The Wraith's Story (BRIGAND Book 1) by Natalie French, Scot Bayless Page B
Authors: Natalie French, Scot Bayless
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learned the subtleties of the taste, the less sick you would be when you correctly identified the toxin and could stop eating the cube. I completed those lessons after only one trip to the nurses. Most girls took longer, weeks sometimes, and several extra rations of cubes for strength.
The Bishop sat still beside me that day in the garden. I acknowledged him with a small nod — a signal that I was prepared for verbal interaction. He gave me a few moments to savor the atmosphere in the garden before speaking.
His hand emerged from under his robe and, cradled inside his enormous palm, nestled a baby chick. I'd only seen images of them on the screens during my studies. But I knew what it was.
"Would you like to hold it?" He asked without turning his gaze from the leafy bush in front of us. He kept his movements small, his profile low so the nurses at the end of the garden would not notice us.
"Yes." I did not nod, or turn my head.
He reached with his left hand and gently placed the creature into my cupped hands. It barely fit within my palms.
I repressed an urge to run my finger over the soft head of the bird for fear it would fall out if I tried to balance it in one hand. I stared down at the cloud of yellow fluff in wonder. My face remained impassive.
"What do you want to do with it?"
I knew it was a test. Everything was a test. I also knew several probable correct answers. But I wasn't certain which one he wanted to hear. I needed context. "It's weak."
"Yes."
"It has no mother. No way to care for itself."
"Yes."
"It is useless to me."
"Yes."
"I should kill it."
"Yes."
I waited a few seconds for him to say more.
"Would you like me to do it right now?"
"I asked you what you wanted to do with it. I didn't ask you what you should do with it."
I paused. One. Two. Three seconds.
"I want to touch it with my finger. To feel how soft it is. But I worry if I balance it in one hand there is a high probability that it will fall to the ground and be injured."
The Bishop leaned forward stiffly resting his forearms on his knees.
"If you were to hold it in both hands, up to your cheek, you could feel it. The nurses will not see you."
I stared forward. I lifted the baby chick to my cheek without hesitation, as he suggested. The softness of the downy feathers was like nothing I'd experienced before. Smooth, a whisper of a touch — immense pleasure.
One red blip beeped along the wrist of my gray suit. A 'soft' warning that my heart rate had changed. You get two soft warnings if the variance is not statistically relevant. After a third, intervention is required.
"Breathe, Ma Petite. Be calm." The Bishop did not react or change his posture. But he used the name he called me instead of my assignment, Subject 11. His voice soothed my vital signs into the nominal range.
I inhaled slightly and relaxed my heart rate. No other warning beeps sounded.
We sat still for exactly one minute. I had three minutes of garden time left.
"I jumped three pockets this morning, Mon Pere."
Since he used my name I knew it was acceptable to address him in this way. 'Mon Pere', French, the language of love – and intrigue. It meant 'My Father'. I assumed it had to do with his place in the Templum.
The Bishop hadn't always been a bishop. A long time ago, he had been a soldier of the Confed. I overheard the nurses once, saying he'd been a Jack, a shipboard marine. Jacks were known for their brutality — and ethical pragmatism. But The Bishop exuded calm strength and a gentleness that made the nurses look upon him with curious expressions. The arteries along their necks pulsed more quickly when he approached. Their breath would labor ever so slightly. I practiced my calm and imagined biting their throats so that their life blood would drain away. I learned that in my first year of combat training. When you are small, and not the strongest, you use whatever means will work. In the absence of other weapons, teeth are quite effective.
But
The Bishop sat still beside me that day in the garden. I acknowledged him with a small nod — a signal that I was prepared for verbal interaction. He gave me a few moments to savor the atmosphere in the garden before speaking.
His hand emerged from under his robe and, cradled inside his enormous palm, nestled a baby chick. I'd only seen images of them on the screens during my studies. But I knew what it was.
"Would you like to hold it?" He asked without turning his gaze from the leafy bush in front of us. He kept his movements small, his profile low so the nurses at the end of the garden would not notice us.
"Yes." I did not nod, or turn my head.
He reached with his left hand and gently placed the creature into my cupped hands. It barely fit within my palms.
I repressed an urge to run my finger over the soft head of the bird for fear it would fall out if I tried to balance it in one hand. I stared down at the cloud of yellow fluff in wonder. My face remained impassive.
"What do you want to do with it?"
I knew it was a test. Everything was a test. I also knew several probable correct answers. But I wasn't certain which one he wanted to hear. I needed context. "It's weak."
"Yes."
"It has no mother. No way to care for itself."
"Yes."
"It is useless to me."
"Yes."
"I should kill it."
"Yes."
I waited a few seconds for him to say more.
"Would you like me to do it right now?"
"I asked you what you wanted to do with it. I didn't ask you what you should do with it."
I paused. One. Two. Three seconds.
"I want to touch it with my finger. To feel how soft it is. But I worry if I balance it in one hand there is a high probability that it will fall to the ground and be injured."
The Bishop leaned forward stiffly resting his forearms on his knees.
"If you were to hold it in both hands, up to your cheek, you could feel it. The nurses will not see you."
I stared forward. I lifted the baby chick to my cheek without hesitation, as he suggested. The softness of the downy feathers was like nothing I'd experienced before. Smooth, a whisper of a touch — immense pleasure.
One red blip beeped along the wrist of my gray suit. A 'soft' warning that my heart rate had changed. You get two soft warnings if the variance is not statistically relevant. After a third, intervention is required.
"Breathe, Ma Petite. Be calm." The Bishop did not react or change his posture. But he used the name he called me instead of my assignment, Subject 11. His voice soothed my vital signs into the nominal range.
I inhaled slightly and relaxed my heart rate. No other warning beeps sounded.
We sat still for exactly one minute. I had three minutes of garden time left.
"I jumped three pockets this morning, Mon Pere."
Since he used my name I knew it was acceptable to address him in this way. 'Mon Pere', French, the language of love – and intrigue. It meant 'My Father'. I assumed it had to do with his place in the Templum.
The Bishop hadn't always been a bishop. A long time ago, he had been a soldier of the Confed. I overheard the nurses once, saying he'd been a Jack, a shipboard marine. Jacks were known for their brutality — and ethical pragmatism. But The Bishop exuded calm strength and a gentleness that made the nurses look upon him with curious expressions. The arteries along their necks pulsed more quickly when he approached. Their breath would labor ever so slightly. I practiced my calm and imagined biting their throats so that their life blood would drain away. I learned that in my first year of combat training. When you are small, and not the strongest, you use whatever means will work. In the absence of other weapons, teeth are quite effective.
But
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