“Got a light?”

Riordan glanced up from his backpack, hands frozen in the task of re-sorting his gear. He’d heard the man walking towards him, but hadn’t thought much about it given that Riordan was currently sitting on the curb around the side of a gas station travel mart. Most people steered clear of Riordan, given his large size and travel-worn appearance.

The young man was travel-worn himself. Riordan had learned to recognize the look of fellow drifters. They were unpredictable. Every person who took to the roads with only a pack and their own two feet had a story. It wasn’t in most people’s nature to be so rootless.

Still, this guy looked on the harmless side of things. He smelled of unwashed human, cigarettes, dust, and gas fumes, all smells of the road and not of drugs or booze. His layers of clothes were rumpled and hung on a body that had clearly lost more weight than was healthy, but they weren’t full of holes. His lopsided smile was shy, but genuine. A rarity in Riordan’s recent experience.

Perhaps it was that smile that made Riordan nod with a deep grunt and rummage through the side of his pack for the ziploc holding his makeshift fire kit. Mostly that meant a handful of scavenged lighters in good shape, a flint and steel bar, and a tube full of dry tinder. He didn’t smoke himself, but a lighter was a lighter. They were good for campfires, barter, or, in this case, hopefully getting some travel gossip while the man smoked.

Riordan held one of the lighters out. The young man took it and then gestured at the curb next to Riordan. “Do you mind?”

“Go ahead,” Riordan replied, his deep voice extra gravelly with ill use. He hadn’t spoken more than needed to buy supplies over the last few days after his last hitched ride dropped him off in Grand Rapids and he’d hiked along US 131 to just north of Cadillac now. Folks in rural areas like Michigan were more helpful than city folk, given someone in need in the middle of nowhere might go a while without aid if people didn’t stop, but even that kindness was tested when faced with someone like Riordan.

He was under no illusions about how he came across. Riordan was six feet and three inches with broad shoulders and a stocky frame. He’d lost fat and muscle after years living rough, but he was still built due to good genetics. His hair was black and buzzed short since it became an unruly curly mess if he let it grow out, a heritage from the Israeli side of his family. His dusky brown skin and black eyes came from Indian side. That combined with his default scowl and worn drifter appearance made him too dangerous and foreign for most people to take a chance on, even out here.

The gangly young man didn’t seem to care as he joined Riordan on the curb, lighting a cigarette with a practiced flick of the lighter. He inhaled deeply and blew out a cloud of smoke, relaxing at that first hit of nicotine. Riordan snorted at his relieved sigh and got an answering grin.

“Daniel,” the man introduced, holding out the hand without the cigarette to shake.

Riordan took it and shook it firmly. He liked the dry calloused feel of Daniel’s hand and the fact that the kid didn’t try any macho shit with the shake.

“Riordan,” he responded in a rumble before letting go.

“Nice to meet you. Been travelling long?” Daniel gestured at Riordan’s hiking pack.

Another snort escaped. “Long enough,” Riordan replied before gesturing at Daniel’s own smaller backpack, “Definitely long enough to know you’ll wreck your back wearing that piece of junk.”

Daniel laughed, the open friendly sound echoing out towards the trees that bordered the gas station. The sun was setting slowly behind the towering pines and cast the area into diffuse shadow even if it would take a few hours yet for true night at this time of summer. Insects buzzed, mixing quietly with the occasional rumble of a passing car and whoosh of wind in the treetops.

“Fortunately, my bag only needs to get me a bit further.”

“Oh,” Riordan asked, “Got a place to land, then?”

Daniel shrugged. “Hope so, anyway. I’ve got an aunt that lives up by Traverse City. I haven’t been able to talk to her in a few months, but last time she called, she said I could come crash with her if needed.”

Gods, that sounded nice to Riordan, to have someone to catch you when things fell apart. It had been ages since he’d been that close with anyone. And we all saw how well that worked out, so suck it up, buttercup. Riordan cleared that thought with a shake of his head.

“I’m glad,” he said instead, “Drifting is a rough life. Much better if you’ve got a place to go.”

“Do you?”

“What?”

“Do you got a place to land? To stop drifting?”

Riordan startled at the question and then shook his head. “Nah, it doesn’t seem to be in the cards for me.”

The open expression of sympathetic sadness on Daniel’s face tore at Riordan and he had to look away. He hadn’t meant to get into this with a stranger, no matter how harmless and friendly. Riordan quickly packed the last of his supplies back into his backpack.

“Where are you going, then?” Daniel asked.

“North.”

Daniel perked up despite Riordan’s terse reply. “Want to travel together for a while, since we’re going the same direction?”

The request surprised Riordan. He couldn’t help but stare at Daniel. Around them, the world continued on quietly. A car pulled away from the pumps and some guys left the travel mart with a tinkle of a bell, their shoes scuffing on the sidewalk. The wind rustled the trees in a louder gust.

“You can’t be serious,” Riordan said flatly, “You don’t know shit about me. How have you not gotten yourself killed yet?”

The answering laugh was loud and warm. Daniel smiled at Riordan, gesturing at the shocked expression replacing his usual scowl. “See, that’s why I ask. Because you worry about stuff like that. My mum always said I had a gift for judging people, Riordan, and you seem like good people.”

Riordan could only shake his head in disbelief at that misplaced optimism. Anyone who knew anything about Riordan would have laughed at the idea of him being considered good people. Most would have happily cursed his name instead. Daniel was clearly cracked if he wanted to travel with Riordan.

“Anyway,” Daniel continued, turning to stub out the last of his cigarette on the curb, “what do you say-”

Daniel cut off as he looked back towards Riordan, brown eyes going wide.

Starting to turn, Riordan caught the baseball bat to the side of his head instead of the back. The blow dazed him and sent him sprawling out onto the sidewalk for a crucial second. Black spots danced across his vision. He tried to lever himself up with a growl, only to have another blow land on the back of his neck and lay him out again.

Out of the corner of his eye, Riordan saw Daniel rising to his feet, a yell starting on his lips. Another man grabbed him, latching one hand over Daniel’s mouth and another around his throat. The last thing Riordan saw was the look of sheer terror on his young face.

Then another swing hit him and Riordan felt something in his skull crack. Blackness swallowed him whole.

Voices swam in the darkness. Riordan vaguely felt his body being shoved into a too-small space. The rough fabric of the surface rubbed at his skin.

“-fuckin’ heavy,” someone whined at a near distance that felt impossibly far away.

“Shut up,” another deeper voice snapped. “Grab the other one and let’s…”

Riordan tried to grab for the sound again as his world narrowed with a throb of his head. Some old part of him knew this was bad. Knew how easy it was to make bodies disappear if needed. He needed… needed to think. To act. Needed his head to stop stabbing him.

A grunt was the only warning before another weight hit Riordan. Another body. Thin, bony, unwashed man and the smell of cigarette smoke. Daniel.

Rough hands shoved the two of them further into the space and slammed it shut. A car trunk. Riordan tried to pull himself together. He couldn’t let them drive off. He couldn’t-

The driver started the car and stepped on the gas. The car jerked forward and slammed Riordan’s broken skull into the wall. Darkness consumed him once more.

Fresh air roused Riordan next. The trunk had been opened and the voices were back.

“-better dose them both, just in case.”

“Assumin’ they’re even both breathin’,” the higher male voice grumbled, “Did’ya have to wail on the big one like that? It’s no good if they’re dead before we get there.”

A smack of flesh hitting flesh echoed dully and Whiny yelped. The deep gruff voice from before answered, “He wasn’t going down. If he’s dead, at least that saves us effort hauling his heavy ass later.”

Hands shifted the warm body squishing Riordan. He breathed in deep, trying to keep in the hiss of pain as feeling returned to his limbs, but a tremor ran down his body despite his efforts.

“Holy hell,” Whiny muttered, “Guess he’s still kickin’.”

“And waking up,” snapped Bossy. “Give me that.”

A damp cloth pressed over Riordan’s mouth and nose. He thrashed weakly, jostling his broken head. Sparks danced across eyelids and he gasped, taking in the familiar fumes of chloroform. Everything spun even as he lay still, grasping at consciousness with desperate mental fingers.

As Riordan slipped under again, Bossy muttered, “Should have hit him harder…”

The world smelled of pine and loam. Riordan’s head banged off of the ground, cushioned by a blanket of pine needles that covered everything. He almost lost his grip on awareness again, but the sensation of tugging pressure on his ankles and the scrape of his back on sandy earth let him know he was being dragged.

“Switch,” a voice panted from in front of him and the hands on his ankles changed with some quiet cursing and a series of grunts.

The reprieve allowed Riordan’s head to clear enough to recognize Whiny and Bossy by voice. He still lacked the strength to open his eyes. His head throbbed dangerously. It had been ages since he’d been hurt this badly. Civilian life had killed his edge.

With a deep grunt, dragging resumed, Bossy heaving Riordan forward. The motion bounced him and blackness threatened. Riordan gritted his teeth, holding off unconsciousness and queasiness barely, and tried to take stock.

The sound next to him was another lighter body being dragged. Riordan imagined young gangly Daniel spread out on the dirt and his heart squeezed. He could pick up that cigarette smell even over the pine and lingering chemical stink of chloroform.

Bossy and Whiny smelled of sweat, gas and dirt, with an underlying tang of something that tickled old memories. Riordan stiffened in recognition.

They smelled like blood and rotten flesh. The stench of corpses clung to their bodies. The taint of murder clung to their souls.

Bossy grunted and swore. “Shit, he’s twitching again.”

“What is that guy made of?” Whiny asked, disbelieving.

Bossy dropped Riordan’s ankles. It sounded like he was rummaging in a pouch or pocket. “Hell if I know. The boss will probably be thrilled. Something about a strong life meaning a strong death, or some such bullshit.”

It was too soon. Riordan hadn’t recovered enough from the beating and the drugs. A bottle popped open and he smelt chloroform. Fucking hell. He couldn’t let them dose him again. Swallowing back the sting of vomit, Riordan wrenched his uncooperative body into motion, kicking out at where he could hear Bossy. His heavy combat boot impacted against flesh and bone. The man hit the ground with a startled yell.

Riordan rolled away, trying to get enough distance to rise safely. Once upon a time, he would have drawn strength from his team to push through the worst of injuries. He would have bounced up and torn these men apart with his bare hands. That time was long gone. He’d been on his own for far too long and his well of strength, while deep for a single person, mostly went to just keeping him going. Being able to move again so soon after a life-threatening injury was already a miracle.

He heard Whiny curse and drop his hold on Daniel. Bossy was quickly scrambling back to his feet. Riordan only made it to a crouch before a blow connected with his shoulder and sent him sprawling again. He tucked his chin in to protect his battered skull from more damage and took another blow to his torso in exchange.

“Fucker,” Bossy spat out, kicking Riordan in the ribs.

Riordan jackknifed his body, kicking out at Bossy’s leg. Bossy hopped back out of range this time, Riordan’s shot clipping his ankle, only to return with a few more vicious kicks. Riordan felt bone crack in his side and groaned. He couldn’t get enough of a reprieve to make a real counterattack, not without breaking all the rules that bound him. The consequences for that made death almost seem gentle in comparison. The best he could do for the moment was to play possum and hope he got a better shot later.

His body went slack as Riordan forced himself not to react to the blows Bossy continued to land. It wasn’t much of a stretch given how much his head swam with pain. His skull had to be healing or he definitely would have passed out again.

It said a lot about Bossy’s personality that he kept kicking Riordan even after he went limp. Riordan had lost his stomach for that kind of ruthless violence over the years, but he still recognized the deterioration of spirit that allowed a person to inflict pain on another because they liked it, not because it was necessary. In fights like this, the person who was willing to go further, to be more brutal, had a distinct edge because they were willing to do what would make a moral person hesitate.

Hesitation always cost you. Then again, so did brutality, though it was a different coin.

Bossy panted as he stopped his assault. Riordan lay still, listening and trying to breathe as carefully as possible. For a moment, no one moved, but then Whiny spoke up quietly, “He’s down, Jimmy. C’mon, leave it.”

Bossy, whose name was apparently Jimmy, snorted derisively, stepping away from Riordan. “He was down before, Kent. Now he’s going to stay down until we’re done with this. It’ll be a damn pleasure to string him up.”

Riordan suppressed a shiver at the glee with which Jimmy said that. The man walked away from him, his footsteps heading towards where whiny Kent was standing. Jimmy barked an order, “You grab his heavy ass. Least you could do after being so useless.”

The smaller of his kidnappers scurried to obey and soon Riordan felt his legs lifted as Kent began dragging him through the woods again. Riordan couldn’t let himself think about how much it hurt, dirt and pine needles scraping over his bare back as his shirt rode up, his head bouncing over the uneven ground, his newly broken ribs stretching as his weight fought the pull and sending shooting agony through his whole body.

This method of moving a body was only used in emergencies since it was basically guaranteed to be painful to the victim. Riordan had only ever done it to corpses himself. If he had to move a comrade, he went with a blanket drag or one of the carries, though the best of those took more than one person or a conscious person. He hadn’t thought about this shit in years, but the violence threw his mind right back there, to memories that he had hoped were dead and buried.

He’d been a civilian for years- hell, he’d been a vagrant for years now- and he’d let himself get soft. Riordan couldn’t bring himself to regret the change for his own sake, but he could hear Jimmy dragging Daniel nearby. If he’d still been able to dish out brutal violence at a moment’s notice, it might have been enough to save Daniel. Except, he couldn’t be sure he would have wanted to save someone else back then. Especially not some random weak human.

The sound of buzzing flies and the sweet stench of rotting flesh pierced Riordan’s dazed state. The sheer scope of the smell, growing stronger with each step that Kent dragged him, overwhelmed Riordan’s sensitive senses. Gods, the summer heat deepened the stench and the breeze carried it even further. How many people had these men already killed and left to rot? And why?

“Ugh, the smell makes me wanna puke,” Kent whined, breathing heavily through his mouth. “Can’t the boss do anythin’ ‘bout that?”

“You want to bother the boss with a bit of squeamishness?” Jimmy laughed harshly, “Well, it’s your funeral.”

Kent’s grip on Riordan tightened. “No way. I’m jus’ sayin’, ya know? If the heat keeps up like this, someone’s gonna find this place just by the smell.”

“Anyone getting close to here who shouldn’t be will get strung up too,” Jimmy said confidently. “Stop bitching and move faster. We’re almost there and I ain’t staying here longer than I have to either.”

Riordan was clearly running out of time. He turned his attention inward, trying to encourage his body to heal faster under these less than ideal circumstances. His reserves were low and his energy moved sluggishly from disuse, but he pushed everything he could muster at that part of himself that made him more than human, feeling some of the ache in his head ease.

The smell of death grew. Riordan’s skin crawled. The foul air choked him and anxiety crept up his spine like a knife blade. There was something here, more than just corpses. He could feel it thrumming invisibly in the air, aware of it with that secret sense that was awake in his kind. He could feel it watchin them, waiting for something.

Magic.