Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (93 page)

I staggered to him. He flinched as I neared him.

“Gaston, my love,” I murmured. He made a pitiful sound. “I love you,” I murmured over and over again. I unfastened the gag and he sucked in a great lungful of air, as a drowning man does when at last he finds the surface again. His eyes snapped open. They were wild, but lit with recognition upon seeing me. In turn I recognized the demon of his madness in their depths.

I crawled atop him as best I could, so that I eclipsed all else he could see. Then I worked on the strap restraining his head. I kept murmuring to him.

“There will be no more. You are safe now. I love you.” His eyes did not leave mine. They were filled with fear and horror and not rage, yet.

“Close your eyes,” I whispered. He did as I bade, and I was able to turn my head to release his arms. He immediately clawed at my shoulders.

When I looked back at him, I started with renewed horror. The skin about his eyes was dark, and I had thought it his usual mask; but nay, it was bruised. Yet it did not look as if he had been struck in the face.

Only his eyelids were purple and puffy.

“What did they do?” I asked and gingerly touched the area.

“I used the little hooks on that table there to hold his eyelids open,”

Doucette said.

Gaston snarled at the sound of his voice and buried his head in my shoulder.

Several things flashed through my mind. I needed to kill Doucette.

My back was to the door. Worse yet, it was behind me on my left. The pistol was in Gaston’s lap, so that it could be gripped with my right, not my left. Gaston was still strapped to the chair. Everyone in the house would hear the shot. I did not know what Madam Doucette was doing. I did not know if Doucette had a weapon on me. I did not know if he once again had half dozen men behind him.

Then the yelling began. It was Madam Doucette.

“You monster!” I heard flesh hitting flesh before I could turn. “You are inhuman!” she punched him again. “A pig! A dog! A rabid thing! You disgust me! I hate you!” She punctuated every statement with another blow, and he regarded her with amazement and defended himself. She was doing little damage.

I noted Doucette had a pistol.

“Keep your eyes closed,” I told Gaston and pried his fingers off my shoulder.

He kept them closed, but he did not stop clutching at me; and I could not get my arms free to bring the pistol up.

“Gaston! I must shoot someone,” I hissed.

Oblivious to us, Madam Doucette changed tactics, backing away to yell. “You monster! You said you were helping him as you helped me! You are so damn stupid! How did you think you would get away with this? Did you think they would forgive you? Did you think I would forgive you if I knew? They will kill you! And you deserve it! You bastard!”

Gaston stopped grabbing at me and clapped his hands over his face. I threw myself back, and fell off him and out of the chair. I landed hard and spots danced before my eyes. I tried to focus. Doucette was regarding his wife with wonder and confusion. I got the pistol up and fired. The ball caught him high in the right shoulder. I had nearly missed.

Yvette screamed and dropped to her knees.

Doucette’s face contorted in surprise and shock, and he dropped his pistol.

Jean arrived and threw himself upon Yvette to protect her.

I realized I did not have powder and shot to reload. I scrabbled at the straps on Gaston’s legs while Doucette slumped to the floor.

Then Pete was in the doorway, and it was like looking upon the face of God. I was overcome with relief and salvation for a moment. He grinned at me.

I turned my back on the rest of the room and dealt solely with my matelot again. Gaston had doubled over, and I returned to murmuring things for him as I worked on the final straps. Then another set of hands worked with me, steadier hands.

“Will?” Striker hissed from beside us as he helped ease Gaston out of the chair.

I met his worried eyes and shook my head. “I must get him out of here.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere quiet.”

Someone was roaring in French and I looked up, startled. It was Gaston’s former captain, Pierrot. The man had Doucette off his feet and pressed against the wall.

Right behind them, it seemed as if the entirety of Cayonne was trying to fit inside the tiny room, and they were all angry. There were so many people that someone stumbled on us and had to catch themselves on the chair above my head.

I scuttled backwards for the safety of the corner. Every movement was agony. Gaston was a ball in my lap, and he twitched with every sound. He had some limb of his against my wound.

Then there were hands upon us. Pete picked Gaston up in his arms and lifted him from me. And then Striker and Liam had me on my feet between them. Cudro bellowed and smacked people and drove a path to the door. As we turned to go through, I saw Otter bringing a terrified Madam Doucette with us with Jean as rearguard.

Unfortunately, the balcony along the way was worse than the room.

We pressed on. I was in agony; the only thing keeping me conscious was fear. I was afraid that at any moment Gaston would realize I did not hold him, and turn into a feral creature of rage and terrible power.

Cudro led Pete the length of the balcony, to the stairs, down them to the courtyard and across it to the street. We still did not stop.

Consciousness began to desert me. Again and again I would slip into velvety darkness, only to have it torn asunder by another lightning bolt of pain, movement, and sound.

Pete stopped and dropped Gaston. We stopped, and thankfully the darkness stayed at bay. Gaston was crouched and snarling. It was as I had feared. I tugged free and threw myself before him. Once again his eyes lit with recognition at the sight of me. The anger did not fade, though. He came and embraced me protectively while casting about.

“Gaston,” I whispered. “My love, you are safe. I am wounded. The ship, we must reach the ship. Let them get us there.”

He pulled back and examined my bandage with deft fingers. It was red in the middle, where it had been clean before. I had torn the stitches in all the movement. His eyes were wide with horror, and I guessed that much of it was remembered.

“Gaston, help me to the ship. Follow Pete.”

He searched my eyes, and I smiled as best I could. His fingers had returned to clutching, but I could see the rage hovering about him.

“All will be well. We are escaping. You will care for me. Be my legs.

Let me guide us.”

Clarity bloomed in his gaze, and he nodded.

“We are one.” He helped me to my feet and got his arm around my back.

Liam approached us diffidently with a blanket. I realized Gaston was still naked. He let me wrap it about his shoulders; and then, with me leaning on him, we made our slow way down the street with the others arrayed about us. We now appeared to be over twenty men strong.

Gaston’s eyes darted about and he started at every sound. His breathing was fast and ragged. But he handled me carefully as we made our way to the wharf, and into and out of a longboat to reach the Mayflower. Once safely inside our cabin, he sat me on a chair and tried to push the others out.

“I need to know…” Striker was saying.

“Ask Madam Doucette,” I said, “and let us be for a time, please.”

He nodded.

“Thank you,” I remembered to call as the door started to close again.

Striker shook his head with a small smile; and then he was gone, and there was a door between us and the world, and we were safe. I hoped they would sort it out without us. I leaned on the table.

Gaston had his medicine chest open and was quickly going through various things. When he came to me to cut the soiled bandage away, I touched his cheek. His eyes met mine.

“How are we?” I asked.

He considered this, and finally shook his head jerkily and concentrated on cutting the bandage. Once he had it clear, he examined the wound and apparently decided it did not need more suturing. He applied a clean bandage. He seemed concerned at the puffiness of my belly.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

I thought on it. “Non, thirsty.”

He found a corked bottle and bade me sip only a little. I found I could not hold the weight of it and bring it to my lips steadily. He helped me. I saw his bloody nails again.

“You will lie on the hammock now and stay still,” he admonished as I finished.

“In a moment. First let us see to your hands.”

He examined his broken nails with concern, and allowed me to help him clean and bandage them. He became agitated while we did this, and I saw anger flash with the pain in his eyes as I trimmed the broken sections.

Once that was complete, he searched about and found a coil of rope we used to string the hammocks.

“Bind me.” His eyes had gone hard, and his voice was a growl.

I faced him without fear and shook my head. “You will not hurt me.”

He gave a derisive snort, and his eyes went to the wound.

“You did not intend that. It was an accident. I merely got in your path, when I should not have, I might add.”

“Non.” He looked away, and his breathing quickened. Dozens of things flitted across his face.

“Oui, all will be well, my love. I forgive you.”

He shook his head with more agitation. “Non, you do not understand.” He sounded as he had while bandaging me. “The horse…

the horse is running wild. You are all that holds me to this world. You must… hobble me while you sleep. I cannot trust myself.” His eyes found mine again and hardened. “You cannot trust me.”

I held my ground in his gaze, but I understood.

“Do you wish to dress first?” I asked. “Or relieve yourself?”

He gave a little gasp of surprise and did both things. I was thankful we had spare clothing aboard. I wondered if we would ever see the things we left at Doucette’s again.

Once he was dressed and empty, he turned his back to me and presented his arms behind him. I bound him securely above his damaged wrists, with enough slack in the rope to not hurt his shoulders.

“Can you join me in the hammock thus?” I asked.

He nodded quickly with a shuddering breath. When he turned to face me, I saw the tears. I gingerly brushed them away and he kissed my fingers and then moved closer to kiss my cheek.

“Do not let me go, Will.”

“Never, my love.” I held him.

We later reached the hammock and slept, or at least I did, with him quiescent in my arms.

I woke to his hiss of my name, and found him wild-eyed and angry and glaring at someone. I rolled back enough to look over my shoulder, and found Pete sitting in the chair watching us. It was night, and the lamp hanging from the beam swung just a little.

“How Are Ya?” Pete asked.

I thought. “I am in pain, and thirsty, and hungry.” I gave Gaston a questioning look.

He calmed a bit and snorted. “I am stiff, and hungry. Will may have broth.”

Pete nodded sagely and scratched his head.

I grinned at him. “Gaston is not well, but we will live.”

He sighed. “We Been Worried. Felt Guilt. We Spent The Last Nights Piss Drunk. Didna’ Know Ya Two Be In Trouble.”

“We know,” I sighed. “I intend to beat Tom senseless when I see him.”

“Two…?” Gaston whispered. “Will, when did I… when were you stabbed?”

“In the morning, two days ago.” I looked to Pete for confirmation. He nodded.

Gaston shook his head. “I do not remember… He must have drugged me for some of it.”

“He kept me drugged. And I did not wake, until perhaps a half hour before I found you. If Dickey had not helped me, I might be there still.”

“Aye, On Account A’Yar Friends Bein’ Right Idiots.”

“Nay, nay,” I sighed. “You came as soon as you knew. I was damn pleased to see you.”

Pete snorted. “We Ran There After Dickey Say There Be Trouble.

We Did Na’ Give ’Im Time Ta Say What Sort. Just That You Be Wounded An’ Gas ton Be Captive. We Got There An’ Wandered About Until We Heard The Scream in’ An’ The Shot.”

Gaston sighed. “What shot? What happened? All I remember is you saving me and then I realized someone other than you held me.”

“An ’IDropped Ya Right Quick. Ya Growled.”

“I am sorry, Pete,” Gaston said.

The Golden One shook his head and shrugged.

“IWoulda ’If’nIt Were Me.”

“I shot Doucette. In the shoulder.” I looked to Pete. “He was not dead when we left, but Pierrot was there and had him against the wall. Or was I suffering delusions?”

“He Na’ Be Dead,” Pete snorted, and then grinned. “Pierrot Beat ’Im Good Though. There Be A Big Fight In Our Wake.”

Gaston’s eyes had gone hard again. “He will not live to an old age.”

Pete nodded. “He Be Yours. But Ya’ Canna’ Kill ’Im While We Be Here.

Frenchies Love ’Im. Striker Can Tell Ya’ More. He Done Talked Ta’ The Bastard.

An The Mayor. An Priests.” He shook his head with a derisive snort and frowned seriously. “We Na’ Say The Whole Of It Though. All O’Them Want Ta Know What It’sAbout. But Those That Know Stayed Quiet.”

My matelot sagged into my shoulder with relief. “Thank you, Pete.”

Pete patted his shoulder. “IGo Get…Broth.” He smirked.

“Tell me everything,” Gaston said when he was gone.

“May I release you first?”

“Non.”

“You seem quite reasonable, though a little more taciturn than usual.”

He shook his head, and his eyes were sad. “While you slept… I thought I could kill you with my teeth. I thought to crawl over you and free myself with the dirks you left on the floor, as I did when the galleon sank. Then I would escape to the Haiti and recover myself. And then I thought of the horrible things I have done and I wished to die. I thought I could fool you into complacency during the voyage home and throw myself overboard at night. But I am bound and I… clung to that. I wished for you to bind me because I love you. Because you love me. And I know that is a thing of sanity. But then my mind drifts away again, and my thoughts travel some new ugly path. And I pull at my bonds and then I remember that I wished for them. And so on.”

I embraced him as tightly as I could manage. “I will not release you.”