"This is him?" someone to his left asked. "This little runt?"
Fagan wanted to argue with the man that he wasn't a runt, but he wasn't sure just how many people surrounded him, and he knew they were surrounding him. Now that he was listening for it, he could hear their different breathing patterns.
"Mind your manners, Jaggar," someone in front of him said.
"Way to be welcoming, Jaggar," a man on his left snapped.
"Hello, my name is Greyson." That voice came from right in front of him. It was a deep voice, soothing.
"Fagan."
"Yes, I know." The man chuckled. "The one with the mouth is Jaggar and this is Dominic and Talon."
"Can you tell me what's going on?"
"You don't know?" Greyson asked.
Fagan shook his head.
"None of this was explained to you?"
"To be honest, I'm not sure what this is. Headmaster Eithar called me to his office, asked me about my birthday, then had me escorted here."
That was pretty much all he knew.
"And that's it?" That voice belonged to the man Greyson introduced as Jaggar. "That's all you fucking know?'
Fagan breathed deep before replying. "Yes, that is all I know."
"Fucking perfect."
He didn't like this guy. He was rude and crude and he gave off bad vibes. Well, not bad vibes, but not warm vibes either.
"Can you tell me what's going on?" Fagan asked. "Why am I outside the walls?"
"Look, Fagan, I don't know why this wasn't explained to you, but we don't have time to talk to you about it right now. We need to go. Time is of the essence."
"Go where?"
"Here, put this on," Greyson said instead of answering.
Something round and hard was shoved into Fagan's hands. He marveled at the smoothness of whatever it was. The surface was cool to the touch, but smooth. And hard. It was very hard.
"Do you know how to put one of these on?"
Fagan nodded. He had a general idea. "Why do I need a helmet?"
"Here, let me help you."
Fagan grunted when the helmet was taken then pulled down over his head.
"Have you ever ridden on the back of a motorcycle?"
Fagan shook his head. He'd read about them, but he'd never seen one in real life, or felt one in his case. Elders and students of the monastery didn't tend to drive motorcycles. They didn't really drive cars either.
"Okay." Greyson took his arm and led him a few feet ahead. "It's fairly easy. All you have to do is hold on and lean when the driver leans."
Sounded simple enough. "Am I going somewhere?"
"Bloody hell, they really didn't explain anything to you, did they?"
Fagan shook his head again, because, well, they hadn't.
"Okay, get on. Once we get where we're going, everything will be explained to you."
Fagan reached out with his hand, assuming there was something in front of him to get on. When he encountered a soft leathery surface, he moved closer. He carefully mapped it out. It was a seat.
Okay, that explained the "getting on" part of things. Fagan ran his hands along the seat a little more then swung his leg up and over it, settling down on the soft leather. He reared back when someone sat down in front of him.
"Hang on," Jaggar said.
Fagan was unsure of what exactly he was supposed to hang onto, but the moment the machine beneath him roared to life, he clutched at Jaggar, no longer caring. "What is this?"
"This baby is a Twisted Cherry Harley Davidson Roadster."
Fagan understood the word cherry, and it had nothing to do with the rumbling beneath him. No one had told him motorcycles were so loud. He cried out when they shot forward. The wind blew past him at an alarming rate. Fagan held onto Jaggar as hard as he could, so terrified he couldn't even swallow.
Fagan had no idea how far they'd gone, but there came a point when his body started to go numb. He wasn't sure if it was fear or the freezing cold. Maybe both. He tried to pull his legs in closer to himself.
He screamed when his leg pressed against something hot. He jerked his leg away and reached down to rub the burned spot. The motorcycle swerved. Fagan screamed again when he went flying through the air.
The air in his lungs left with a painful whoosh when he hit the ground and rolled several times. He laid there for a few moments, trying to breathe through the pain. Little by little, he wiggled his toes and his fingers and up his extremities until he could be sure nothing was broken. Bruised, but not broken.
"Fagan, are you okay?"
Fagan recognized the voice as belonging to Greyson. "I think so."
The helmet was pulled up off his head.
"Here, let's get you up."
With Greyson's help, Fagan climbed to his feet. He was a little unsteady, but Greyson's hand on his arm kept him from falling back down to the ground.
"You little shit," Jaggar shouted. "Did you see what you did to my bike?"
Fagan stiffened when he felt a wave of anger rising against him. There was a displacement of air close to his face. Fagan raised his arm, effectively blocking the blow aimed at his face. He quickly raised his other arm, blocking the next blow. Before a third blow could fall, he jabbed out with his knuckles and jabbed Jaggar in the throat.
"Fuuuck!" Jaggar gasped.
Fagan quickly took a step back when the others started to laugh. He didn't know what was going on, but he knew there was danger about. He didn't exactly fear for his life, but he didn't feel safe either.
Someone laughed. "He kicked your ass, Jaggar."
"How?" Jaggar whispered in a scratching voice. "He's a runt."
Greyson snorted. "Even better, he's a blind runt and he still kicked your ass."
"What?" Jaggar asked. "You're blind?"
"I am," Fagan answered, although he wasn't sure what that had to do with getting his ass kicked.
"Shit!" Jaggar swore.
Fagan relaxed his stance when he felt the man move away. "Why did you try to hit me?"
"You wrecked my bike."
"I do not understand." Fagan was pretty sure he'd know if he'd wrecked something.
"You caused us to crash."
"Something burned my leg."
"Probably the muffler," Greyson said.
"The muffler, that's part of the exhaust system, isn't it?"
"It is," Greyson said, "and it gets very hot."
He reached down and tentatively touched the burn on the inside of his leg. He winced at the ache. It wasn't a huge wound, about the size of a quarter, but it still hurt. "That would explain the burn."
"How bad is it?" Greyson asked.
"It'll be okay." He'd heal it once he was alone. He wouldn't do it in front of these men...men he didn't know. Fagan glanced in Jaggar's direction. He knew where the man was because he could still feel a wall of anger coming from him. "I'm sorry about your motorcycle."
"Are you sure you're blind?" Jaggar asked.
It wasn't exactly something he could fake. "I'm sure."
Did people fake being blind?
Was that a thing?
"Then how did you fight me?"
"Your anger."
"My what?"
"Emotions have a feel to them. Anger is hot. I felt it coming toward me so I knew where you were. When you raised your hand, it displaced the air." Fagan shrugged. "I knew you were going to hit me."
"And that thing with your hand?"
Fagan smiled. "Krav Maga."
"How in the hell do you know Krav Maga?"
"What do you think they teach us in that monastery? Finger painting?"
Fagan knew he was being rude, but Jaggar was insufferable.
Greyson chuckled. "I like this guy."
"Whatever," Jaggar mumbled.
"Is your bike rideable, Jaggar?" Greyson asked.
"Maybe."
"Well, check it over. We need to get Fagan home before it's too late."
"Have him ride with one of the others. I'll catch up."
"Uh." Fagan raised his hand. "Before what's too late?"
He wondered what he was missing.
"They really didn't explain anything to you, did they?" Greyson asked.
"No, I told you that." Fagan had no idea what was going on.
"Well, I'm sorry, but we don't have time to explain it right now." Greyson grabbed Fagan's arm and led him over to another bike. "You can ride with me."
Fagan took the helmet when Greyson handed it to him and pulled it on his head. He felt around until he found the motorcycle then climbed on, just like he had before. He doubted anyone would tell him what was going on until they reached whatever destination they were headed for.
And he really wanted to know what was going on.
"Do you have a jacket I could wear?"
"Of course."
Greyson opened something behind him then settled a jacket over Fagan's shoulders. Fagan slid his arms into the sleeves then zipped it up. This would make traveling a whole lot easier.
"Thank you."
"We should have thought of this before," Greyson replied. "It might have saved us a lot of trouble."
That was probably true.
Fagan tensed when Greyson started up his motorcycle. After being tossed through the air once already, he wasn't sure he wanted to ride one again. "Don't you have a car or something a little less dangerous?"
"Afraid not, Fagan."
Peachy.
Fagan wrapped his arms around Greyson's waist and held on tight as the motorcycle started moving. He didn't even care if this was one of those fancy Harley Davidson motorcycles. He wanted this right ride to be over so he could get off the damn thing.
They drove for hours.
By the time they finally came to a stop, Fagan was afraid he might be permanently bent into in half. When Greyson turned the motorcycle off, Fagan lifted his nose into the air and drew in a deep breath. He got an overwhelming scent of pine. That, combined with the lack of sounds of the modern world, gave him a bit of a clue to where he was.
Sort of.
"Are we in the woods?" Fagan asked. It smelled like what he thought the woods might smell like. The monastery was located just outside the city. Fagan had grown up with the scent of concrete mingled with country. This smelled different.
"Pretty much. There is a town about twenty-five miles west of us," Greyson said as he climbed off the bike. He grabbed Fagan's arm and helped him off. "This is our territory for fifty miles in every direction."
Fagan's eyebrow lifted. "Your territory?"
What exactly did that mean?
"Of course." Greyson grabbed his arm and started to pull him. "We need to hurry, Fagan. This trip took longer than I thought it would."
Fagan stumbled after Greyson. The others followed them.
"I'm not up on blind person etiquette so you're going to have to tell me if I do something wrong, okay?"
"Well, we call it vision impaired, but blind works too."
"My apologies, Fagan."
Fagan shrugged. "If you could keep me from running into things, that would help."
Greyson pulled him to a stop. "We're going to go up three steps here to a porch."
Fagan felt around with his foot until he found the step then easily made his way up all three of them. They passed through a doorway and Fagan was instantly swamped with warmth, the same warmth he experienced during his meditations, but it was weak, fading, growing cold.
"What—"
"Come quickly." Greyson pulled him down a hallway.
As soon as a door opened and they stepped inside a room, Fagan brought his hand up to cover his mouth. The stench of death was heavy and thick in the air. Fagan's stomach clenched, threatening to rebel.
"What is that?"
It was disgusting.
"Over here, Fagan."
Fagan's nose was telling him that they were moving closer to whatever that horrid smell was. He tried to pull back, but Greyson was stronger than he was. "Greyson, what are you doing?"
"Please, Fagan, he's fading so quickly."
"Who?"
"Your mate."
Fagan's jaw dropped. "My what?"
"Your mate," Greyson said again.
Fagan dug in his feet and yanked his arm out of Greyson's grasp. The man was talking crazy. "What in the hell is a mate?"
Fagan screamed when his hand was grabbed in an icy grip and he was yanked down onto the bed, or rather, onto a body on the bed. It became immediately apparent that it was a man when his hand slid across a hairy chest.
"Wha—ahh!" Fagan screamed again when he was pulled close then razor sharp fangs sank into his neck. He struggled to get free, pushing at the man biting him. When that didn't work, he tried to reach pressure points.
Before he could do any damage, his hands were grabbed and held behind his back. Someone else held down his feet. Fagan growled in frustration.
"I'm sorry, Fagan," Greyson whispered in his ear. "It has to be this way."
What way?
What was going on?
Fagan opened his mouth to ask, but all that came out was a small whimper as something deep inside of him snapped into place, jarring him enough to stay conscious, but barely. He could feel his strength leaving him.
"Please," he whispered.
"Beck, that's enough," Greyson said. "If you take anymore, you'll kill him. Beck!"
The teeth in his neck pulled away before his skin was licked. The last thing he was aware of before the world faded away was the warmth of his golden warrior surrounding him.