,’ and his stubborn refusal to be ‘normal.’

“Kynan,” he whispered, looking back over his shoulder toward the heart of the chaos.

Kynan’s shared memories decided him. Kynan would do anything to protect his family. He would understand why Alan let go of the building and slunk away in the dark. He would approve of the one-track mindset that let him slip through shadows and past roving bands of looters. Alan would find his family and help them, any way he could. Failing that, he’d see that they were gone, taken to safety by his father’s pessimistic certainty that his son’s rebellion was a sign that the world was coming to an end.

Despite the sun teetering just over the horizon, to Alan, the streets felt darker the closer he came to his father’s forge. In better days, the forge was in a bustling district filled with shops and people. Now only broken windows and furtive looks greeted him as he passed by.

The forge looked dark, its outsides unblemished by looters, but the little hairs on the back of Alan’s neck stood up as he crept up to the door and tried the handle. It wasn’t surprising to find the door locked; however, Alan kept looking back over the empty, trash-strewn street. The forge’s shop front felt far too exposed just then.

He knocked. “Hello? Dad?” Alan cringed as his whispers seemed to echo. He could almost swear that there was something out there!

Taking another quick look around, Alan scurried around through the alley and up the neighbor’s trellis. The wood creaked and threatened to give way, just like he remembered; but a few prayers later, Alan hauled himself through the window of his old room. He landed on a stack of carefully tended dolls, tripping over a stickball hoop as he got to his feet. Dust tickled his nose and the old house’s moans echoed in each empty room. In the kitchen, flies buzzed over a bowl of rancid meat. Thyme scented the air from a spilled canister.

“Mom? Dad?” Alan called, but staring at the kitchen and congealed blood on the cutting board had already told him the truth: his family was long gone.

He stood there helplessly while the empty house filled his heart. He couldn’t cry, only hurt.

A second later, Alan lifted his head off the floor where he’d collapsed, shaking it and blinking queasily as the room spun around him. His heart battered against his ribs and he reached out for one more person who wasn’t there.

“Kynan!” The bond buzzed between them as Alan sat back on his haunches, mind racing. Kynan! He had to be okay; he had to be! As the fuzz from Kynan’s injury faded, Alan grabbed the countertop to pull himself to his feet. He staggered for his father’s workshop, re-focusing his mind on the task at hand.

He’d left Kynan alone and unarmed in the park. The others had to be there, too, didn’t they? Bryce and Jacen and Kynan’s dads. They’d look after him, wouldn’t they? Didn’t they kind of have to? Kynan was their prince, now, wasn’t he?

A prince! Alan almost giggled as he jumped on the closed door leading to the downstairs. He used to read stories to his sisters about enchanted princesses and their perfect princes. They’d always wanted to marry one …

The door gave and Alan fought his way through the reinforced planks. He tore down the stairs, thumped against the wall at the bottom, and careened into the main shop. Steel gleamed from every corner. Alan remembered the sword his father had crafted for Kynan the day they’d first met and he grabbed a replacement without a second thought. He funneled other weapons into a carrier and slung the strap over his shoulder.

In the abandoned workshop, tools were set out; one more piece of evidence that the family had left quickly. Alan shoved his way past the warm forge and to the very back of the shop, behind the blacksmith’s tools hung neatly on the wall. Ducking beneath some coiled rope, Alan threw open the door to a storage closet he’d helped build as a young pup.

His father hadn’t emptied the closet like he’d threatened. Alan bit his lip against teetering emotions, squeezing his fist around the grip of Kynan’s new gun. The barrel was as long as a sword; the bullets were twice as big as the old ones. The big gun was heavy and awkward in Alan’s arms, but his eyes gleamed as he once again imagined the weapon in Kynan’s hands. This thing would keep Kynan safe.

Alan shoved the gun into the carrier across his back and filled his pockets with bullets. Bracing his back against the blockaded barn doors, Alan shoved the anvil far enough away to squeeze through. After the silent house, the chaos of the city hammered his ears. Getting back across the city seemed to take forever as Alan ducked into every shadow he found. He didn’t want to be seen while toting all these weapons, not with bad guys swarming every which way.

The park, when he arrived, was deserted except for the smoke and smoldering circles of grass. The bench by the lake where he’d so often met Kynan sat covered in soot, deserted.

“Kynan!” Only the glow of burning buildings answered. “Kynan!” Alan clutched at his chest, fighting to breathe as his pairling’s fear seized him. Where was he? “Kynan!” Shaky legs dropped him and Alan crawled until the terror lessened and he could walk. Bright lights filled his eyes as he gasped for breath. “Kynan…”

And there before his eyes was the cathedral, bathed in brilliant, white light and framed by the orange-red glow of the burning city. The whole scene was too unreal to be believed. There he stood, with a fortune in weaponry and a quilt of black and green grass at his back. He could have been looking at one of those old paintings of hell, complete with demons, but it wasn’t a painting.

Smoke stung Alan’s eyes as he abandoned the carrier to shove his way inside a place he’d never been: the cathedral in Waylon’s Crossing.

“Mister, no! You can’t go in there!”

Alan looked down and found a young child tugging on his pants leg. Her eyes were huge in a pale face.

“It’s not safe,” she said earnestly. Then she smiled. “But the angels will protect us. See?” She pointed at the carvings on the support pillars.

“Uh, okay, that’s nice.”

She tilted her head as she blinked up at him and Alan saw something glitter in her eyes, something white or silver. He stared as she smiled. That luminescent quality of her eyes spread to her face. Alan took a deep breath as his shoulders released their tension. He smiled.

“Well, hello.”

“Hello!” She slid her hand into his. Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed.

Taking a deep breath, Alan faced the closed cathedral doors. If Kynan was in there, then by the Light! Alan was going in there, too. That didn’t mean he wasn’t nervous. He looked down. The little girl smiled up at him and squeezed his hand. Smiling back, Alan lightly squeezed the little hand and grasped the door handle.

The ancient wood scraped along the stone entranceway, sending out a cloud of stone dust with a boom and a clatter of falling beams. Shaking, Alan peered around the door, sneezing dust out of his nose. He could see a few, ghostly figures moving slowly through the hushed cathedral. Light poured in through the stained glass windows to the east, casting colorful shadows upon the battered furniture. Golden dust motes floated through the haze of the caved-in ceiling, banners littered the floors, and the whole place stank of acrid smoke. The worst of the soot and stench came from a dark hole in the midst of several pews.

What had happened in here? Cautiously, Alan eased inside, clinging to the child’s hand just as tightly as she held to his. They forged a path through the rubble as Alan’s eyes raked each dust-gray person for someone he recognized. Kynan’s presence was so faint in his mind that he knew there had to be something seriously wrong. Though he’d never heard of a demon inside consecrated ground, there’d been no time for Kynan to have gone anywhere else. Besides, it looked like a war had been fought here, so where else would he have gone?

But no matter where he looked, there were no winged creatures, demon or otherwise. He did see a spill of violet hair caught in a lazy sunbeam. The mage, Duncan, lolled with half-closed eyes against the altar. His eyes were dark pits in his face, blood making trails through the dust and stone chips covering him like a second skin.

A stone fell with a clatter but Alan’s ears perked up as he heard a soft, tinkling sound. He swiveled around, eyes narrowing on a silvery blur hovering over a motionless body.

“Bryce!” Alan leaped across debris to slide to a halt at Bryce’s side. The vampire wasn’t breathing, but that wasn’t an immediate cause for concern. What he did see was blackened skin spotted with areas so pale and light the skin was almost translucent. “Bryce?” He was almost afraid to touch him. “Bryce!”

*              *              *
 

“Bryce.”

Even through his eyelids, the light was intense.

“Bryce, wake up.”

He hurt too much to be dead.

Deep chuckles vibrated against his skin. “You amuse me, vampire.”

Bryce groaned, twitching his fingers as the feeling came back.

“I can help you, Bryce, if you wish it.”

“Why--“ He coughed, coughing again at the sharp pain spreading up his throat from somewhere deep in his back.

“Why would I help you? No, I can’t read your mind, but don’t you think your questions would be obvious in this situation? You may call me Waylon. I know who you are, and what you are. Father of all vampires, but here you are in my church. That’s ironic, given your past.”

“You -- I don’t --“

“No, of course you don’t understand and I’d exhaust myself trying to convince you.”

Bryce thought he’d know if he’d ever talked to one of the Ancients before!

Waylon rumbled a laugh. “You were an acolyte of Suna, were you not? Strange, is it not, that you are one to whom my city owes its thanks? Name your price, vampire. If it’s in my power, I will grant your wish.”

“I want nothing from you!”

A sigh. “Still angry at God? Neither God nor Suna -- or anyone else -- can protect you from making stupid choices.”

In the bright light, something shifted. A man? Perhaps. Bryce didn’t care; the light hurt his eyes. He moved an arm to help block some of the brightness.

“This is bullshit.”

“Don’t be foolish, Bryce Knopf. You did everything in your power to escape your life. Now, you wish to blame that on others. That’s something I will never understand about humans.”

“I --“

“Of course you’re not human now, but you were, once. Why do you still punish yourself? You were a teenager who let his libido get in the way of his common sense. Hardly a rare circumstance.”

“Fuck you! You don’t know what I went through.”

“Don’t you think you’re worth the effort, Bryce? You paid for your youthful, spoiled extravagance and have returned to help save my city. You are one of the lights of this world, Bryce. I see it, Jacen saw it, and so did the child you left on my doorstep. She’s mine, now, thank you for that.”

“You leave her out of this! I didn’t rescue her just to see her brainwashed!”

“Faith is not brainwashing, Bryce.”

“Of course you’d say that!”

Waylon’s voice became gritty. “I do not coerce my followers.”

Bryce decided to drop the subject -- he was in the presence of an Ancient power, after all. He scowled but remained silent.

“Bryce, the world is waking from its long nap and I have few champions. As a vampire, you are the perfect tool to carry the light --”

“You’re insane! I’m not doing that!”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

Bryce snorted. As if he would ever be some kind of missionary!

Waylon chuckled. “Okay, so perhaps you do. I’ll pay your price, whatever it is.”

“You can’t give me what I want! No one can! Aure’s dead!” Bryce caught his breath, feeling moisture splatter against skin that felt tight and dry. Despite his efforts to avoid them, cool fingers touched his face, soothing the pain behind his cheeks and brushing away tears.

“Oh, Bryce, my child. Please, say yes. Be selfish again, just this once, and ask for what you want.”

“There’s always a catch.” Bryce told himself there wasn’t a hitch in his voice. “Some stupid fine print no one ever bothers reading.”

“You know what I want. It’s what we’ve always wanted for you.”

“And where have you been in all this? Protection from evil, ha! Where were you when I needed you? You think I’ll just trust you now because you say so? I don’t think so! I’m not some plaything to be bought and sold!”

“That’s not --“

“Fuck you. I know what you mean -- well, you’re all dead to me, so what part of ‘fuck off’ don’t you understand?”

“You made that covenant with Suna. Bryce, please, just listen. Your friends got what they wanted. Why not you?”

“And look what that got hi--“ Bryce sucked in a breath. Friends? As in friends, plural? “What? No!”

“Death is nothing to fear, Bryce.”

“What’s wrong with Jacen?”

“And you question your goodness.”

“Don’t fucking sigh at me and just answer the question!”

“Your friend channeled a lot of magic in order to finish what you started. Even unicorns only have so much power.”

Bryce bolted upright, eyes tearing as he squinted, trying to see the elusive city guardian. “Is he dead?”

“He is one of mine, gave himself to me freely.”

“Is he dead!”

“No.”

“But he’s hurt. You sonuvabitch! Help him!”

The guardian remained silent for a long second. “If I do that, I cannot give you that which you desire most in this world.”

“You couldn’t do that anyway.”

“Always so quick to --“

“Just do it!”

“Know this, Bryce, that even though you forsake the light, we’ll be here, should you ever change your mind.”

“I’m not going back! Ever!” His nails bit into the flesh of his palms as he curled hands into fists. “Why can’t you let me be? You’ve got servants. You don’t need me.”

“Very well.”

Bryce scowled. Waylon’s voice sounded resigned. What right had he to be disappointed?

“I wish you would let me help you.”

“I don’t need your help! Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“It is,” Waylon said slowly, “difficult to let such promise go to waste. But, I will do what you wish. It is, as they say, your life.”

“Damn right.”

A ghostly touch brushed Bryce’s brow and he paused, but the light began to fade as his hurts magnified. Voices came from somewhere behind him, erupting in shouting that almost drowned out the fire seemingly melting his skin.

_"Bryce?"

Airy fingers brushed lightly over a braid, pulling a groan from Bryce’s ragged throat. Dawn cast its light through the hole in the cathedral’s ceiling, dust filling the air amidst more stone pieces crashing to the floor. Turning his eyes from the sunny, blue sky, Bryce looked at Alan leaning over him and at a teary elemental floating just over his left shoulder.

“Hey,” he meant to say, but his breath caught and vanished just past his lips. He smiled, but didn’t feel it. Seeing Delaur there, when he wanted nothing so much than Aure to be there, hurt all over again. When would it stop hurting? When?

He closed his eyes. “Shut up, kid. And go away.”

“You’re alive!” Alan threw his arms around Bryce, hugging him and laughing even as tears streaked down his face. Bryce stayed limp in his arms like a doll and occasionally hissed.

For Bryce, it was easier to simply close his eyes and endure. He knew he would heal and continue on, but he hadn’t the heart or energy to complain or argue about the treatment of his scalded, scorched skin. Words were wasted on the young, anyway. Delaur flitted off by his shoulder, but Bryce couldn’t bear to look at him. For the first time since the baby had plopped into his life, he resented the creature. Aure should be there, not Delaur. He bared his teeth and considered giving up.

Then Alan stiffened with a “Hurk!” and fell sideways. As Bryce pushed himself into a sitting position, he saw the werewolf curled around his stomach. He’d turned an alarming shade of pasty, green-white and sweat beaded his forehead. Bryce gingerly touched him and found that Alan’s body temperature had dropped. His mouth was open and panting, eyes squeezed closed. He didn’t seem to be hurt, but there was blood on his lips. This was way beyond Bryce’s scant knowledge.

On his feet in a flash, Bryce shoved aside some dazed priests to find Jacen. He was unconscious but looked unhurt.

“Jacen! Damn it.” He looked to the mage’s blood-streaked face and found no help there. If anything, he looked worse than Jacen did, as if he would break if spoken to harshly. Behind him, however, was the Book of the Ancients.

He glanced over to Alan and then back to Jacen. He stared at Alan some more and was distracted by Delaur hovering by his elbow. The gray eyes were more solemn than usual. Was it possible that Delaur understood?

There was nothing to be gained by delaying. The light stung Bryce’s skin as he stepped closer to the altar. He had to shield his eyes, finally turning his head away. Chill, ghostly fingers covered his eyes and Delaur’s face pressed against Bryce’s cheek making him shiver. He had to take a deep breath, wanting so badly to reach behind him and, finding Aure there, drag him into a deep kiss.

“Damn,” Bryce muttered, and slammed his hand down on the Book, hissing as the light seared his palm.

He felt Waylon’s voice in his right ear: “What are you doing, Bryce?”

“You win; I’ll do it.”

He could almost see the Ancient’s brows twist into a quizzical frown. “You say that, but your heart says differently.”

“I’ll do what I have to.” Bryce lifted his chin.

Waylon sighed. “You would ask me to send this child of tainted blood out of this world. You don’t know what you ask.”

“Yes, I do. Why else would I accept your offer?”

“Tell me why you would do this.”

“Because…” He leaned into Delaur’s cool hands. “Because I know what it’s like to be left alone, and he’s just a child.” Bryce swallowed hard to dislodge the grief in his throat. “He started all this -- it’s because of them that any of the rest of this happened. You owe it to them!”

“You presume to tell me I owe a debt?”

“Get your head out of your ass, you --“

“Be still,” laughed Waylon. “Keep your pride and your skin, vampire. The demons have already called that one home. See?”

Sure enough, when Bryce turned his head, he saw that Alan was gone. His hand didn’t peel away from the Book so easily. Free from the damned thing, Bryce stared deep into Delaur’s dark eyes. The little elemental grinned and Bryce found himself grinning back. He left the church with no fan-fare, but with the wisp of an elemental clinging like a burr to his back. It was time to get the hell out of Waylon’s Crossing.

*              *              *
 

“Just a quick walk out there, for the acknowledgement, and then back to bed.”

Kynan nodded from where he leaned heavily against Karadur. Dizzy, he closed his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re my --“

“Shh.” Karadur jiggled the light body propped up into his shoulder and glanced around the empty corridor. They waited just outside the public room of the Demon Court. Many had died in the coup attempt, but they were demons; someone was always ready to step in.

“Karadur?”

“Yes?”

“I met an incubus.”

“What?”

Kynan grunted as he started to slide and was yanked back into the big demon’s arms. “At Asphodel Fields, they saved you. I can’t stay here; I promised them --“

“You have no business --“

“I’m half incubus, Karadur. I’m -- I want to know more; I need to. Besides, it will help …. Mom.” He stared up into eyes that were so familiar and yet so new at the same time. They were just like Xeran’s eyes. “How did all this happen, Karadur?”

Karadur looked away as muscles worked in his jaw and neck. Then he looked down into his grandson’s eyes and Kynan saw a distance in them that meant Azil was present as well.

“We don’t have time for the long version.”

Kynan held his breath.

“But, in short, King Meqhy wanted a female who wanted me.” He shrugged, but his expression was troubled. “Things happened.”

Kynan smirked. “Apparently.” They were quiet a moment, listening to the low mutter of voices on the other side of the Queen’s antechamber. “Karadur?”

“Mm?”

“Was it worth it?”

Karadur blinked and ruffled the mop of blond hair on Kynan’s head. “Yes.”

“Karadur?”

The demon’s voice rumbled deep in his chest. “Yes?”

“Me, too.”

They looked at each other, smiling slowly. Movement on the other side of the door broke them apart. Kynan took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders and back as much as he could while Karadur’s hands steadied his shoulders.

Heat wafted out from the inner chamber; demons stood or kneeled on cushions in every available space. Kynan faltered on the first step as all those eyes swung to fix him in their sights. Wind from the vents stirred his feathers. They ruffled more when demon voices lifted in amazement. Kynan could tell what they were saying even though he couldn’t make out individual words: “Wings! Feathered wings! That’s him? That’s the Queen’s son?”

He swayed on the incredulity hammering his mind, but kept his eyes on the Queen. His steps were short and sweat stood out on his face but he knew that he could not afford to show weakness, especially with the blood decorating the wrappings around his abdomen.

As they’d coached him, he stopped before the dais, looking up but neither bowing nor kneeling. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get up if he tried either of those courtesies; he was barely on his feet now.

“Mother,” he said, and if his voice cracked, who would call him on it now?

His mother the Queen wore full courtly regalia, complete with the enchanted scepter in her right hand. Kynan stared at it and smiled. Xeran hadn’t cared for the truth: the magic was Azil; the scepter was only for show. While Azil was too injured to be physically present, they had little to fear since Xeran’s supporters had been massacred. The Queen reasoned that those they hadn’t uncovered would not be likely to reveal themselves.

“Son,” said the Queen. She smiled a smile he hadn’t seen since she’d exiled him to the World of Light. She’d shown her approval of him many times since, but never like this. In this moment, he had his mother back.

Kynan’s shoulders straightened again and he lifted his chin. His mother had personally carried him all the way home from the caves, or so he’d been told.

The Queen’s voice rang out across the chamber, “I bid welcome to Regat Alphaeus, my first-born son. Welcome home.”

Voices rose again in shock over a human name for a half-demon. Kynan grinned as he turned around and nodded to the Court. It was a strong name, and he liked it. His name was a call for change, and he knew that his mother meant to press for a closer alliance with the World of Light. With her strongest adversaries gone, there was little in her way. She’d gambled and won.

The glittering court garb he’d never before worn weighed heavily on Kynan as he strode for the door, but he didn’t feel his weariness, buoyed as he was in an acceptance he’d never dreamed of, and there, waiting for him, was his family: Karadur, Azil, Alan. Yes, Alan. He fell into his pairling’s arms with a sigh. He was home, if only for a little while.