Page 62 of Hilarina and the Ogre

“Does she like those?” Trenton asked.

“Like is too healthy a word for that relationship. She claims she hasn’t tasted a half-decent croissant since coming to the States, but somehow every time croissants from Peu de Pâte make their way into the house, they disappear overnight. Especially the chocolate ones.”

“How many should we buy?”

“However many they have. We’ll keep stuffing them into her until she either gives in or falls into a hyperglycemic coma.”

But they never got to the bakery. They never even made it to the end of the parking lot. Soon after they stepped out of the car, Trenton sensed something. Maybe that was his martial art reflexes at work, or just that inherent determination to protect, but the boy turned just as the bat was whistling through the air.

There was a sickening crack. Without Trenton’s supernatural senses, all Hilary had to rely on was the physical, and so for him there was no warning. Before he’d finished turning to look, the bat was swinging again, but Trenton was quicker.

The boy had only the use of his left arm by then, the right having been sacrificed to impede that first blow aimed at his head, but the left was enough. Sure, it had been honed through recent use during all those silly meals spent holding his hand, but Trenton would have managed either way. So quick, so capable. And silent too. It had only been in the last couple of weeks that Hilary had managed to train his ear to detect those near-silent footfalls—and footfalls that were being employed to deadly effect now. But there was more than one attacker—there were four, and Trenton was only dispatching the second when the next bat caught him in the back, and he went down beneath it.

“Trent!”

It was as if Hilary’s legs had been nailed into place. He had to move, to hurry, but it was like everything was happening without him and at breakneck speed. He lunged forward, but too late. Something caught him by the back of the jacket and wrenched so that he hit the asphalt with a shocking jolt to his tailbone.

“Congratulations,” came the fifth voice. The one that had wrenched him back. “The happy couple is going to hell in a fucking handbasket. A real honeymoon destination.”

Hilary lunged again—or tried to. His body was spasmodic, nerves still shocked by the impact. He fell to his knees and had a boot shoved into his back, pinning him like a bug.

“Get off him! If you don’t—” Trent broke off as a wad of something was shoved into his mouth. He was being held down by three of them—and only just barely. One was forced to sit on his back, hoping to overwhelm him with sheer poundage, and the fourth assailant was out of commission, on the ground and trying to stem the blood pouring from an obviously broken nose.

Someone said something Hilary didn’t hear. His eyes had just landed on the arm—Trent’s right—and the bone pushing up against the skin, not quite piercing, but badly broken. The sight of it pulsed there, briefly red. But the scream never left his throat. Hilary was yanked up again, this time with the collar of his shirt digging into his neck, half-strangled, as he was dragged toward the truck idling nearby. He recognized the one holding him finally, spinning around as he tried to claw himself free. Axel Marlin.

The fear came then. It should have flooded the moment he’d seen Trenton on the ground, but the shock had been the predominant thing, the impossibility of what was happening too strange to be real. But Axel’s face brought him back into reality. He recognized some of the other attackers as well. Two of them had shoved him in the hallways. And that one—he couldn’t be sure because the mask was absent—but he had a strong feeling he was facing the guy who had fled the bathroom during the Liquid Ass incident.

And now this.

He was thrown onto the truck’s back seat, bounced once, and hit his head on the far door, but in the next moment he was up and reaching—and slammed back down, face squashed against seats stinking of ash and tobacco.

“Shouldn’t have fucked with her.”

There was a frightening sound, the tearing of duct tape, and then it was being wrapped around him, gluing his arms to his sides. He tried to twist out of it, but Axel was stronger than he was, and with the superior vantage point.

Hilary forced words out of his throat. “You can’t be doing this. You’ll go to prison. Something like this—”

“I’ve been to prison.” Axel ripped another line of tape off with his teeth. “Food sucks, but I’m not picky.”

“Please—he needs the hospital.”

“Think I give a fuck?” Axel laughed. “She’s gone, faggy. Your tattling to old Seth did the trick, and she’s gone. Nothing can save you now.”

The rag tasted of motor oil and acid. Hilary gagged as it was shoved in and tried to spit it out, but the tape was already there, wrapping around his head. It was a struggle just to breathe. He was always at least mildly congested, and given the circumstances (and that he was already lightheaded) he was soon starved for oxygen. But Trenton was worse off. Trenton, who he couldn’t even see. Who had been dragged to a second truck with the others.

Hilary made another attempt to scream, but the gag was wedged in tight, and he heard himself as only a muffled kind of moaning.

“Comfy?” Axel asked as he slid into the driver’s seat. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

They swung in a circle out of the parking lot and onto the main road. Hilary tried to wiggle his way up to sit, needing to check on Trenton—but Axel had been a real pro with the taping, and it was pretty much impossible to do anything but flop around. He kept seeing the boy’s arm in his mind. Something like that—he couldn’t imagine the pain of it. Could a break like that even be fixed? That was Trenton’s dominant arm. Yes, he’d gotten good at eating with the left, but that was no replacement. No part of his partner was replaceable. And—he hated to think it, was sick with the dread of it—what if they did even worse? Because why else throw them into cars, effectively kidnapping them, unless they planned to do more? And for what? Because he’d reported the breakup to Seth? They’d shattered Trenton’s arm for such a thing. Had kidnapped them for such a thing. What kind of crazy psychopath risked serious prison time over a petty bitch like Varda? It was a totally fucked version of romantic, but as they continued to drive and drive, quickly leaving the town limits, the dread was eating up everything else. Where they were going—would anyone be able to hear them? Was there hope of a rescue at all? Surely these fuckers wouldn’t kill them, would they?

The journey ended suddenly when Axel pulled up onto a gravel road. There was a warehouse at the end of it, and a dilapidated one at that. Nothing in active use. The next moment, the back door of the truck was pulled open, and Hilary was dragged out onto the dirt. Maybe that would have been the chance to fight when it was only him and Axel, but his head swung immediately out, seeking Trenton, trying to see.

A kick to the gut had him tasting vomit. He’d lived a privileged life, all told. Yes, he’d been bullied, but that was child’s play to this. Everything, including the Liquid Ass, had been child’s play to this. He wasn’t prepared for real pain. The kind he’d only ever seen in movies, and it had everything else out of his mind, only able to retch and gasp with it. And still Trenton had asked for him, had told them to stop, even with his arm in that state. Hot tears stung Hilary’s eyes, the taste of vomit and acid tightening his chest further. Was this the price of a happiness like Trent? And if so, how much could he bear to pay for it?

The sound of popping gravel came as the second truck swung off onto the path. When the door opened, there was a moment where nobody moved, but an unmistakable, if hoarse and furious, voice shouted out, “Hilary! Hil, are you—”

Hilary tried to buck up and was kicked again, rolling over onto his face. The sound Trenton made seeing it was like the roar of an engine. “I’ll kill you! Every one of you. If you put your hands on him—!”