The Calm Before (Reign and Ruin novella) Read Free Page A

found me in. But you didn't."
    "Your mistake,"
Cirrus breathed, "resulted in the most extreme case of neglect in
my entire term as Dream Catcher. It was selfish and insulting and
–"
    "And you're
jealous." Lucan interjected snidely. Cirrus turned sharply around,
his fists clenched in quivering billiard balls, and looked squarely
into his brother's eyes. It was blue versus green, courage and
envy; the sky inked with the oncoming night facing off with the
murky depths at the bottom of a cold lake.
    "I am not . . .
jealous," hissed Cirrus. Albion and Terrik looked sideways at each
other, each wondering when, if at all, it would be appropriate to
unhand Lucan before he burst outwards like a cyclone.
    "Oh Cirrus,
what a joke!" Lucan crowed. "I’ve heard your dreams, the whispers
that slither out of your throat like vipers when you allow yourself
to sleep. You are positively aching.” Lucan leaned in closed and
Cirrus felt his breath catch in his throat. "Maggie, Maggie. My
darling, my angel." He paused. "My love."
    Cirrus's hand
smacked against Lucan's cheek so suddenly it startled both of them.
It echoed off the sky and pounded with heat against Cirrus's palm.
Lucan twisted his face slowly back up, and even in the dark Cirrus
could see his hand had left a burning mark, red as a dying
star.
    "You know
nothing, bastard brother," Cirrus said. "You are an
attention-seeking, lustful, useless bag of skin. And I cannot wait
to see you hang like the dog you are."
    Lucan's eyes
were furious but Cirrus had turned away swiftly, motioning for the
group to walk on . . .
    His palm still
stung faintly with the memory and back in the light of his office,
Cirrus knew his shouldn't have lost his temper. It did not bode
well.
    He struck a
match with a small crack. The light flared up and he considered the
flame as it wavered, inching slowly down the match stick until it
was only a hairsbreadth away from the tips of his fingers. Throwing
it into the fireplace, it immediately caught on the dry kindling
and newspapers. Cirrus gingerly blew on his singed fingertips.
Today was all about fire, it seemed.
    The fire had
flared up earlier inside of his chest when the Painter died. He had
raised a hand and allowed the group to pause as he stood still,
face raised to the sky while wave upon wave of molten heat coursed
through his veins. With a quick gasp he staggered back a step,
feeling like a brand had been seared into his chest and quickened
his heart like a shot of adrenaline. And as he breathed the feeling
deeper, relishing in the crescendo of death, small bits of his
joints started to pop and sizzle.
    His knees
buckled and crashed down hard against the cool sand. He could
barely see as his eyes clouded over with fluid and blood and the
dying dreams of a man still reeling from hallucinations. It was one
giant explosion of pain and color and suddenly –
    Suddenly.
    Suddenly it
stopped.
    It was as if
his mother had laid a cool hand on his brow. Or like a window had
been opened to release the pent-up frustrations of a boiling room.
He could still sense the life retreating, but it was the acceptance
that was taking over now. The body was giving up and opening its
arms to the relief of death. Cirrus’s eyes cleared and as he and
the Painter took their last connected breath, the sounds and smells
of the desert Wilds gently came back.
    Cirrus lifted
his hands from the sand and sat back on his heels. He trembled like
a piece of fine tissue paper and felt just as likely to tear.
    A cough sounded
from behind him and Cirrus turned around to see his men frozen like
gormless statues. Lucan was breathing heavily and his face showed
that he knew.
    “Cirrus,
brother –”
    “Let’s keep
moving,” Cirrus croaked, fumbling in the sand to find his feet and
walk forward as confidently as he could. He heard Lucan struggling
anew behind him.
    “That was it,
wasn’t it? Cirrus, you must tell me!” Lucan grunted and strained
against his captors – he was positively