Elementárni ~ 2.2

Doors don't open on their own, as is a general rule, Hawk knew. He also knew, besides this, that for a door as heavy and old as the ones at Low Cottage, an ample amount of force was required. These ever-so-logical thoughts flitted like deranged birds across Hawk's mind and his hold on the windowsill tightened, knuckles turning from red to white to blue—all in quick succession. His jaw tightened, his heart thrumming unsteadily. A sense of uneasiness washed over him, but he kept his eyes trained on the sky, thinking.

Hawk systematically checked himself over for the emotions he was experiencing. Anxiety. Confusion. A blistering headache—although that wasn't really an emotion, he supposed—and a mounting sense of fear.

His hands hurt. The wind blew the clouds around wildly, like whitewash sails gliding in the heavens. His teeth chattered as the cold slammed into him and his chest constricted with the strain of holding onto the windowsill.

Turn around, idiot, his brain finally shouted at him.

He complied. Reeling himself back through the window, he tried not to trip over the battered suitcase that still lay on the floor. Shivering, he rubbed at his bruised wrists and cast a wary eye over the room. The open door gaped at him like a rectangular mouth, its oak lip creaking slightly in the wind.

But there was nobody there.

Hawk exhaled slowly. It wasn't out of relief, exactly, but it was good to know that there had been no one standing behind him. He shivered as his imagination went into overdrive, images of black figures with heavy hands swirling through his mind, sharp talons pressing down into his shoulders, wedging into his skin...

You really need to stop overanalysing things. Focus, Hawk. He shook his head furiously as if trying to rid it of all tangled thoughts. His eyes glided across the room and its contents, sliding swiftly from one item to the other. The bookshelf by the bed was empty. Ann Bobby’s Mary Higgins’ books lay on the floor in a haphazard heap; their faded, paperback covers stared at Hawk mournfully. Littered all along the floor were other objects, like clothes and books, albums, photo-frames Hawk had made for Ann Bobby a long time ago…. It was as if someone had carelessly attacked the room with a scalpel. Hawk’s arms hung limply by his sides as he surveyed the wreckage. His jaw tightened. The cogs in his head whirred at double time. But it was impossible to make sense out of something so unquestionably insane.

His eyes strayed to the fireplace, and the pillowcase that had been tossed there so carelessly. Pages stuck out of the fraying seams, but it didn't appear to be burnt. Shaking his body from its daze, Hawk jumped over the paraphernalia that littered the floor, making sure not to step on anything. It would be impossible to call the police—that was an option Hawk had weighted out even before it had begun to form, but he figured it would be best not to touch anything, even so.

Shifting a pile of clothes out of the way, Hawk bent down and placed his hands flat on the carpeted floor. He could feel ash beneath his fingers and, sure enough, when he lifted his palms he saw that they'd been blackened. His brow quirked up in confusion. Strange, he thought. Ann Bobby's always so careful with the fireplace, so neat. She must've been really worried if she didn't bother herself to—

Something moved behind him. A flash of scarlet that he saw out of the corner of his eyes, if only for a second. He heard it skid along the floor.

Hawk stood up abruptly, placing a hand against the wall of the fireplace. His eyes were dark, shadowy pools that seemed to cut right through the stillness—for everything was still. His expression lost some of its intensity as his frame sagged, and he rubbed at his head. He was hallucinating ... there was nothing there. The confusion had exhausted him, that was all, and every little movement stirred a series of anxieties within him. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. He felt helpless and idiotic and confused and--just so angry.He needed to do something ... anything.

OK, he argued with himself. You don't know where Ann Bobby is; that much you've pretty much established by now. Assess the situation at hand instead. Could someone have taken her away? Why didn't they just take her and leave? Did she put up a fight? Maybe—maybe she left a clue, Hawk. It's a flimsy, stupid thing to hope but—what's out of order?

Everything.

His eyes burned with tears, but it was too cold to cry. Hawk wondered vaguely if it was cold enough for tears to freeze, and if they could turn into icicles on his skin. He slid his back down the wall and placed his head on his knees. The plain walls seemed to mock him with their whiteness, like bare icy faces that were intent on staring him down. Everything was made of ice. The curtains flapped as the wind struck the side of the house. Hawk couldn't muster the will to get up and close the window. A thick silence permeated the room; he could barely hear himself breathe.

Outside, the day grew dim. Clouds heaved like breathing furnaces; shadows bore down on Low Wood and swallowed it whole. The temperature dropped even further and night breathed mist on the windows.

Inside, a fourteen-year-old boy huddled up in the corner, a shock of dark hair falling over his forehead. His face bore no expression. His eyes were caverns filled with vacuum. He shifted slightly as the cold pressed down on him. Tears ran down his face, bubbling and hot--nothing compared to the conglomerated emotions that festered inside him. He rubbed at his face with the corner of his sweater. His nose turned scarlet.

He didn't notice the man with the hooked nose watching him as he cried. He didn't see his eyes, flashing gold in the dark, or the red tattoo of a sun on his wrist. If he had looked up, perhaps, he might have seen the Tárni, with his penetrating, golden gaze, and wondered why he was there. He might have attacked the man, or yelled at him with those sudden spurts of swinging energy that all humans possess.

But he didn't.

And it wasn't until sleep began to cocoon him that he heard someone say, 'You'll freeze to death if you stay there all night.'

'Shut up,' Hawk whispered, thinking it was his mind messing with him again. The man laughed lightly.

When he was sure the boy was knocked out, he draped a torn blanket over his still form and closed the window. Picking up the pillowcase stuffed with documents—the one that Hawk had failed to inspect before being Silenced—he left the room.

The door clicked shut behind him. The man's eyes flashed in the darkness of the hall, switching from dull blue to gold like a crazed SOS signal. He held two fingers to his lips and spoke, in a crisp, business-like manner:

'This is Trebelkum reporting. I've got the boy. I think he's a haemokinate, but I can't really be sure—not at this point.' He could barely keep the excitement out of his voice. 'No sign of C yet,' he went on, eyes turning sombre, 'but I want to get back before tomorrow, just in case.' He wracked at his mind for any other information he needed to convey; long distance messages weren't easy to send. 'Oh,' he added quickly, before the call cut short, 'make sure you check up on Naddie. Give her—’ He hesitated. ‘Give her my love.'

A shrill ringing sound pierced through his ears as the message dispatched itself. It would be whizzing along now, through the electrostube, mingling with a dozen million other voices and sounds and screeches as it went. A satisfied smile hoisted itself on Trebelkum's face as he tromped down the dark hallway and settled himself at the top of the staircase, splaying his long legs out and laying his head against the banister.

All he had to do now was wait. 

~End of Chapter Two~