Stolen Lives: A LitRPG/GameLit Novel (The Underhill Chronicles Book 1) by Keith Ahrens (books for 8th graders .txt) 📗

was a trick of the light, or the drugs, but now it's back to a solid red without the black slice in it. Seriously? What is this, some kind of mood ring in tattoo form? I finish wrapping the leather around my wrist, determined not to draw more attention to it until I can figure a few things out.

“How long was I out this time?”

“Only a few hours, and she had to do it. It was my call. We weren’t sure which way you were gonna jump, and the healing part hurts like hell,” says Haynes, a.k.a. ‘Sarge’ by his fellows.

Shuffling over, I fill a wooden cup with water from the bucket and check out my reflection in the dim light. Light scars cover my right cheek, nose, and upper left lip, which is badly in need of a shave, and I have faint bruising around both eyes. All indications of a few weeks’ worth of natural healing. But the stubble is only a day or two old. I return to my pallet and shovel more chicken chunks in my mouth, trying to work through this in my thoughts.

“Our healer's pretty important to us, and we couldn’t take the risk of you freaking out and trying to hurt her,” says Des.

“Healer? Like, she’s your medic, right, or a doctor? Is there some kind of new surgical technique I’m not aware of? Maybe a type of experimental nanotech?” I ask, still chewing supposed chicken chunks with hot sauce. This is all kinds of weird.

They both pause and share a questioning look. Haynes shrugs with minimal movement. Des blows out a long breath and says, “You ever do any reading? Like fantasy and sci-fi novels and stuff?”

I nod in the affirmative.

“You ever read any Tolkien?”

“Sure, when I was a kid. The movies were really great.”

“They made movies about them books? Dammit! I can't believe I missed 'em! Wait a sec, stay on the topic, Son. Tolkien and those folks who came after him knew some truth about the Fey. Of course, they changed a few things to make a better story. Tolkien made the elves a lot more benevolent and less tricky, but that should give you some sort of frame of reference. You get the gist of what I'm saying, don’t you?” Des asks, with a straight face. “How ‘bout them fancy role-playing games? Whatcha call them… RPG’s? You know, like Dungeons and Trolls, or some such?"

“Yeah, I know what an RPG is. I used to play them all the time. And, yes, I’ve read a ton of fantasy and sci-fi. I just don’t believe what you’re telling me, or what you’re hinting at." I put my hands up placatingly. "No offense.”

“Forget it," Haynes says to Des. "He’ll just have a lot more questions later.” Then he turns to me. “Remember when I told you that you wouldn’t believe me?”

I nod.

“You still don't, and that’s fine. We'll talk again tonight.” Some noises come from the hallway, a sound like a heavy key ring rattling and weighted doors creaking open.

“Eat up fast, you're gonna need your strength.” Des nods at the MRE. “But try to save some for later.” The noises from the hallway are getting louder and closer. The sound of numerous feet walking and shuffling rises to a low clamor. A guttural, growling voice seems to be calling out orders in a language I don’t understand.

The three other men get to their feet. I hear a loud step, drag, step, drag sound from outside our door—those same ponderous footsteps we heard last night. There is a loud jangle of keys, and our door swings open with a creaking bang.

A towering form stands backlit by a relatively bright light in the hall and fills the doorway. Or rather, most of it fills the doorway. The rest of it is out of view, obscuring everything behind it. I'd guessed before that it was about seven feet tall, but now I need to revise my estimate to at least a foot greater than that. The thing has mostly green skin with some brown and yellow blotches all mottled together, making its flesh look like something rotten. There are yellow, runny eyes on either side of a snout that would be better suited to a wild boar. The wide mouth is complete with stained and cracked tusks, sporting an underbite that would make a bulldog wince. Its broad shoulders and chest are covered in a hodge-podge of dirty leather straps and tarnished brass plates.

A thick, frayed rope serves as a belt from which several pairs of manacles swing and clank together. Some type of animal pelt drapes around its waist like a kilt. All this monstrous bulk is supported by tree-trunk-like legs, ending in four toes with thick, black claws on its right foot. Its left foot and lower leg are made of wood and resemble a badly carved table leg. Overall, it’s near eight feet of ugly. And the smell is five kinds of awful as well. Kind of like an animal musk and onion-flavored body odor wrapped up in a dirty diaper.

Squeezing its bulk into the small cell, it glares around at the assembled men and settles its vexed gaze on me. It raises its right hand and points a filthy, clawed finger at me. I suddenly feel kind of stupid just sitting there sort of slack-jawed, staring at this thick, black talon that is mere feet from my face. It says something angry and harsh in whatever language it speaks, spit flying from its snout. I'm stuck in neutral for the moment, maybe overwhelmed by the situation, maybe a little scared. It snorts in angry disbelief, and then it turns to Haynes and continues to grunt and yell.

“Son, stand up and don’t look it in the eye. He’s looking for a reason to hurt someone today. Don’t give him one,” he says in a soft voice.

With slow, exaggerated movements, I put the rest of the MRE down on the pallet, fix