The Wilds (Reign and Ruin 1) by Jules Hedger Page A

menacing. His
jumpsuit hung loosely on shoulders used to shoveling fuel and the
flat cap was pushed right up to the edge of his hairline. He
considered me causally, picking his nails with the edge of the
knife only so recently held against my back.
    "So you're the
girl everyone is so concerned with," he stated, looking me up and
down. "Got Painter's blood in ya?" He snorted. "What a load of
bullshit."
    "What's
bullshit?" I asked defensively.
    He shrugged.
"The Painter ain't got an heir. Because everyone knows that there
isn't a Painter." He leaned across the compartment and hooked the
edge of the necklace with the point of the knife.
    "Not the
religious type?" I asked, watching him carefully as he stretched
the dreamcatcher up from my chest.
    "Nah. We were
born from the earth and to the earth we shall return." He let the
necklace fall back and deftly slipped the knife into a side pocket.
"You're an imposter."
    "More of an
imposter than Cirrus?"
    "Cirrus is just
a man, but as good a king as anyone else." The coal man shrugged
again, as seemed to be his habit, and crossed his arms behind his
head. The train rocked back and forth and the green hues of forest
flashed by the window. "Plus he pays me." His teeth were as bright
as his eyes when he grinned, white and wide through the dark mask
of his face.
    I leaned my
face against the cold glass and sighed. So this was it. The Walk
was over before it has even fully begun. What a cheat.
    I bet if I had
a train I could have kidnapped him, too.
    The coal man
was staring off into space and eventually I felt my mind dozing
off. The click clack of the train started to become a comforting
repetition, like the ticking of a clock, and the small amount of
rest I had the night before overcame me. But as I slipped away into
sleep, I felt something slide into my jacket pocket and heard a
whisper in my ear.
    " The Reign
Walk is not lost. Riders are assembling and the storm is gathering
speed. "
    The train
rocked me to blackness and it wasn't until much later that I
remembered those warnings.
    The Riders are
coming . . .

Chapter
8
    Marty was sitting outside in the Council anteroom,
waiting to be called in. He squeezed his hands together and looked
over at the closed door of the assembly room.
    The Council was
a bunch of old fools set on formalities and paperwork. They were
taking a long time in discussing the "moral politics" the Walk. It
would take days for them to process Maggie's fall and even longer
to use any small influence they had to look for her. What would he
do if this all resulted in death? What would keep Cirrus from going
absolutely mental, as only Marty from firsthand experience knew he
could?
    The Council
made it clear to Marty in their letter that they didn't wish to
take sides in the matter. Technically speaking, the government
couldn't back a player in the Reign Walk. But as Marty was quickly
finding out, they didn't actually seem to care much. Politics are
politics, when all is said and done. Whoever ruled Palet wouldn't
change things much. This was still a republic, don't you know?
    But they didn't
know. No one knew Cirrus's history like Marty did. How long would
they sit in their own sweat before realizing Cirrus had siphoned
off their power and their republic had shriveled like a grape left
out in the sun?
    Marty sighed
and tried really hard to stop juggling his foot. It was hard. Even
worse, he felt the cold sweats start creeping up at the edges of
his hairline. How long had it been since he's had a hit? Two days?
Only one? He wished he knew something, anything.
    The phone at
the reception desk started to ring. The secretary picked it up and
murmured into the receiver. There was a pause.
    "Is there a Mr.
Kleizenberg here?" she asked. Marty looked up and the secretary
held out the phone. "It's for you." Marty walked to the desk and
took the phone from over the counter. He raised it tentatively to
his ear.
    "Yes?"
    Cirrus's voice
came from the other end of the receiver.