Shadow Knight Saga: The Shadowlands

Chapter Twenty

Carefully Pele balanced a tray of food in one hand while the other was holding an open copy of Maxim as he navigated the narrow stairway leading to the hidden laboratory. He's trying to distract himself from his spazzing out, blue-haired brother that is seemingly speaking in tongues with Shayne and the moment. Omniel assured him that they aren't possessed, and they aren't speaking in tongues, rather in a language that hasn't been spoken in more than ten thousand years.

That didn't make the hulking Samoan feel any better and he isn't entirely ruling out the speaking in tongues thing just yet.

Instead of napping before patrolling, he's going to have dinner with Jaryn who is hiding out, once again, in the lab while he diligently tries to unravel the mystery of the toxins coating the bolt. Pele's nicknamed it 'The Quest of Jare-a-lot' however Jaryn wasn't amused.

"Hey, Little Man," Pele called out, stepping through the doorway, "it says here that a man's sexual drive goes down when he gets older but a woman's increases as she gets older. That sounds a bit ass backwards to me. So does that mean that young dudes like us should hook up with wrinkly old ladies?"

When Jaryn didn't tell him to sod off or laugh, he looked up, the tray slipping from his hand.

"Dad!" Pele yelled, hurrying across the room, slipping and sliding on the blood covered floor. "Dad, help!" he cried out, pulling Jaryn into his arms. "Little Man, can you hear me?" he shouted, slapping Jaryn's pale, blood streaked cheek. "Come on, wake up, wake up, wake up," he chanted, rocking back and forth with the lifeless body in his arms.

Pele, body numb, legs shaking and unable to hold his weight, continued to sit there rocking Jaryn in a pool of blood, occasionally yelling for help but he knew it was futile. Jaryn's body is cold, skin pale and comparable to fresh snow, eyes stuck open and lifeless, the tears that had rolled from them stained his cheeks, cutting paths in the crimson on one side. Pele's never lost anyone before, aside from his adopted parents but they died of old age. They were in their sixties when he was dropped on their doorstep, so that was acceptable. Dying of old age is natural. But dying at fourteen years old isn't natural! It seems like only hours ago that Pele was discussing hiring strippers for Jaryn's fifteenth birthday next month. He was hell bent that his Little Brother was going to have the time of his life while he made the transition to manhood with a half naked college girl grinding on his lap. He was discussing which flavor jell-o shooters to make, if Brits really drink warm beer or not, and what they should have for dinner. Take-out was Pele's vote but Jaryn hinted at Fish and Chips and something called Spotted Dick which made Pele fall off of the chair laughing.

"Come on, Little Man, stay with me," Pele pleaded. "I already put the deposit down on those strippers," he laughed, sobbed and choked all at once. "Come on, breathe!" he yelled, shaking him.

Through a veil of tears he saw the pale, blood streaked face of his Little brother as if someone was illuminating the young man in bright light, heavenly light possibly. "You can't have him!" he snarled, pulling Jaryn into him more. "You can't have him!" he growled, eyes darting around the room looking for the light at the end of the tunnel so he, himself, could walk through it, grab his little brother's soul and drag it back with him and somehow put it back into his body. In his heart, Jaryn is the hulking Samoan's little brother. And even though he's only had the awkward librarian in his life for a handful of days, somehow the smug little Brit rooted himself in his heart without trying.

"Come on, Little Man, wake up," he pleaded. "We were supposed to hang out and chase girls together, remember?! You were to play the role of little smart wingman with the adorable accent for the dumb ass Samoan giant with the dimples and light eyes since I have no game and will mostly die a virgin without your brainiac assistance. Remember?