Stolen Lives: A LitRPG/GameLit Novel (The Underhill Chronicles Book 1) Keith Ahrens (best e reader for epub txt) 📖

“Olivia, was it a full moon the night you were taken?”

“How the hell would I know? What am I? A Wiccan?” she snorts with a short laugh.

“It definitely was when we were taken,” says Miles. “I remember because the tides were really low.” He looks around embarrassed for a moment. “We lived in a coastal town; you notice things like that.”

“Colt, your turn. What’s your story?” I glance up at him while I'm scrubbing at a bit of road rash on Olivia's shoulder blade. Oh, man. I just noticed she has a cute tattoo on the nape of her neck where her hair usually covers. Stay focused, moron. I shake my head a little and pay attention to what Colt has to say.

“Well, I'm a… or I guess I was a Fugitive Recovery Agent from outta Arizona. A bounty hunter. I was tracking a skip all the way up in Pennsylvania. Found out this guy had holed up in a remote cabin about a million miles from any real town. I'd made a small camp on top of a little hill with a good line of sight of the cabin. It was definitely a full moon, 'cause that night it was almost bright as a cloudy day. At some point, I fell asleep and woke up in a cell, getting beaten up by a few of the ogres. That was back in 2010. I've also been here about a year and a half.”

The years don't add up very well; maybe time really does run differently here. There’s plenty of folklore and tales backing this up. The first one that pops into my mind is the story of “Rip Van Winkle.” I’m sure there are others, but I’m just too damned tired to think of one. I take a few more minutes to finish cleaning Olivia's many minor wounds.

She smiles at me again. For the first time, I notice that beneath the dirt and grime, she's quite gorgeous. Bright green eyes, high cheekbones, and just a smattering of freckles. It figures. Ethically and morally, I can never bring myself to flirt with someone I consider a patient. It’s not fair, them being vulnerable and hurt, and me here trying to fix that hurt. It builds a false sense of… connection, I guess. It doesn't matter anyway; this is still not the time nor place for this crap.

We all talk for a while about things we miss back home and what we want to do first when we return. My vote is for a hot shower and then some good ol' comfort food, followed closely by a smooth whiskey. Maybe not in that order. I could definitely go for something straight up right about now. Somewhere in the middle of our conversation, I drift off into a light sleep while the group continues chatting on without me.

20

Olivia shakes me awake a little while later. We've only been traveling for probably less than an hour when the wagon slows to a stop. I don't hear any gunfire or commotion, but we get out on full alert anyway. Vince agrees to stay with the wounded so Olivia and I can find out why we have stopped. Haynes and Grayson have dismounted and are standing next to a body in the middle of the road.

It's Sylvia. Left lying in the mud and wheel ruts, it looks like she died in a brutal manner. Olivia squats down next to the corpse, and I join her but on the other side. Neither one of us is touching anything, probably out of old habit. Kind of pointless, as I doubt we're gonna get a forensics team out here.

Her body is prone, her head half-turned to the side though mostly facedown. I see a lot of swelling to the skin and bones around her right eye. A few teeth have been knocked out, and I can see them resting in a pool of congealed blood dripping from her ruined lips.

Olivia breaks the silence, “Ligature marks on her wrists; they tied her up before they beat her. And at some point, they burned her tattoo off as well.”

I look at Olivia and place my hands on the body's shoulder and hip. She nods and helps me roll the body over. I get a good look at her face now and wish I hadn't. Her left eye is gone. Nah, not just gone, completely burned out of the socket, the flesh around it blackened and cracked. A very intense and focused heat caused this. Maybe a hot iron poker, but I don't see evidence of a fire anywhere around us.

“Hey, Des, from what you know, can fire magic be focused like this?” I point to the eye socket while I continue my inspection of the body.

“I… ah, jeez man, you gotta warn a man before you show him something like that! Shit!” He swallows hard and clears his throat.

“There's no shame in puking. Plenty of people do. Just don't puke on me or the body, please,” Olivia says in a distracted, professional tone, eyes still focused on the deceased form before us.

I smile to myself and make an effort not to laugh out loud. Sometimes I forget that most never see things like this up close. Majority of people only see these things in movies or maybe the evening news if it slips past the censors. For cops like Olivia, or medics like myself, this is just another day at the office. Thick skin and detachment are a virtue sometimes, especially when logical thought and rational thinking are necessary.

I've been accused of being cold-hearted or callous in the past for exactly this reason—my ability to stare at a mutilated corpse, with no show of emotion or reaction. Cold, clinical logic works just as well for a horribly mutilated person that is still alive as well. It allows people like me to act and perform in circumstances that reduce most people