Page 67 of Adam, Mine

He could forget himself here, if he did not have money that would run out and purpose to fulfill.

Elias left Viareggio and boarded a boat to somewhere much colder.

Scotland

Every day it was harder to rise. The cold got deeper into Victor’s bones, and his face looked back at him sallow and wan from his shaving mirror.

Victor wondered whether it was this curse or just the agony of feeling burning his vitality away twice as fast. The woman who shared his compartment kept offering him sweet pastries from her tin and looking worried when he refused them.

When they arrived, Ayan McClean was waiting for him at the train stop.

Victor hadn’t been given a description, but he knew it was him. He was about Victor’s height, with a wild red beard and red hair dashed through with white. His eyes were hard steel as the train pulled into the station, locked on Victor’s face as the train went by.

Victor grabbed his things and stumbled down the steps onto the platform. Ayan parted the crowd as he marched to him, people leaping out of his way, even though he could hardly be described as imposing in size.

When he was close enough to spit on, Victor understood why. Ayan radiated heat like a furnace and smelled strongly of smoke.

“Mr. McClean?” Victor started.

But the man didn’t reply. He just grabbed Victor by the ear, turned, and started marching down the platform. Victor cried out in pain and stumbled behind him.

Ayan kept his thick fingers locked on Victor’s ear for blocks, until they reached his home. Victor eventually stopped whimpering and just allowed it to happen. Turning his head until the angle was comfortable and walking that way even though the townspeople laughed at him as they passed.

Ayan’s house smelled just like he did, and Victor could tell that they were near before they arrived.

Ayan unlocked his door and threw Victor inside. Victor crashed to the ground and rolled over.

“Ayan!” a woman’s voice cried.

“Get the strap, Moira,” Ayan growled.

Victor scrambled to his feet. He was not about to be beaten by someone who was not his father.

“Wait!” he cried.

Ayan advanced with a furious shout, snatching a length of leather from the wall.

“Stop, Ayan! Can’t you see he’s ill!” Moira cried.

“And he’s about to be worse.” Ayan McClean crouched, blocking the front door, daring Victor to run. Victor took a moment to think, then turned on his heel and rushed deeper into the house.

He passed Moira, who looked the right age to be Ayan’s wife, and flew into the back of the home in search of a window or door.

There was a girl of about eight sitting at the table and peeling apples. She startled as Victor burst into the kitchen, dropping the knife she was holding.

He stared at her for a half second, then remembering himself, ran out the back door and into the yard. He could hear Ayan hollering behind him, his large boots stomping the floor.

Victor sprinted across the yard, getting closer and closer to the back fence. He reached out for the latch. But before his hand met steel, he was jerked backward hard.

Ayan lifted him high, higher than Bradley had and shook him.

“You foul, doaty bampot! You godless, merciless waste!” Ayan shouted.

“Da, no!”

Ayan lassoed Victor’s neck with the strap from the wall in one terrifyingly competent snap of his wrist, pinning him to the fence.

“Stay where y’are, Isla,” Ayan warned. “Let him take his.”