Mickey Reichert - The beasts of Barakhai

Vernon thrust the dog at Collins with a force that sent man and animal staggering. He fell to one knee, arms, chest, and face filled with fur, managing to catch his balance, though awkwardly. Vernon shoved aside the dresser to reveal what seemed to be plain wall until he caught at something Collins had not noticed. Lashed logs that appeared as part of the structure glided open on unseen hinges, and Vernon gestured frantically at the darkness beyond it.

Still holding the dog, Collins dragged himself into the hidden room. Almost immediately, his nose slammed against solid wall, and wood slivered into his right cheek. He barely managed to turn before Vernon smashed the panel closed, and Collins heard the grind of the dresser moving back into position. Worried its claws might make scrabbling noises, Collins continued supporting the dog, one hand wrapped around its muzzle, the other grasping the translation stone.

For several moments that seemed more like hours, Collins stood in the silent darkness. Gradually, his heart rate returned to normal, and worse thoughts descended upon him. What if they find us? What if they take Vernon away? What if we're walled in here to die? The tomblike hush of his hiding place seemed to crush in on him, airless and boring, and he stifled an abrupt urge to pound on the door in a mindless frenzy. If the guards caught him, death went from "what if" to stark and graphic certainty.

Shortly, Collins heard footsteps clomping down nearby stairs and realized several people had passed through the trapdoor he had seen, likely into a root cellar. He had heard nothing of whatever exchange occurred in the cottage, but here their voices wafted to him in muffled bursts.

"Why is it that every time we're hunting fugitives, the trail always ends here?" The voice contained clear exasperation.

Vernon's reply sounded gruff. "Why is it that every time you're hunting fugitives, you chase them toward me? I'd thank you to stop. Puts me in danger. Would you like it if I started sending thieves and killers to your-"

The dog shifted, and Collins tightened his hold. If he could hear the men, likely they would hear any noise from him also.

"Cut the crap, Vernon." A loud, irritable voice joined the others. "What did you do with them?"

Vernon's answer dripped sarcasm. "I ate them."

The dog went limp in Collins' arms. The sudden dead weight made it seem twice as heavy, and it took all his strength to lower it soundlessly to the ground. What the…?

The first speaker huffed out a laugh. "You're a mouse, Vern. You can barely eat a hallowin seed before you fill up."

Worried he might have strangled the dog in an overzealous attempt to keep it quiet, Collins continued to bolster some of its weight. It felt liquid in his arms, all fur and limbs, and he fought for orientation. He no longer had its mouth, which put them at serious risk. He groped for it, swearing silently, overwhelmed by heat. All of the oxygen seemed to drain from the room. His heart rate trebled.

"I'll have you know I can eat three hallowin seeds before I fill up."

"Not funny," came the gruff voice again. "This guy we're hunting actually did eat someone. Cannibal. Try and hide him here, he'll probably eat you, too."

"Cannibal?" Vernon sounded shocked. "You're right. That's not funny."

Collins thought his heart might pound out of his throat. The dog became even harder to support, squirming into positions he could not fathom in the darkness. He no longer felt fur beneath his grasp, and that proved the final clue. God, no. He's switching. He gripped harder, now seeking a human shape among the movement. Not now, dog. Please, not now. He held his breath, awaiting the scream that revealed them.

"I… didn't know. I'll do whatever I can to help."

Collins could no longer concentrate on the conversation. He found a human ear beneath a wild mop of hair and lowered his mouth to it. "Please don't make a sound. I'll explain everything."

To Collins' surprise and relief, the boy obeyed. Now he turned his attention back to the speakers, but the voices and footsteps faded away. Vernon's revulsion had sounded sincere, concerned enough to reveal Collins to the guards. His chest clutched and ached. He doesn't know me, has no loyalty to me. He cringed, prepared for the worst.

The conversation grew uninterpretable, and Collins realized he had dropped the rose quartz in his struggle to maintain control of the dog. He pressed himself breathlessly to the wall, helpless, waiting for the guards to find him, for the dog/boy to shout, for Vernon to surrender him. Then, the voices faded away. Footsteps slammed up the steps, then disappeared.

More time passed, immeasurable in the sightless, soundless prison. Then, Collins heard the creak of the moving dresser. The door sprang open, and the dull interior of Vernon's cabin blinded him. "Thank you," he gasped out in English. The boy tumbled onto the floor, blinking repeatedly and glancing wildly around the room.

Vernon assisted the boy to his table, talking softly, while Collins fumbled around the hiding space until he found the quartz. He closed his hand firmly around it before shutting the panel. Now that he knew of the false wall's existence, he could see the faint outline of its crack and the indentation that allowed Vernon to pull it open. He shoved the dresser back in place.

Vernon approached Collins, enormous hands outspread. "Hi. Think him…"He gestured at the boy, who Collins saw for the first time. Blond hair fell around a heart-shaped, beige face, and brown eyes studied Collins with awed curiosity. Skinny, with long arms and legs, he could pass for a young American teenager if not for his completely unself-conscious nakedness.

"… think you…" Vernon struggled for the word, his English not even as competent as Zylas' pidgin speech.

The boy dropped from his chair to his knees on the floor, head bowed. "Your Majesty."

Collins understood. "Opernes?" he supplied. It seemed absurd, and he wondered what about his humble self might give such a noble impression. My clothes? The simple homespun his companions had provided clashed with his battered jeans and grimy Nike knockoffs. My watch? It seemed more likely until he realized that the boy had made his assumption as a dog. My scent? "Why does he think…?"

Vernon's features opened in surprise. "You-you speak…" He recovered swiftly, warning in his undertone. "Why does he…? Don't you mean how? How does he know you're royal, don't you, Your Majesty?" His lips formed sounds that did not match his words at all, like a badly dubbed movie. Collins had not gained that impression from Falima when she had carried the stone, and he guessed it rendered the speaker immune from that effect.

Clearly, Vernon expected him to play along. Though he did not understand why, Collins would not disappoint a man who had just saved his life. "Yes, of course." He turned to the boy. "How did you know?"

Apparently released by Collins' direct questioning, the boy clambered back into his chair. "Only royals don't switch." He studied Collins through liquid eyes, as though the answer should have been obvious.

It should have. Collins tried to cover. "I just didn't know one so young could determine that in switch-form."

"And retain it," Vernon added, almost hastily. "You must have good overlap."

The boy beamed, then blushed. "Not really. Not yet." For Zylas' sake, Collins did not glance at the translation stone, though he could not help clutching it like a treasure. He could understand Zylas' reluctance to lend it; at the moment, he would not trade it for the Hope Diamond. As he and Vernon took the seats on either side of the boy, he could not help wondering if it proved as useful to Zylas. Nothing required him to visit Collins' world; and, as far as he could tell, all citizens of Barakhai spoke the same language, at least in human form. But there's more than a little advantage to learning how to communicate with animals, especially here. He wondered if that explained Zylas' near-perfect overlap.