The Fallen Prince Part 13

He gives me a funny look. "Yeah. My family's tight."

Definitely something I can't say about Mom and me. Thinking about it makes my chest heavy and my throat thick. "It's only my mom and me. I don't have any idea where she is. Funny thing is, with all the s.h.i.+t she's put me through, I still don't hate her. If that's not a kick in the a.s.s, I don't know what is."

By the nervous expression on Wyatt's face, I've just broken Bro Code Number 7: Never, under any circ.u.mstances but death, give out too much emotional information.

It's not like he doesn't know about Mom. He's just a stereotypical guy who lives by the Army rule of suck it up.

And then he surprises me by slapping me on the shoulder. "I never should have said all that stuff about your mom. Her leaving doesn't mean she doesn't care. Her issues run deep."

"Center of the earth deep." My throat is so tight, air uncontrollably jags into my lungs.

He squeezes my shoulder again and pulls away. "Yeah, well, sometimes you've got to let go and let them get their act together."

It's nice of him to try, but he doesn't get it. I let go of Mom years ago. Only some odd sense of guilt kept her close, but as soon as she got over that unexpected sensation, she ran like a dog seeking a hidden stash of bones.

Wyatt pulls out a harness and straps it onto me, then affixes the end of the harness to a wide board with footholds screwed to the top of it. "I call this d.o.g.g.i.ng it."

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what I'm supposed to do. "I'm going to pull you, aren't I?"

"Yep. Don't act so depressed," he says, fitting his feet to the footholds. "This'll be fun."

His idea of fun and mine are not the same.

By late afternoon, I'm totally spent. I don't feel as jittery. Maybe this whole "keep him exhausted" strategy will actually work.

Ensconced on the couch in front of the television, I channel surf, not really paying attention to what I'm seeing. Kera just got back from walking her new pet in the woods, and she's helping Grandma in the kitchen. I'm relaxed. Happy. I actually have people who care about me. It's a little unnerving. I'm not used to the attention. Seriously, how long can it last? So far, all the c.r.a.p that's been flying in my life since I arrived hasn't turned them away. It's kind of amazing.

Amid the familiar noise of canned laughter, yawn-able news headlines, and catchy commercial music, I hear a sharp, irregular tapping. Tilting my head, I try to locate the sound.

Across the room toward the big picture window.

The tapping is definitely coming from that area. The shades are down and only a sliver of light peeks out along the bottom edge. I grab the back of the couch and vault over it, my Nikes landing soundlessly on the wooden floor. As I approach, I duck to peer beneath the shade. A pair of black googly eyes stares back at me from the other side of the window.

With a strong yank on the shade pull, the window cover flies up to reveal a mole of a man with a big head and overly large hands and feet huddling against the side of the house, his usually pale skin now a dark umber. Bodog. I quickly crank open the window and pop out the screen. Bending deeply, I lean over the windowsill and yank the little guy into the house, where he slumps against himself as if his small stature is too large for the room.

He's s.h.i.+vering. I don't know why. It's 75 degrees-a downright hot day for the wilds of Oregon.

"What are you doing here?" My demand is ignored. I get closer and try to pin down his wide-eyed gaze.

The little man snuffles around seeking shadows to hide in. He b.u.mps into a bookshelf and a few books topple loose. Ducking, he lets out a sharp squeal. I s.n.a.t.c.h the books before they hit and put them back. When I turn my attention back to Bodog, he's hiding under Grandpa's desk. What happened to the little man who braved the torture chamber to rescue me? Something is really wrong.

I bend on one knee and peer into the desk nook. He's huddled so deeply within the recess, all I see are his big, dark eyes and twitching ears. "Bodog, come out from there."

A moan ripples from him. "Lost. Forever lost."

"What have you lost? Do you think I know where it is? Is that why you're here?"

He says nothing, only hunkers deeper into the corner. Palpable fear ripples from him like heat waves off pavement.

"You're safe here, Bodog. I won't let anything happen to you."

"Easy promise. Difficult to keep."

He's right. I can't make that promise, so I try again. "You're in my world, in my home. I'll do everything in my power to protect you. Do you believe me?"

It seems like forever before the tight ball he's pulled himself into loosens. "Faith requires risk."

Seriously, this guy is giving me a headache. My big bang in the barn weakened me, and my brain's still not functioning at top speed. "Everything's gonna be fine. Come out of there. Please."

I'm encouraged when he slowly moves toward me, ears twitching, eyes darting. Out of the sun, his skin has transformed back into a shock of mushroom paleness. "Forever lost," he says again.

"So you said. You want to expound on that?"

"So much. Too little time."

"Can't help you with what I don't understand, dude."

He's almost out when he stops and plucks something off the floor. It's a wayward piece of hard candy that's sticky with fuzz. Bodog is undeterred by its appearance and pops it into his mouth. Strange noises come from him as he rolls the candy along his tongue. Suddenly, he makes a face and spits it onto the floor, where it lies in a puddle of green saliva.

Gross. "That is not cool!"

I pluck a wad of tissue from a nearby box, and with a quick scoop, wipe the candy and spittle off the floor and throw it away. I shake a finger in his unashamed face. "No spitting!"

Bodog makes a move toward the desk again and I grab his arm to stop him. It's then I realize how thin he's become. He's starving. Not that it explains his behavior. He's always been disgusting, but pity washes away my irritation. I drop my hand and squat eye to eye. "Bodog, what's going on? How'd you get here?"

"Bodog has talents."

"I know." He's saved my life more than once.

His gaze rockets around the room and lands on the doggy bed and chew toys. He inches closer as he says, "A tunnel. Very small. Very accurate. The guard did not see. In a blink, I slipped through."

I thought as much. From his network of tunnels spidering beneath the earth in his realm, it's a wonder the village he lives under hasn't collapsed. "What are you doing here?"

"Much has changed."

I haven't been gone from Teag that long. How much change could've happened? "What are you talking about?"

"A dark magic. It's up to you. Only you."

Suddenly, a m.u.f.fled cry of alarm blasts from the doorway. Bodog dives for the couch, causing it to thump along the floor as he tries to wriggle beneath it. I turn to see Grandma clutching her throat, her hand red from the heat of was.h.i.+ng dishes. "What's going on? What was that?"

Kera appears, a dish towel clutched in her hands, and gives me a questioning look.

"Bodog," I mouth to her.

Kera rushes past Grandma and rounds the quaking couch. The large, dirt-encrusted foot sticking out from beneath it retracts to safety with a sharp jerk. She gets on her hands and knees and peers underneath the crisp pleat. "Bodog?"

A veil of satiny dark hair slips over her shoulder as she thrusts her hand toward him. "Come out. You are safe here. I promise."

A minute pa.s.ses, then two, but nothing she says will bring him out. Kera glances up at me. "He won't be moved."

"This is crazy," I grumble. I know how to get him out of there. Stooping, I grab hold of the bottom edge along the short side of the couch and dead lift it high. Bodog isn't crouched on the floor as we suspect, he's clinging to the couch's underbelly like a c.o.c.kroach hiding from the exterminator, except this pest has found a worn doggy rawhide and has it firmly clasped between his teeth.

Grandma backs up. "Oh dear," is all she says.

"This is ridiculous. Bodog. Let go!" When he ignores my command, I shake the couch in an effort to knock the little man free. It works. He crashes to the floor, resembling a pile of filthy rags more than a living being.

Kera gasps and quickly comes to his rescue, throwing me looks as if I'm the one causing all the trouble. When she gets him up, she gently removes the rawhide from Bodog's mouth. Spittle runs a line of foam down his chin and splashes onto the floor. "Bodog is hungry."

"I know." Kera dabs at his face with a corner of the dish towel.

Grandma shakes her head. "I'll get him something to eat."

"My dear friend," Kera says, drawing the dish towel away from his face. "Why have you come to us?"

His attention latches on to the doggy treat she still holds in her other hand, and big tears slip down his cheeks. "The beginning of the end has begun."

Holding Secrets.

At Bodog's words, Kera rubs her arms as if she can't get warm. A sudden sadness invades her; its scent rises like burned mola.s.ses. "He's changed. Like us. And not for the better."

Kera's whisper dives past my ribs and kicks at my heart.

"What's happening is my fault. I should have been stronger. Smarter." I don't like the thin, bony skeleton Bodog has become. "Look at him. I killed Faldon, his only protector, and now Bodog's got no one."

I'd let Bodog's help during our wild escape from the land of Teag overshadow his true character. I simply forgot how needy he was-that he was fragile under all the bravery.

"You cannot shoulder the blame. I won't let you." She quickly steps away from me, takes Bodog's hand, and leads him to the kitchen table. I follow them, my mind heavy with concern. Grandma slides a plate of leftover homemade mac and cheese, my favorite, in front of Bodog. He sniffs, tongues a cheese-covered noodle, and gags, spitting and moaning his distaste.

Grandma whisks the plate away and scrounges for something else to feed him.

I rub my forehead, disgusted with myself and the pain I've brought to Bodog. I have no doubt my misery is flooding the room. I'm drowning in it.

Kera bites her lip. "You don't know the full truth of why he's here. None of us do."

She isn't convincing. It's just like Kera to try and save me from the agony of facing my own stupidity. It's pointless, though. My faults scour through my mind 24-7.

Before coming to live with my grandparents, my life revolved around Mom and how I fit in the equation. I didn't. So I stopped trying to figure it out. I stopped caring about others. Then Kera shows up and suddenly I find myself desperate to understand. Who am I? Where is my place? How do I fit into each realm, if at all?

My gaze latches on to Bodog sitting at the table. Is it possible, as he seems to believe, that I have control over more than my own life, that I have a destiny bigger than the one I face in the human realm? Or am I feeding a slowly emerging superego-my first self that's desperate to be known?

Every day, I'm forced to control the hum of selfishness that begs to be let loose. It's already tasted freedom. With that initial taste, when I'd first met Kera, the results were frightening. The first half of me didn't blink at killing or shudder at the possibility of causing someone pain. It had me acting more like my renegade dad than I cared to admit.

When Kera and I stole Navar's powers, I didn't think about how it would affect me. But now the first side has grown into an insistent voice that nags at the back of my brain, rushes hotly under my skin, and heightens my senses until I think I'll go crazy. My itch for power has grown worse. I can't look at Kera, afraid she'll see how selfish, how out-of-control, I've become.

"Right," I whisper, uncomfortable with my thoughts, and scrub my head in frustration as I eye Bodog sitting at the kitchen table eyeing a peanut b.u.t.ter sandwich. "I'm not responsible for his problems, just partly responsible."

The biggest part.

Kera won't have me huddling into my misery. She cups my cheek, her fingers cool against my hot skin, her violet eyes soft and deep and calm as they probe mine. "We cannot change the past. Faldon made his choice, like we all do. He would have murdered your best friend and your grandmother, innocent people who knew nothing of our world and its evils. He was the closest thing to a friend as I've ever had, and I say you did right. By destroying him and Navar, you saved many."

"For what?" I motion toward Bodog as evidence. "To die a slow death? I can't defend my actions against that."

Skin sags on his bones. His large eyes protrude. His nose and ears appear twice as big against a face that has shrunk. He has the look of the starving.

"He's a sh.e.l.l of what he was," I whisper harshly. "Look at him, Kera. What happened?"

A disa.s.sembled peanut b.u.t.ter sandwich is suddenly thrown to the floor, peanut b.u.t.ter side down. Bodog clutches at his throat, tongue lolling from his mouth. With a big show of disgust, he spits and sc.r.a.pes the peanut b.u.t.ter out of his mouth with the edge of the tablecloth.

Grandma smacks his head. "Stop that!"

He jerks away and wiggles his tongue at her, saying, "You poison Bodog."

"I am not poisoning you. That's good food you've turned your nose up at." Grandma grabs the empty plate, and Bodog rocks back and forth, scowling at her.

Kera grabs another rag to clean up his mess. "Please, Bodog. No more spitting."

What are we doing wrong? My mind flashes back to the underground labyrinth that is his home, and I know. "He won't eat any of it."

Grandma picks up the offending plate and turns to me. "I've wasted good food on..." she hesitates and eyes Bodog as if she's not sure what to call him, "...your friend."

"I've got an idea, but...um..." I'm hesitant to say what it is.

"Whatever it is, I'll feed it to him."

"Whatever is a pretty broad term," I warn her.

"If it'll stop him from moaning and spitting, I don't care what it is."

"Okay, then. I'll be right back. Stay put, Bodog."

He nods and collapses against the chair like a windup doll whose key has stopped turning. I hotfoot it outside to the shed. Grandpa's a fisherman. Living in prime fis.h.i.+ng territory, he goes whenever the mood strikes him. Grandpa wouldn't be caught dead without a ready supply of worms. I grab an old pail, open the bait box in the corner, and scoop out a pile of writhing beauties.

When I enter the kitchen, I grin at Grandma's widening eyes. "You said whatever," I remind her.

I take a plate from the cupboard and pour out a knotted glob of wriggling worms. Bodog's face suddenly brightens.

"You might want to turn away," I shoot over my shoulder at Grandma. "This isn't going to be pretty."

Within a staggeringly short period of time, the worms are sucked down the little man's gullet. An entirely different series of noises rise as his tongue flickers out to lick the plate clean.

"More?" I ask. He nods. I make two more trips to the shed in an attempt to fill his endless stomach. Bodog wolfs down his meal quicker than a Shop-Vac. He lifts his plate and looks imploringly up at me.