The Sign of Fear (6 page)

Fieran lunged at Conn with a high, shrill shriek of anger. He wanted to feel his hands on Conn's throat. He wanted to hear Conn's neck crack. Hear Conn squeal in pain. He wanted to put a stop to Conn's hateful, ugly words.

But he was exhausted. And Conn was too quick. He sidestepped Fieran and knocked him to the ground.

Blood from a cut on his forehead trickled down into his eyes. This is what Conn wanted, Fieran realized. This is why he lied to me about Brianna. He wanted me to attack him, so he would have an excuse to kill me.

Fieran could only see Conn's knee as Conn knelt beside him. Conn grasped Fieran by the hair. He pulled Fieran's head back until Fieran thought his neck would snap. Forcing Fieran to meet his gaze.

I won on the battlefield, Fieran thought. But I won't win this time. This time, Conn really will kill me.

“You could be a dead man, Fieran,” Conn murmured in a chilling voice. “You know that, don't you? I could kill you now and no one would blame me. They all know you are insane with jealousy.”

Conn released Fieran's head so suddenly Fieran
had no time to brace himself. His face smashed into the ground. His ears rang with pain. But he could still hear Conn's voice.

“I don't want you to die, Fieran,” Conn said. “I want you to stay alive. And every day of your life, I want you to remember all the things I've taken from you. I want you to remember that I have all the things you wanted.”

Fieran struggled to rise to his feet. Conn dug his fist into Fieran's back and held him down.

“Think about it, Fieran.” Conn's relentless voice filled Fieran's head. “Think about me kissing Brianna. Think about the fact that I am the new chief. Then think how powerless you are. There's nothing you can do to stop me. After all these years, I've finally won.”

Through the haze of his agony, Fieran heard Conn's retreating footsteps. He heard the rustle of vines that meant that Conn had left him all alone.

Slowly, painfully, Fieran sat up. On his hands and knees, he crawled across the cave floor. His whole body ached with bruises. Blood from the cuts on his face dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision.

I'm not beaten yet, Fieran vowed with every painful motion. I'm going to fight back. I'm not beaten until the day I die.

But before he could fight back, he must have power. Power that could come from only one place. Conn hadn't taken absolutely everything from him.

Fieran still had the Roman head.

He fixed his eyes upon the head and dragged himself toward the brazier. He never glanced away from it. He repeated his new vow with every painful inch he crawled across the floor.

You are going to be sorry, Conn.

When he reached the brazier, he used it to haul himself to his feet.

Give me your power, Fieran thought. I want your power. Power to defeat my enemies. Power to make me strong.

But the power of the head would not be released until the bones were bare.

Fieran pulled out the small knife he wore strapped around his waist. He sliced into the flesh beneath the head's eye sockets. He gagged as the sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh filled his nostrils. He turned his face away.

But I cannot stop, he thought. Not if I want the power.

Fieran peeled the flesh away from the head and tossed it into the flames.

The stench of burning flesh rose up from the brazier. Fieran coughed and choked. But he didn't stop working.

Rip!
Fieran tore the right ear off with his fingers. Then he tore off the left. He tossed them both into the center of the brazier.

He seized the Roman head by the hair. He pulled the hair out in great clumps. Vomit rose in the back of his throat. Fieran swallowed it down.

He dug his fingers into the eye sockets and pulled the eyeballs out. He dropped them in the fire.

I will not stop! Fieran thought. I cannot. I will not stop until this head is nothing more than clean, white bone.

Then I will have the power I long for. I will have the power to take my revenge!

T
he head began to pulse under Fieran's fingers.

The empty eye sockets began to glow blood red.

A tremor ran through Fieran's body. The power of the head terrified him.

Did tearing the flesh away release the power too quickly? Is it out of my control? Should I stop?

No! I have lost everything already. All I have left is the power of revenge.

Putrid black smoke oozed from the skull's nose holes. Fieran put an arm across his mouth, gasping and coughing. The smoke stung his eyes so badly that it hurt to keep them open. The smell was worse than the odor of corpses on a battlefield.

The power is so strong. It has not been a day since the Roman leader died, Fieran thought. I started the process too soon.

Will I be able to use the power? Or is it stronger than I am? Will it use me?

Too late to stop, Fieran thought. He stabbed his fingers deep into the head. A searing pain shot through Fieran's body. He was on fire. He was cold as ice. All at once.

Fieran shivered. Then he began to shake. He stared down at himself. He saw his arms jerking and twisting.

His teeth began to chatter. Fieran clenched them and felt them cut into his tongue. The taste of blood filled his mouth. He spat the tip of his tongue into the brazier.

The head's eye sockets glowed with green fire. He felt them burn into his own. Then the head's ghastly mouth opened. Smoke belched forth into the room.

Fieran doubled over. His whole body heaved.

It is too much,
he thought.
I've released the head's power too soon! It is too strong! It is killing me!

Fieran's eyelids fluttered. His head spun. Blackness surrounded him.

C
hristina heard another shrill scream.

She shoved herself to her feet—and saw a huge horse galloping toward her. Before she could move, the boy in the saddle reached down and pulled her up in front of him.

What if he knows who I am? she thought. What if he takes me back to my aunt? She will kill me. I know she will.

The boy wrapped her in his thick, black cloak. The whole world went black around her. Thick, stifling black.

“Please,” Christina gasped. “I can't get any air. Please let me go.”

Christina felt a sudden shift in the horse's gait. We're in the forest now, she realized.

“Whoa!” the boy cried. The horse gave a highpitched whinny.

Christina managed to shove the cloak off her face. She stared up at the boy.

“I'm sorry if I startled you,” he said. “But I wanted to get you out of the storm. The trees give us some protection.”

Christina opened her mouth to answer, but no sound came out. So much had happened to her today. She couldn't take it all in.

“I'd best get you to shelter,” he said. “You look worn to the bone.”

Worn to the bone, Christina thought, as she felt the horse move beneath her. A good description. Never had she felt so tired before. Her father's funeral seemed as if it had happened weeks and weeks ago. But it was just that morning.

“I saw lights,” she managed to get out. “The lights of a farm.”

The young man holding her nodded. “That you did,” he said. “I'm somewhat acquainted with the family that owns the farm. That's where we're going. You'll be safe there.”

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, but the air remained cold. The boy threw his cloak over her again. This time, he left a space for her to breathe. Christina snuggled closer to him.

Aunt Jane would disapprove, she thought. She would call it shameful to sit so close to a boy—especially a boy Christina had never met.

But it felt right. Warm and cozy.

Maybe he's my soul mate, Christina thought. Her mother used to tell her every person had a soul mate. Someone who they were meant to spend their lives with.

She wondered what this boy would think if he knew
her thoughts. He would probably laugh himself sick. Or plunk her down, turn his horse around, and gallop away.

She glanced up at him—and found the boy staring down at her. His brown eyes were warm and friendly. And she liked the way his straight brown hair fell over his forehead.

His arm tightened around her waist. “Nearly there now.”

Christina sat up straight and gazed around. Then gasped. No, she thought. He can't have brought me here. Not here.

She stared up at the weathervane on top of the barn. It was shaped like a huge black cat leaping for its prey.

“Oh, no,” she exclaimed. She could hear her voice quaking. “This is the Peterson farm!”

The young man stopped the horse. “Their name is Peterson,” he admitted. “Why should you fear them?”

Christina bit her lip nervously. Should she reveal what the villagers said about the Petersons? Would he be offended? How well did he know them?

“Um, several girls from the village have gone to be servants at the Peterson house,” Christina told him. “Not one of the girls was ever seen again. The villagers say . . . they say the Petersons used the girls for some evil purpose.”

Christina's voice dropped down to a whisper. “ 'Tis said the Petersons practice the dark arts.”

The young man's eyebrows rose. “The dark arts?” he echoed. He sounded shocked. “I never saw any sign of that. And I stayed with them for several days.”

Christina wanted to believe him. But she didn't feel sure. A few days wasn't long to keep a secret.

“My horse went lame,” the young man explained. “Mistress Peterson and her daughter aided me. They gave me a place to stay. Food to eat.”

He hesitated for a moment, considering. “It is true that they are very poor,” he said at last. “Their life is a hard one. Perhaps it was too hard for the other girls. Perhaps they ran away. They could hardly return to the village if they had. They probably would have been sent back to the farm again.”

“Perhaps it is only mean rumors,” Christina suggested. The people in the village always gossiped about the wrongdoings of others. One more reason Christina disliked living there.

“Yes,” he said, as he urged the horse forward. “Rumors. That must be what it is.” The young man smiled at Christina. His whole face lit up when he smiled. Christina felt her heart turn over.

“There,” the young man said. He pointed to a woman with a lantern near the front door. “Mistress Peterson has come outside to greet us. Nothing frightening about her, is there?”

“Why, Matthew,” the woman called out, raising the lantern. “What brings you back here?”

At the sound of her voice, a cold shiver shot through Christina. She knew that voice.

Mistress Peterson is the woman I heard talking to Aunt Jane today, Christina thought.

Aunt Jane paid her to kill me!