D’Artagnan le Roi Deveroix

My name. Some say that a name shapes the soul. Well if they are right, I wonder what my name has done to shape mine?

My name. I have so many that I tell others, but only one is truly mine. Is it Dirk, Cole, Cameron, Mike, Tony, Jason, Roy, or Dart? There are so many others that I don’t even know who I am anymore. Even so I have never forgotten the name my mother gave me.

D’Artagnan Jaques Demont le Roi Deveroix.

Yeah, it’s a long one. And I would describe myself more like “white trash” than French. My mother was French I think. I don’t really remember. I was seven when she was shot and killed in a parking lot for the engagement ring on her finger. I’ve always wanted to meet the asshole that did it and tell him that it was a fake. But I’m sure by now that he knows that. I don’t even know if they ever found the guy.

As I pondered things worth pondering, the bus I was sitting in came to a stop. I got up from my slouch and rubbed my eyes. Had if fallen asleep? A voice sounded over the intercom, “Last stop. All passengers must disembark.”

I looked around. The bus was otherwise empty. Standing, I shuffled down the hall, still blinking sleep out of my eyes. I waved a quiet thanks at the driver who grunted, “Have a good night.” I mumbled something back.

I stepped off the bus and as it left, I sighed, rubbing the heels of my hands into my eyes. I blinked and looked around.

I had stepped on the bus at Portland, Oregon and had been transferring until I was pretty far north. I stared at the sign that read “Welcome to Canada” in English and something else that I guess could be French. I’ve heard they speak that up here. When the hell had we passed the boarder?

I have worked more jobs in more states than most, but I had never left the country before. How the hell did I get past the boarder? I don’t even have a passport.

I turned and took in my surroundings. A pit stop (you couldn’t call it a town) had a neon sign blinking the words “Inn. Room available.” I crossed the empty highway road and dug through my pockets for my wallet. I flipped it open and stared into its gaping mouth. A lonely twenty sat in the leather. I winced, but with no better idea, I walked into the inn. The bell jingled and an older woman with greying hair and a frown looked up from her paperback novel.

“Can I help you, son?”

I walked up to the counter.

“Yeah, uh. The sign outside says you have a room available?”

“You from the states?” she asked without answering my question.

“Uhhh. Yeah. I don’t really know how I got here. I mean I know how I got here, but…yeah, I have no idea where here is…”

She looked me up and down. I can guess what she saw: A young white boy with red-black hair and scars on his knuckles and face that stood out in a stark blue. Wearing jeans with more holes than would be considered stylish, a black hoodie that was worn out on the collar and hem with the ties missing and replaced with a shoelace, a tan jeans jacket over it that had paint stains amongst dirt and who knows what else and converse shoes that had seen much better days. They were wrapped in duct tape. I must have looked like I spent most of my nights in a gutter.

I felt a blush crawl its way across my face.

“I took a bus,” I mumbled.

She raised an eyebrow and said, “Rooms are fifty bucks a night.”

The blush darkened and I shoved my wallet back into my coat pocket.

“Thanks,” I said and headed for the door.

“If you don’t mind working for a place,” she called after me. I turned. She continued, “Ask for Connie, tell her Jenin sent you. She’ll put you up and give you something to eat. She owns the bar at the other side of town.”

“Thank you,” I told her and left. She went back to her book.

I stepped inside the bar. It wasn’t that bad of a place. I had worked in bars before, but they had looked much worse and had smelled of vomit, cigarettes and bad beer. This place smelled of beer and cigarettes all right, but the atmosphere was much nicer. Better music too. The patrons looked mostly to be truck drivers and they were scattered about the place. Some of the patrons talking to each other while others played pool or informal poker in the back room. Still, most sat at the bar watching the TV that displayed sport reruns, mostly football and soccer. A red-haired woman that looked on the far side of thirty with white streaks in her hair that looked like they had been done on purpose, but I could be wrong. The things that women do to their hair are beyond me. I don’t do anything to my hair, which is probably why it looks like I had escaped a tornado. I shoved impatiently at the dark chestnut bangs that always dropped into my eyes. I needed a haircut.

I walked up to the bar table and shoved my hands in my coat pockets. I sat on a stool.

“Are you Connie?” I asked, half yelling over the noise of the TV. The red haired woman set an empty glass down behind the counter.

“Who wants to know?” she said.

I glanced at the television.

“Jenin sent me here.” I looked back at her and said, “She told me you would put me up if I worked for you.”

Connie gave me a look.

“She said that, huh?”

I shrugged. She frowned.

“Where are you from, kid?”

I blew at a strand of hair that had fallen back across my face. It stayed put.

“Florida, originally.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Don’t know. Fell asleep on the bus in Bellingham.”

She gave me another look. I gave another shrug.

“Aren’t your parents worried?”

“Never knew them,” I muttered.

“What?”

I shook my head. She seemed to be thinking.

“Andy, take over for me,” she said to a young man that came out of the back. She gestured to me to follow her. I walked with her into the back of the bar and then out the back door. As the wood door shut behind us, it shut the off the sound of the bar. Connie turned to me.

She gave me an appraising look.

“How old are you?”

I smiled, but didn’t answer. I was too tired to think of a believable lie anyway. The ID I had on me said that I was twenty-one, but even I knew that I didn’t look the part.

“Have you ever worked in a bar?”

“Yes.”

She huffed a sigh.

“I don’t try to make a habit of taking in strays, but if you work hard, I can give you the extra room above the bar,” she paused. She looked hard at my face. I stared back. She sighed and gestured to the door. “I’ll feed you first. Can’t have my workers looking like skeletons. It wouldn’t give me a good name if they did.”

My stomach growled on cue. I blushed. Connie just shook her head and led the way to the kitchen.

Oh my Goooooood this woman could cook.

I shoveled the gravy-covered potatoes into my mouth and tried not to choke. Connie set another plate down in front of me heaped with bacon and eggs. A glass of orange juice appeared later when I had plowed through the potatoes. I drained half of it and then started on the eggs and bacon.

“Jesus, kid. When was the last time you ate?”

I gulped down an egg and wiped my mouth with a napkin before answering.

“A while ago.”

She gave me a look that said she knew it had been more than a while.

“Don’t make yourself sick. Come back into the bar when you’re done. The door will lock behind you; leave your stuff in here. You can get it later.”

I stepped outside to dump the trash bags in the waste bins back behind the bar. The gravel of the pothole littered road crunched and ground under my feet. One of the bags had ripped and a can fell into a puddle. I dumped the bag in the bin before heading back for it. I dug it out of the water and stood up, looking at it, not really paying attention to where I was going.

… to be continued.

© 2014 Morgan Krepky. All Rights Reserved.

Demons: Part 1 – Ch 3 – END

Chapter 3:

ZACK: City Mental Institute: High pitched screaming, // a man and women shouting. // NURSE 1 (man): “Hold him!” NURSE 2 (woman): “Keep him still!” NURSE 3 (woman): “I’m trying!” // Zack came running down the hall, “What’s going on?!” // The three nurses struggled to hold down a pink haired boy (Andy), // (Close up) his eyes squeezed shut, // (Close up) his hands bloody and clawing at the air and the nurses, // his screams sounded like an animal. // Nurse 3: “We need to sedate him!” // Nurse 1: “Get the damn syringe!” (directed at Zack with a look over his shoulder) // Zack picked up the already prepped syringe. // Moving in close, he stops as he was about to knock the boy out. Nurse 1: “What the hell are you waiting for?!” // (Andy) arched off the bed. Nurse 3 lost hold of his arm. // (Close up) Eyes wide, the thin young man lashed out and caught Zack’s arm in a vise-like grip, his thin fingers like steel wire. // His wild eyes locked onto Zack’s face, his screams becoming unintelligible sounds of distress and garbled words. // (ECU) His pale skin was white at his knuckles, the deep red of his bloody fingers stained Zack’s green olive uniform. Zack still held the syringe in his free hand. // (Close up) Zack’s angular face was tense with concern, his dark brown eyes, puzzled. // (ECU) Zack put the syringe down on the trolley. // “Let go,” he ordered to the nurses. No one moved, casting ‘You can’t be serious,’ glances at one another. // “Let go!” // They jerked their hands away from (Andy)’s thin frame. // After a few seconds, (Andy)’s distressed sounds quited further, his breath gasping lungfuls of air, // his grip tightened on Zack’s arm, he seemed caught between holding Zack in place and pushing him away. The older man winced slightly in pain. // It was then, that Zack noticed the wall, streaks of blood coated the far corner of the room, where (Andy) must have tried to claw his way out of the white-painted cell. // Zack, voice quiet and calm, ordered the nurses out of the room. // (Andy) continued to stare at Zack, like he expected the janitor to attack him. // Zack caught the arm of Nurse 1 as he started to leave. “What’s his name?” // The older, heavier man glared at him, “Andrew Poodle.” // Zack raised his eyebrows, looking at the man fully for the first time. // “Seriously,” Nurse 1 said. // Zack looked back at Andy. “Alright,” he said, still not really believing him. Nurse 1: “I hope you know what you’re doing.” // Zack smiled grimly. “Probably more than you do.” // Nurse 1 sneered and left the room. Not able to call Andy, Mr. Poodle, Zack gently spoke to the pink haired boy, “Andrew (Andy), it’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you.” // Andy stared, rigid, from his prone position on the cot. // Slowly, giving Andy plenty of time to protest, // (Close up of his hand as it moved) Zack used his free hand to cover Andy’s clutching fist. // The thin boy flinched, but didn’t resist as Zack turned his arm to look at Andy’s fingers. He slowly pried off his fingers as gently as possible, Zack spoke to him the entire time, “Let’s take a look at those hands, Andrew. It’s ok, it’s ok. That’s it, just relax, I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to.” // With the last finger removed, Andy watching the janitor like a hawk, Zack grabbed some tape, anti-bacterial slave, and bandages from the trolley. He then shoved the trolley out the open doorway. The three nurses stared at his back, stunned. // Zack walked closer to Andy, exuding calm and friendliness. // Andy continued to watch him from the cot. // Zack smiled and said, “You can sit up, Andrew. I want to heal your hands, would you like that?” // Andy blinked and said nothing. Zack waited patiently. He sat up cautiously. // Slowly, the mass of pink hair bobbed in a slow nod. His amber gaze falls on his bloody hands. His worn face goes blank, distant. // Zack kneels in front of him. // He takes his hands and starts treating them. // Staring down at him, wild pink hair hiding most of his face, Andy asks, “Who are you?” // Zack continues to treat his hands, his expression one of calm and concentration. “My name’s Zack Ryker, I’m a janitor here.” // The nurses stare at each other. // “Why are you here?” he asked. Zack wrapped Andy’s hands with the bandages. “Because I want to be,” he answered. // Andy frowned. “Why?” // Zack looked up at him. “It’s complicated.” He smiled suddenly. “They couldn’t keep me away if they tried.”  His smile faltered and he looked back down at Andy’s hands. “Why are you here?” He glanced up at Andy. // His thin face collapsed in despair. Zack let go of his hands, finished. “You don’t have to answer that, Andrew,” he said, looking back up at the young man’s face. // Andy shook his head, biting violently down on his lower lip. He sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. // Nurse 2: “What the hell are you doing?! Don–” // “Shut up,” Zack snapped with undeniable authority. // Andy shut his eyes tightly, his hands curling into fists. “Andrew,” Zack said softly, gently touching his clenched fists. Andy shook his head, and then sobbed in a breath, eyes open and locked on Zack. // “I hurt him…I didn’t mean to, I just–I don’t know. He–And–and then… I was so angry.” He stared down at his hands, shutting his eyes again, beginning to rock back and forth. // (Close up of his hands and Zack’s) “I think I killed him. (sob) God, I killed him.” // Andy tried to raise his hands to cover his ears, but Zack, gently and firmly keeps them in his lap. “Andrew.” Andy shook his head, his face draining of what little colour he had. “Andrew,” Zack said again, more insistently. Andy’s mouth quivered and then he cried. His sobs shaking his thin shoulders. Zack sighed with a gentle smile and drew the young man against his shoulder, where he continued to cry. // “It’s ok… You’re ok.” Andy hid his face in the janitor’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to. (sob) I’m sorry, I’m sorry…(continues).” Zack brushed a hand over the back of Andy’s head, his wild hair refusing to submit to the gesture. A growing, white-hot anger developed in the pit of his stomach. // Andy slowly got a hold of himself and leaned away from Zack. //  Amber eyes set in heavily sunken cheeks, with wisps of pink hair sticking to the fringes of Andy’s wet face, stabbed at Zack’s heart. // Zack set his shoulders, decided. // (Side shot) “Andrew–,” he began, //(Head shot) but the young man cut him off. “Andy…” // (Head shot) Zack smiled slightly, surprised. // (Side shot) “Andy,” Zack amended. “I have to leave for just a few minutes, but I promise,” Andy’s shoulders sank. “I promise, I’ll be right back.” // “Ok?” Andy nodded. // Zack stood and walked over to the nurses. // “Do not close this door, I need someone watch him.” The nurses scoffed. Nurse 2: “We can’t keep that door open!” // Nurse 3: “He’s in there for a reason.” // Nurse 1: “We have other patients to check on, we can’t stay here!” // “Then get someone who can! We shut that door and we loose all the progress we just made, he’ll go right back to shredding his hands against that wall,” Zack hissed at them in the same hushed tone they were using. They glared at him, but he would not be budged. // Nurse 1: “Fine.” He grabbed the walkie-talkie at his belt and spoke into it ordering another nurse to guard Andy’s door. “Happy?” he asked. // “Don’t leave until he gets here,” Zack said. He starts to leave and then stops abruptly. “How long has he been in there?” // Nurse 1: “A year, I think. He upsets the other patients, so he’s kept in here.” // Zack’s face went dead still. “He’s been in a solitary cell for over a year.” // Nurse 1 shrugged uncomfortably: “His condition has only gotten worse since he got here, DR. GRAY said he’d never improve…” he trailed off as Zack’s expression looked downright murderous. He pointed a viscous finger at the nurse. “Don’t. Move. Until I get back.” Zack turned sharply and walked off, digging out his cell phone as he went. //

Dr. Gray’s office: Zack stormed through the open door. “We need to talk,” he all but yelled at the older man. // “Excuse me, what the hell do you–” Dr. Gray sputtered at Zack. “Get out,” Zack snapped at the other person in the room. He wisely left. Zack shut the door behind him. // “Who the hell do you think you are?!” the old man demanded. // Zack walked up and stood toe to toe with the man. “You are going to hand over your patient, Andrew Poodle, to me for special care, and you are going to do it right now.” // “What?! I’ll be damned if–” // A man opened the door, phone in hand. “Sorry, Doctor, but there’s–” // “Not now, HINES!” Dr. Gray’s attention returned to Zack. “Who the hell do you think you are?! You–” “I’m sorry, Doctor, but it’s really urgent.” // “Hines!–” // “Dr. Gray,” Zack said sharply. “The man on the other end of that line is the largest shareholder in this company and he is going to tell you that if you do not let me have unlimited access and charge of this, and another patient that I see fit, you will be fired immediately. I guarantee you, Dr. Gray, that you will not practice in a medical profession ever again if you fight me. Is that clear?” // Dr. Gray flushed red with fury and demanded the phone. His face effectively drained of blood by the end of the very short unintelligible conversation. He handed back the phone to TOBIAS HINES. He looked on the verge of a stroke. “Mr. Ryker, had I known–” // “Just ‘Ryker,’ Dr. Gray,” Zack stated. // The older man nodded weakly, “Of course. What was the name of the patient that you wanted?” // Zack opened his mouth and then paused. “Andrew Poodle… and Jacinta Bee. I want them both moved to rooms with lots of light and access to the outdoors.” Zack turned to leave and then turned back. “I’ll also need my own staff. I’d like access to your personnel files. I’ll tell you tomorrow who I’ve picked and I’d like them to be re-asigned that day.” // Dr. Gray blinked. “Anything else?” // Zack knew he didn’t actually mean it, but he made a show of thinking about it. “Mmm, not at the moment, no.” He turned and left. //

TOBIAS: “Who was that?” Toby asked as Zack vanished out of the office. // “That,” Dr. Gray said feebly, “was one of the most powerful men in the United States: Johnathan Ryker’s son.” // Toby glanced sharply up at the doctor, pierced blue eyebrows raised. “You’re joking. The Emyrise Corporation? That Ryker?” // Dr. Gray gave a defeated sigh. “Apparently. Now if you will excuse me, Hines, I’m going to breath out of a bag, now.” The old doctor shut the door to his office, leaving Toby to stare at the vacant doorway. // (Close up) Toby blinked and nodded. “Right.” He took a sharp breath and snapped himself out of his daze, walking back to his desk. “Less coffee, more sleep.”

© 2014 Morgan Krepky. All Rights Reserved.

Skye: draft

“Skye. Why do they call you that?”

The young boy with emerald eyes stared down at the little girl chained to one of the metal rings welded to the floor of the metal wagon. Her brown hair was lank with the weight from the downpour from above. Warm grey eyes searched her fellow prisoner’s face. Their crystal color stood out from the filth and bruises that covered her face and body and shown hard and cold as steel, even in the dim light of the early morning.

Ratty, worn out clothing that was equally heavy with the rain, had been recently torn. The bruises on her young, bear thighs stood out against the paleness of her northern skin. She couldn’t have been more than ten. She, and the other twenty children in the caged wagon, were most likely refugees. Having lost their families and homes in the battle near Braydyn and Cardellaen the slavers and traffickers have been taking these children to sell, either to soldiers or to others with darker interests. It didn’t matter to them which side they were sold to. It was dark times these young lives lived in. Most of them were already too far broken, their eyes, dull and vacant.

The girl sniffed and wiped her nose on her shoulder.

“I heard the guards talking last night when you were brought in,” she said, talking to the floor, but staring at the boy from the corner of her eye.

The boy didn’t reply at first. He was different from the others, but not just physically. He sat straighter, back against the metal weave of the cage, rather than hunched over, his strange eyes alert and focused. He had an air of confidence and exuded strength even from his slight build.

In this black and grey gloomy world painted with the colors of slate by the mist and rain, this boy stood out starkly. Snow-white hair that was cut close to his scalp branded him as a foreigner. Deep-set eyes the color of the ancient forests of legend glowed with an inner light. It was so faint, the girl thought it was a trick of the light. He had a sharp face like a wolf or fox but with a stubborn jaw and slightly pointed ears to complete the picture. Black tattoos encircled his wrists, forearms and ankles. A brand, the skin still red and puffy around the deep burn, had been pressed into his shoulder through his thin black tunic.

He gave the girl a sharp look.

“What did they say?” his voice was calm, but hard.

“I only heard some of it, they thought I was asleep.” She leaned back against the iron. “They cursed you. Said something about bad luck and they called you Skye.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Of you?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “No. But they were. What did you do to make them so scared?”

The boy said nothing. The racket of the rock and bump of the wagon as it waded through the rain filled the silence between the youths.

“Do you want to get out of here?” she asked after a while.

The boy looked into her serious face and then down at his bear feet and the heavy chains that trapped him.

“Now?”

She nodded.

“You can do it, can’t you. Get out of here, I mean. That’s what the brand is for, and why these men are afraid of you. You have magic,” all of this she said as statements.

The boy looked up at her. He was far too serious for his age.

“It doesn’t frighten you knowing that?”

The girl smiled and shook her head, “No.”

The boy looked around at the other children.

“What about them?”

The girl shrugged.

“You could give them the choice, but I don’t think they’ll come.”

He didn’t say anything again for over an hour. The rain had stopped, but the clouds overhead still blocked out most of the rising sun. The road the wagon was taking was traveling along side the forest; its leafless trees stretched their twisting, grasping fingers toward the sky. The boy looked up from his hands.

“You ready?”

The girl stared at him for a moment, having given up on the boy after his long spell of silence. She nodded.

“Yes.”

A loud crack like lightning broke the stillness of the day. The ear-piercing screech of wood twisting and splitting filled the forest and valley. Shouting of the guards and the squealing of the horses shocked the children out of their stupor. A great tree crashed down on the front end of the wagon, crushing the men that rode in it. The horses had broken free, the harnesses had snapped. They bolted by the cage, running back down the road.

The girl with the grey eyes watched the chaos with wide eyes. When the chains fell from the limbs of the children, she was up and halfway out the blown open door when she turned to look back over her shoulder. The boy was standing and staring at the other children. All eyes were fixed on him.

“I can give you food and a safe place to sleep if you come with me,” his voice carried strongly over the sound of the yelling men on the other side of the fallen tree.

No one moved at first, they stared at one another nervously.

“We need to go,” the girl said urgently.

The young boy remained still, waiting. About to yell at him again, she stopped. An older boy stood up, black hair and brown eyes, a scar along his forehead, and nodded toward the young mage. Two more children stood, a boy and girl. The tall girl held the hand of the little boy, a strip of cloth wrapped around his eyes.

The small group left, running down the road.

“Into the woods,” the boy with white hair yelled at his troop.

Fast as they could, they ran up the short hill and into the woods. The sound of the men was growing closer. The brush was slowing their progress. Fighting to the front of the group, the white-haired boy led them, the girl behind him. Thrusting a hand in front of him, a shockwave hit the undergrowth and trees in front of them and then they parted, dipping and bending out of the children’s ways as they ran. The older boy stumbled over a rock as he stared in bewilderment as the foliage bent to the power of the spell.

Vaulting over a rotting log, the white-haired boy halted the company of children and they hid under it. The sound of the men had faded. After a time when they were sure they had lost them, they stared at one another, sizing each other up. The girl with the grey eyes suddenly offered her hand to the boy with the white hair.

“Jack,” she said simply.

The boy gripped her hand.

“Skye,” he said hesitantly. “Gawan Skye. Rather you called me Skye…” he trailed off, lamely.

She smiled and let go.

“Nice to meet you, Skye.”

The older boy offered his hand.

“Name’s Dalton Bayrns.”

Skye shook his hand.

“Thanks for saving us back there,” Dalton said.

The tall girl offered her hand. Skye took it in a strong grip that surprised him.

“I’m Dana and this is my younger brother, Ravyn.”

Skye nodded.

“Good to have you with us,” he said.

“So…now what?” Jack asked.

“I recall you saying something about food,” Dalton put in helpfully.

Skye looked around at the group of children all looking to him. He smiled for the first time.

“Yes, I believe I did.”

Chapter 1

Dim amber light spilled into the room as a candle was lit. A rustle of cloth and the scuff of boots being dragged across the wooden floorboards were the only noise in the small room. The candlelight caught the shine of a scar on the young man’s shoulder before it was covered with the black cloth of his tunic. He clothed his lean, muscled body, the body of a fighter, but still with the slenderness of a boy, and readied to face the dawning day. Lastly, he tied on his purse and dirk, the jingling of the buckle, a soft tinkle of sound before the rough tightening of the leather belt. Dragging his fingers through his white hair, the pearlescent strands shone in the soft glow of the candle, he tied it back, out of his way. Pulling up the dark green hood of his coat, he walked to the door of the room. The candle put itself out behind him.

“Look, I said he would be here to meet with you about our purchase for travel, and he will. He just has a hard time getting out of bed this early,” said a young woman in black to the scruffy sailor.

She was shorter than him by a head. Long brown hair was braided loosely back with short locks curling in ringlets about her ears.  Sky grey eyes searched the darkness restlessly. A tall man with black hair stood off behind her, leaning against the wooden siding of the fishing shack. Built like a warrior with thick-corded muscles, and a sword strapped to his side, he crossed his arms and sighed impatiently. A tall young woman stood next to him, dressed in dark blue, her cloak covering her array of knives. An older boy stood on the other side of the man; long black hair covered his eyes. A dirk sat comfortably on his hip.

“He had better come, the ship leaves in half an hour,” the gruff sailor said.

The grey-eyed woman snorted.

“He will.”

“And if he don’t?” he asked.

She gave him a hard look.

“I’ll kill the idiot myself.”

The man grunted. Silence ensued.

“Calling me an idiot again, Jack? I thought we agreed not to do that until I actually did something idiotic,” Skye’s voice drifted up through the dark, behind the gathering. His voice had held the lilt of laughter, but the face that emerged from the shadows held no such humor.

“About damn time,” Dalton grumbled, dropping his crossed arms to his sides.

“I have a hard time getting up in the morning, didn’t she tell you?” Skye said to the sailor, ignoring Dalton’s comment.

© 2014 Morgan Krepky. All Rights Reserved.