James Axler – Gemini Rising

“I’ll bet you are, Ryan.” Nathan chuckled. Then he paused. “I’m sorry. You hate that. I apologize, Uncle.”

Ryan kept his face neutral and toasted the man with the cup. He preferred to be called by his name, and Nathan knew it. This was another hint that things weren’t as they seemed. The tension crackled like electricity in the air, and every time Ryan’s chair was bumped by a passing servant, he started to draw his weapon. The hall was filled with celebration, but underneath it was a current of violence and hatred that rivaled anything he had encountered in his long travels.

Desperately, he searched for some pretext to be alone with Nathan, if only for a few minutes. But wherever the man went, the baron was closely followed by his own sec men and a squad of the blue shirts. Overton traveled in the same fashion, each shadowed by the other’s troops. Checks and balances, a Mexican standoff. Baronial allegiance, his ass.

For a fleeting instant, the red rage filled his mind, and he forced down the urge to flip over the table and chill Overton on the spot and damn the consequences! But Nathan could have done that any time; if he hadn’t, there was a reason.

“By the way, dear Father,” Overton said, lowering his glass to the table. “I have planned a hunt tomorrow in your honor.”

Placing aside his untouched mug, Ryan smiled at the stranger across from the table. Fireblast, so soon? He certainly knew a trap when he heard one. “A bear hunt, by any chance?” he asked. Overton beamed a happy smile. “Exactly!”

“You mean Cyclops? That old one-eyed mutie griz that’s been bothering this ville for years?” Ryan glowered and rubbed his leg, wincing slightly. “I’m not going near that thing again. I pass, son. But thanks for the offer. You kill him and show that mutie bastard what a Cawdor is made of, eh?”

The table roared its approval, and Overton toasted the plan with his mug. He then rose, excused himself and hurried from the hall.

Once out of sight, Overton strode down a branching corridor that went directly into the kitchen. Past the double doors, the air was foggy with steam and richly scented with the smells of roasting meats. Darting servants froze motionless as the baron strode past them and headed toward the plump woman frying forest mushrooms in a skillet above the huge wood-burning stove.

“You there!” barked the baron, pointing. Both arms carrying a tray stacked high with dirty dishes, an elderly man near the soapy sinks gawked. “My lord?” he squeaked.

“Yeah, you!”

The dishwasher offered a wan smile. “Of course, Baron Cawdor. How can I be of?”

“Is there a one-eyed griz in the local woods,” he interrupted, towering over the trembling whitehair. “A giant that mauled Ryan in the leg?”

The cook stopped stirring the mushrooms, and the scullery maid ceased her chopping as silence filled the kitchen. There was only one possible answer to that.

“Of course, my lord,” the old man replied. “It’s called Cyclops. A nasty brute, ate my cousin”

Turning on a heel, Overton stomped from the kitchen and turned left in the corridor, heading for the lav.

“That was close,” the cook whispered, hurrying over to make sure there was nobody in the hallway.

Collapsing on a stool, the steward wiped his brow on a sleeve. “Yes and no, my dear. Every baron’s family knows the staff listens to their conversations to see if the meal is to their liking.”

“So Ryan was hoping we would cover the lie?”

“Yes.” The man scowled. “Go hunting with Overton, and it’s certain you come back draped over the horse.”

The plump woman pursed her lips, then spun and began stirring the mushrooms again. “I don’t like this,” she muttered. “I don’t like this one bit. I have a feeling that Overton would make us long for the bloody rules of Harvey Cawdor and his bitch wife.”

“Shh! We shouldn’t say such things aloud,” the dishwasher said nervously. “Stay low, and live. That’s my motto.”

“Words to live by,” the steward agreed with a frown. “But sometimes that isn’t enough, old friend.”