Rogue's Curse (Rogue Prophet Book 1) by Jason Beymer

Author:Jason Beymer [Beymer, Jason]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tomes and TV
Published: 2014-09-29T23:00:00+00:00

19

CHACHI’S UNCLE

DOBAN OPENED ONE eye and took inventory of his limbs. Everything seemed intact. He knew he wasn’t dead, so his current predicament couldn’t be too awful. He lay on a cot. Even better. Doban sniffed and stuck out his tongue. The cot smelled even muskier than he did.

A square of painted parchment hung from the wall. In it, a man wearing a black leather jacket smiled and held up both of his thumbs. His hair looked perfect, not a strand out of place. Beneath his dimpled chin were the words, Haaay! Be cool! Doban noted how detailed the painting was, like a … Oh, what did they call those ancient relics? Posters? He didn’t know what Haaay meant, but thought it might be a public service announcement for the dangers of radiation poisoning. If he remembered correctly, Haaay was the sound the mutated dummies made right before they sucked someone’s brain out.

Other than the cool guy with the thumbs, there wasn’t much to look at. The walls were solid steel, and the cell contained nothing but the cot and a drain hole in the middle of the floor.

Cell?

The last thing he remembered was a bunch of weirdoes beating him with crooked sticks. His jaw ached when he opened his mouth, and his ribs shuffled like a deck of cards with every breath. Doban dropped his head, dizzy and nauseous.

Why am I in a cell? he thought. Have I gone crazy?

The adrenaline rush, what little his body had absorbed, was gone. Grogginess, confusion and the desire to vomit filled the vacuum. He felt cheated, hung over without the benefit of alcohol. Cosmically cruel.

Doban attempted to take another deep breath. He held the ribs on his left side, and though he did manage to breathe, his nostrils filled with a strong scent: a mixture of fecal matter and burned toast.

Oompus?

He started to call out when a familiar glow lit up his chest.

“Not you,” he whined.

Doban’s lungs filled with warmth. The light grew brighter. The heat spread through his chest and dulled the pain. It also crept into his face and sealed the lacerations.

The stone said, “We don’t like being confined here.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Doban said. “Hey, here’s an idea. Why don’t you come up with an escape plan for once?”

“We are having second thoughts about staying bonded to you.”

“Why? You want to see other people? Or at least their organs?”

“Because you allowed the woman to beat you like a bitch.”

Doban sank his head deeper into the musty pillow, well aware of this lapse in judgment. During the battle, he’d missed several opportunities to kill Mona and make a run for the dock.

“You spared the woman’s life,” the stone said.

“I didn’t so much spare her. I planned to kill her later, that’s all. You know how I hate crowds.”

“You can’t lie to us. We know your thoughts.”

“Is this what it means to lose my dignity? Because with you reading my thoughts all the time, I’m feeling rather … indignant?” He cursed his limited vocabulary.

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