Deacon First VIII
Pike Rolson had been beaten to within an inch of his life before; it wasn’t so bad, once a man understood what was behind it.
The first two times had come at the hands of the undead, once during his time as a First and once when he took a late watch alone during his fourth month as a Second. His training officer had saved him the first time, and only stubborn determination had been enough to get him through when there was no one else to rely on.
One of Venman’s guards raised a bloody fist, but Pike didn’t react. They’d broken his jaw, torn off part of his ear and he was missing at least five teeth, but he hadn’t made a sound. All men above him were doing was making a point at the insistence of their master, and what they were doing would stop once that master felt his point had been made and understood.
Pike could endure pain, certainly – he was a Deacon – but that didn’t mean he had any great fondness for it.
“Had enough, Pikey?” That was Dren Pollard. He and Pollard had gone through training together, and Dren had been as ambitious as they came. It was clear from the first moment they hit the streets that the other Deacon had his sights set far higher than Pike, and the bigger man had quickly been noticed by Venman, both for his interest in the job and his ferocity when it came to administering physical punishment.
It had been obvious to Pike as soon as his training round was completed that the Bishop-Captain was a madman. That wasn’t so out of the ordinary; a life spent fighting the undead could make a man twist and turn in ways most couldn’t understand. He could see some of it in himself; three years on the street had changed him from the bright-eyed young man that had come to help defend the city into one far more jaded.
Instead of answering Dren, Pike let his shoulders drop and sucked in a deep breath. If they wanted to continue beating him, he could endure it, but he saw no reason to draw the process out. The sooner they thought they’d ruined him the sooner Venman would let him get back to work.
“Lipper!” Dren barked at his companion. “Go tell the Bishop-Captain we’ve beaten the cocky out of our thin friend here.”
Lipper was bigger, dumber and quite possibly more ferocious than Dren, and looked at him with a flat, angry stare.
“Now!” Dren reached out and smacked Lipper sharply across the face. As the senior member, he had authority over Lipper, at least so far as the bigger man would allow it. Should they ever spar and Lipper come out the winner, Venman would likely give the mountain of a man a promotion. For the moment, Lipper seemed to be cowed, and stumped out of the room.
Pike didn’t bother to look at Dren, or try to strike up a conversation. That would only give the man the impression that he wasn’t beaten yet, that he still had some fight left in him. He did, but Dren didn’t need to know it. He needed to get through this as quickly as possible and get back into the city so that he could meet up with Howe; the kid needed his help now more than ever.
Despite the rage the Bishop-Captain had displayed at being called down in his own meeting, there was no way he was going to kill a Second. Fewer and fewer men were available to take on the job, and those that did were of declining quality. Pike had put in his time on the streets and proven he could not only handle himself but keep another man safe, and that wasn’t something the Deacons could afford to lose.
Dren huffed in a breath, and Pike had to stifle a smile, even through the pain. The shaggy man bore a strong resemblance in body type to the Wolf that had almost ended his life a year ago, and had about as much intelligence. To most, that was an insult, but the fact was that Wolves – and Vamps – had a lot more going for them than the ordinary citizen realized.
He’d come across the Wolf on a quick patrol around the stadium grounds, and the thing had been on him before he knew what happened. When he told the story later, he’d been sure to throw in comments about how he knew that the thing was coming for him, or that he’d had some sense that he was going to get attacked, but the truth was he’d had no clue.
Teeth and claws had ripped into him, shredding his armor and pushing blood out newly-formed wounds. His gun hand had been pinned to his side and useless, and a shaky swing of his chastiser glanced off the thing’s back. It hadn’t even flinched.
Within thirty seconds he’d found himself on the ground, throat exposed and the beast above him roaring in triumph. He’d been sure his life was over, but then the Wolf leaned down, sniffed hard, and growled out words he’d never forget.
“Can’t. The Master doesn’t want you dead.”
He’d become a hero overnight; the Second who’d single-handedly defeated a Wolf. He knew he didn’t deserve the honor, but his status gave him the chance to poke his nose in where it didn’t belong.
Barry Howe had been just another recruit until he started babbling about Wolves talking to him. Howe wasn’t a bad First, but Pike wouldn’t have taken a beating just to save face for his trainee. Something important was happening in the ranks of the undead, and Howe was a part of it. Venman couldn’t be allowed to suspect Barry Howe of anything more than being an incompetent First, and one more beating wouldn’t be the end of Pike Rolson.
The door to the cell banged open to admit Bishop-Captain Venman, his face dark. A motion to Dren and the man’s gun came up, cocked and ready to fire.
“The Service is loathe to lose you, Second, but such are the risks of war.”
Pike Rolson raised his head. This was unexpected.
- D
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