Never Trust a Dead Man Read Online Free Page B
Author: Vivian Vande Velde
emphasized the word
peaceful.
There was a crawly sensation on his neck that he told himself was his own mind playing tricks because he couldn't see, or maybe a drop of sweat. But it was distracting, and this was a time for wholehearted attention, and a drop of sweat was a matter over which he had control. He brushed at his neck and knocked loose something many-legged and wriggly. At least, he thought he'd knocked it loose.
He hoped he'd knocked it loose.
He beat at his chest and arms and those parts of his back he could reach.
Maybe,
he told himself,
it will be easier to concentrate on prayer ... later.
The hours dragged on. Scurrying animals rustled about doing ... he could only guess, and he didn't like to. So far, anyway, they seemed timid and scurried away when he flapped his arms or moved his legs or yelled at them to leave him be. Which was better behavior than he got from the noiseless insects that periodically crawled over him.
He heard bats—at least he hoped they were bats, and not restless souls. For why would ghosts who haunted these caves need to wait till actual night, when it was always night this deep in the cavern? Whatever they were—
Bats,
he told himself,
definitely bats
—there were a lot of them, fluttering their leathery wings, squeaking. He ducked and covered his head, having heard of bats getting caught in people's hair. These were cleverer than that. They swooped down and by him, missing his head by what felt like the span of only two or three fingers. They must have a means to the outside. He tried to follow them, and once more bruised his head and shins in the dark, and in the end the bats went on without him.
Hours later they returned, which meant it must be close to dawn outside. He waited, but the blackness around him did not lessen. Nor did the cold. He was so thirsty, his throat felt closed in upon itself.
The cold, at least, there was a solution for, with all those blanket-wrapped corpses near by. He preferred to stay cold.
"Peace," he assured the dead through chattering teeth. "I'll take nothing of yours."
Eventually there came a stirring that might have been the bats, though—all things considered—he wouldn't have thought it was night again already.
No, it wasn't the bats;
they
were overhead. This was something moving along the floor, at a distance but coming closer. Something that scattered pebbles as it approached. A big something. His disgust and fear of the insects and rats dissolved at the thought of bigger predators. He had wanted a quicker death than starving or freezing or lack of water, but here something was going to jump out of the darkness at him and rip out his throat, and he wouldn't even know what it was while it was killing him.
This was what he got for not praying while he'd had a chance. He tried to make up for lost time with sincerity.
Bear, wolf, one of the big cats? Or—an even more distracting thought—a dead creature, jealous of the air he still breathed, the blood flowing through his veins?
Let it be quick,
he prayed. And lastly, desperately:
I'm sorry for everything.
There was, incredibly, a faint glow that grew brighter as the sounds of approach drew nearer. A torch? Had the villagers relented?
Suddenly Selwyn realized what had happened: They had discovered the true murderer. They had seen what an awful mistake they had made and were coming to release him, no doubt hoping desperately that they weren't too late.
Except...
Except if that were the case, wouldn't they be calling out to him, reassuring him that his rescue was at hand? Wouldn't they be eager to let him know they were coming?
This didn't sound like a crowd. This sounded like one. And not likely his father, escaped from Bowden, nor Raedan or Merton feeling sorry enough to come back for him. Any one of them, too, would be calling out.
There definitely was a light; he could see the glow reflecting off the walls of the cavern. That eliminated an animal, come to eat him, which would
peaceful.
There was a crawly sensation on his neck that he told himself was his own mind playing tricks because he couldn't see, or maybe a drop of sweat. But it was distracting, and this was a time for wholehearted attention, and a drop of sweat was a matter over which he had control. He brushed at his neck and knocked loose something many-legged and wriggly. At least, he thought he'd knocked it loose.
He hoped he'd knocked it loose.
He beat at his chest and arms and those parts of his back he could reach.
Maybe,
he told himself,
it will be easier to concentrate on prayer ... later.
The hours dragged on. Scurrying animals rustled about doing ... he could only guess, and he didn't like to. So far, anyway, they seemed timid and scurried away when he flapped his arms or moved his legs or yelled at them to leave him be. Which was better behavior than he got from the noiseless insects that periodically crawled over him.
He heard bats—at least he hoped they were bats, and not restless souls. For why would ghosts who haunted these caves need to wait till actual night, when it was always night this deep in the cavern? Whatever they were—
Bats,
he told himself,
definitely bats
—there were a lot of them, fluttering their leathery wings, squeaking. He ducked and covered his head, having heard of bats getting caught in people's hair. These were cleverer than that. They swooped down and by him, missing his head by what felt like the span of only two or three fingers. They must have a means to the outside. He tried to follow them, and once more bruised his head and shins in the dark, and in the end the bats went on without him.
Hours later they returned, which meant it must be close to dawn outside. He waited, but the blackness around him did not lessen. Nor did the cold. He was so thirsty, his throat felt closed in upon itself.
The cold, at least, there was a solution for, with all those blanket-wrapped corpses near by. He preferred to stay cold.
"Peace," he assured the dead through chattering teeth. "I'll take nothing of yours."
Eventually there came a stirring that might have been the bats, though—all things considered—he wouldn't have thought it was night again already.
No, it wasn't the bats;
they
were overhead. This was something moving along the floor, at a distance but coming closer. Something that scattered pebbles as it approached. A big something. His disgust and fear of the insects and rats dissolved at the thought of bigger predators. He had wanted a quicker death than starving or freezing or lack of water, but here something was going to jump out of the darkness at him and rip out his throat, and he wouldn't even know what it was while it was killing him.
This was what he got for not praying while he'd had a chance. He tried to make up for lost time with sincerity.
Bear, wolf, one of the big cats? Or—an even more distracting thought—a dead creature, jealous of the air he still breathed, the blood flowing through his veins?
Let it be quick,
he prayed. And lastly, desperately:
I'm sorry for everything.
There was, incredibly, a faint glow that grew brighter as the sounds of approach drew nearer. A torch? Had the villagers relented?
Suddenly Selwyn realized what had happened: They had discovered the true murderer. They had seen what an awful mistake they had made and were coming to release him, no doubt hoping desperately that they weren't too late.
Except...
Except if that were the case, wouldn't they be calling out to him, reassuring him that his rescue was at hand? Wouldn't they be eager to let him know they were coming?
This didn't sound like a crowd. This sounded like one. And not likely his father, escaped from Bowden, nor Raedan or Merton feeling sorry enough to come back for him. Any one of them, too, would be calling out.
There definitely was a light; he could see the glow reflecting off the walls of the cavern. That eliminated an animal, come to eat him, which would