Title: Murderer's Touch

Author: I_nv_u50

Dis/Claimer: World belongs to Mercedes Lackey, characters belong to me…

Rating: PG13

Warning: Slash, Some violence…

Author's Notes: I'm uploading this at school . . so no personalized notes I'm afraid ^^ it was either that, or upload when my father gives us the internet back (er… I'm grounded… .) which could take weeks, so I did it this way instead. Despite this though, I can probably continue uploading chapters at school, so the next chapter might be out by Friday. Or Monday, depending O.o; It's taken me a while to get this far, and Friday's a shortened day anyway… ah, who cares. I'll update on either those days, promise ^^ Thanks to all my reviewers, I hope you don't kill me after this chapter O.o; I'm sorta expecting something bad to happen, but that's all right… and if any of you like original stories with weird characters, go check out my fictionpress account, cuz I just uploaded a new story there. How absolutely crazy I must be O.o;;; anyway, read, enjoy (sorta) and please review!! ^^

Kylan slumped back against the cool brick wall, and slid down, his legs being incapable of holding him up any longer. His left eye was swelling closed, and it hurt to move his mouth. His hands were dropped limply at his side, and his head lolled back, trying to press his burning eye against the cool roughness of stone.

"Who woulda thought…" Someone said out of the shadows.

Kylan rolled his good eye in blatant scorn, trying to disguise the fact that he was too hurt to even begin recognising the soft voice.

The figure stepped forward. "Don't worry, Kyl. I'm sure they'll treat you better than I did. Why, they might even kill you first, and that would be a mercy, wouldn't it?"

"Go to hell," Kylan managed to rasp out, the sting of moving his lips reminding him why it was a bad thing to try. Metallic tasting liquid dribbled out from the side of his mouth, and Kylan winced in pain, nevertheless trying to get a glimpse of the blood.

"You are a sick freak, aren't you." The other boy murmured, and stepped forward, wiping Kylan's chin and holding up the bloodstained finger. "You enjoy the sight of your own blood too?"

"Blood is blood," Kylan replied carefully, and made a half-hearted attempt to shrug. "Doesn't matter whose it is."

The other boy smirked in the dim light and squatted down in front of Kylan. Kylan met the dark eyes in defiance, ignoring the fact that he couldn't open his left eye anymore.

"True enough, I suppose," the other boy murmured softly. "So you should be happy. When our masters catch up with you, you'll bleed far more."

Kylan made an effort to lift his head. "Cyril, why are you here?"

"It's simple, really," Cyril mused, staring fixedly at a point far more distant than the wall Kylan was leaning against. "They told me to find you. I knew you'd go somewhere where you could find unknowing victims eventually. I've been waiting for a few days."

Kylan refused to honour the statement with a reply.

Cyril turned dark eyes to him, and leant forward slightly. "Thaelin says you're lovers with a Herald now," he said conversationally.

Kylan knew better than to assume that Thaelin would tell anything that important voluntarily, and he struggled to sit up straight, outraged and resigned to the fact that his friend was probably getting the beating of his life for trying to hide the news. "Where is Thaelin?" he asked casually, knowing better than to sound too urgent.

Cyril put a rough hand on his shoulder and pushed him back again. "Shut up. Sit down. Is it true?"

Kylan regarded Cyril expressionlessly, not giving the slightest hint. His silence was answer enough for the other boy, and Cyril growled, shoving him back against the wall hard, lunging with all his body weight.

"A Herald?" Cyril spat out, pushing his face close to Kylan's. "An upholder of the law? What the hell are you thinking, Kylan? They hate people like us, you know that!"

Kylan squeezed his open eye shut as tight as he could. "Shut up," he croaked, cursing himself for not sounding surer.

Cyril sat back a little and examined the blonde, before suddenly smirking. "You've realised that, haven't you? You know that it doesn't stand a chance. Thaelin told us how rough your Herald was. That should be proof enough."

Kylan opened his eye to a slit. "He was jealous. Thaelin didn't get hurt anymore than what you would do to him."

"True," Cyril murmured, leaning closer again. "But I at least get beaten up in return. Who is going to pay your dear Herald back? I belong to the same group as Thaelin does, even if it is another section. The Herald is an outsider. You should know by now that outsiders aren't meant to be trusted, Kyl. They don't understand the thrill for blood we feel, he'll never understand why you do the things you do."

"Did," Kylan replied hotly. "The things I did. I don't kill anymore, Cyril."

Cyril sat back fully and laughed. "How long has it been since you killed that Herald, Kylan? A few days? And yet you're out here already for more blood. You keep telling yourself whatever you want, but you will never be able to stop killing. It's in you now, it's stained your soul." He laughed again and stood up. "You'll be going to hell with the rest of us petty killers, Kylan. You'll never be happy. It's not in our destinies to be happy, so why shouldn't we make ourselves happy? Blood is plentiful. So why not take it?"

Kylan glared up at the dark eyed boy, and lifted a weak hand to brush the sweat and blood soaked hair away from his forehead. His hand came away a diluted sort of red, and Kylan stared at it, hating himself for the suddenly increased heartbeat, for the rush of adrenalin that surged through him, almost making him forget the pain.

Cyril laughed again, obviously enjoying the expression on Kylan's face. "So now you see what we are, Kylan. What you are. Our masters are coming now, they might forgive you if you tell them enough about your last few days."

Kylan shuddered, the blood forgotten as he frantically started thinking out ideas, each more unrealistic than the last, on how to escape. Finally, he just looked up at the now silent Cyril, who was watching some distant point on the wall again.

"Cyril? Where's Thaelin?"

Cyril waved a hand, but didn't look away from the wall. "They took him. He's being punished for lying… or rather, for attempting to lie."

"How did they find him out?"

Cyril blinked, paused, and then looked down at Kylan again, his face now serious. "I don't know. You don't ask questions like that, you know that, Kyl. It's best that we forget about Thaelin for a while."

"He's your friend," Kylan choked out, quivering with helpless, hopeless fury. "You don't have to save me, but why not save him instead?"

Cyril closed his eyes and looked away. "He's not my friend. I have no friends. I need no friends. They make you weak. I can't afford to be weak."

Kylan blinked up at the older boy, astounded. Dimly, his mind began to wonder who Cyril was trying to convince.

He must have fallen asleep shortly afterwards, because when he woke up, he was settled against a different wall, his hands were tied behind his back, and he knew exactly where he was. He glanced around warily, being careful not to move his head too much.

He was in one of the underground rooms in the main headquarters, a room that was supposedly used for interrogations, but everybody he knew in their gang knew better. They had all heard the screams.

He tried to repress a quick surge of terror that ran through him, scolding himself furiously for wishing that he were safe back in Brynn's suite. He had been incredibly stupid to run away in the middle of the night, only letting an already uneasy Companion know where he was going… and only a vague idea at that. He wondered if Brynn had woken up yet. He wondered if he had been missed yet. He hoped so, despite fervent denials on his behalf. He wanted to be found. They would kill him after they finished questioning him, if they even had enough patience to last that long.

The door opened. Kylan bit back a reflexive scream, and fought to stifle a growing sense of panic.

"Kylan, my boy," a genial voice started. "We missed seeing you the past few days."

Kylan hid a flinch. Of course, it would be him. Faris was one of the most deceptive leaders of the group. His friendly tone kept his cruel nature a secret. He was usually the one to recruit new young boys, because it was a talent of his to make you trust him. That mistaken, misplaced trust often led to miserable lives unless you quickly grew accustomed to it.

"Sorry I'm late," came a gruff voice. This too, was a dangerous man. He was the head instructor, who taught the best of the best. He managed to bruise, scrape and otherwise seriously injure those he taught, and he was known to be kinder on the training floor than in real situations.

The third voice that spoke to him was the one that surprised Kylan the most. "Kylan, dearling, is it true? Have you chosen a Herald over us?"

Kylan stared at the ground fixedly, refusing to look up. While Kadin might be dangerous on the training fields and in real life, Taevan was a simple sadist. He was usually the one to suggest exotic punishments for offenders, and while Kylan enjoyed the sight of blood, he was nothing compared to Taevan.

"Are you going to talk?" Kadin asked him harshly.

Kylan continued staring at the floor, barely flinching when the hand suddenly appeared in his sight and knocked him onto his side.

Taevan knelt in front of his face. "Dearheart, tell us the truth. Who is this Herald that Thaelin told us about? He hit our precious thief; he deserves to be punished. Don't you want him to be punished, Kylan?"

Kylan hesitantly shook his head. Taevan stood up with a sigh. "All right dearheart, have it your way. We can wait, you know. Meanwhile, I suggest… maybe 150 stripes."

Kylan flinched again; hardly able to help the terrified whimper that broke free of his throat. "Please no," he managed to gasp out.

Faris smiled kindly down at him. "Do you prefer to talk then?"

Kylan didn't answer. Faris glanced at Taevan. "Strip him of his tunic then, would you my boy? Then you can watch as Kadin carries out the flogging."

Taevan smiled gleefully back. "Thank you dearling."

Faris nodded his head to Kadin, and then turned back to stare down at Kylan. "Let them know when you're ready to talk, and I'm sure they'll stop enough to listen," he told the blonde before turning to Kadin. "Call me when he breaks."

Kadin gave a curt nod, and Faris left, tottering out the door merrily, leaving Kylan staring fearfully up at the other two adults left in the room.

Taevan grinned and hauled Kylan up by his shoulders; a grip that stung it was so tight. He pulled Kylan's stained and dirtied tunic off without bothering to untie it, yanking it over Kylan's head before he dropped it on the floor. As Kylan tried to hide his shivering, wrapping his arms hesitantly around himself, Kadin stacked some dirty boxes that had been in the corner, arranging them until they were about waist high.

Taevan let his fingers travel lightly across Kylan's back. "Still remember this beating, dearheart? My favorite," Taevan's fingers trailed lightly up to mockingly caress under Kylan's left ear, ignoring the boy's shudder of revulsion and fear. "This is still my favourite scar. I had a lot of fun with this one, you know? Now," his tone grew cruel and he shoved Kylan towards Kadin. "Bend over the boxes, dear. Prepare yourself."

Kadin grabbed Kylan's arms, lifting his still bound wrists high enough up his back to make the blonde arch in an effort to ease the ache in his arms, and pushed his head down onto the prepared boxes.

Kylan turned his head to the side so he could breathe, careful not to press his swelled eye against the rough wood of the box, desperately trying to hold back the keening cry of terror that was crawling up his throat with a spine chilling certainty. They were going to kill him, if he didn't tell them about Brynn, and he couldn't bear to do that. They'd try to kill Brynn next, and they'd succeed too, if his previous attempt to leave the bond was any sign. If Brynn had been that distraught over him trying to refuse the bond, then he'd be at least devastated if Kylan died. He couldn't let them kill him.

"Wait," he gasped out, and Kadin paused, hand holding the beating stick still high in the air.

Taevan tutted from somewhere to the side. "Giving in already? How disappointing. I hope you showed more persistence when the Heralds asked you about us."

"They didn't," Kylan said softly. "They didn't ask a thing about you. On my word."

Kadin snorted, and lowered his hand. "You're a killer, like us. Your word is worth nothing."

"Honest," Kylan yelped, beyond caring about his pride, survival instincts overpowering the urge to appear good enough. "They didn't ask a thing about me! They don't even want to know why you wanted him killed!"

"Good thing you don't know then, isn't it," mused Taevan quietly. "Otherwise you would have told them."

"I wouldn't have!" cried Kylan, starting to get angry. Nobody ever seemed to believe him anymore. "I swear, they didn't ask and I didn't tell!"

Kadin's eyes burned into his back. "Your sure?"

"Positive." Kylan started to believe that they believed him. "I wouldn't have told. Not about you."

"Really," Taevan purred, and Kylan felt that despised hand trail across his back, fingering scars of wounds that hadn't yet faded. "I suppose we could believe you, dearheart. I suppose we might just."

Kylan held his breath, waiting with growing hope and relief.

"But," Taevan's voice hardened again, and his fingernails bit into Kylan's skin, making the boy make a soft sound of pain and surprise. "You still betrayed us. Still went to the Palace. Didn't come back and tell us what you planned to do. Thaelin managed to say that you were staying with a Herald before he… well, let's just say he wont be going anywhere anytime soon. Is that true, Kylan? Were you staying with a Herald?"

Kylan unknowingly tensed his body in silent reaction. Kadin took that as the signal to start beating him, and the stick whistled through the air on its way down.

Taevan stepped back to watch with a smile, and Kylan fisted his hands so tight that he thought he drew blood. He managed to hold in his cries for a few hits, but when blood began to seep down his bare sides, when the strikes became more than his dizzily pained mind could even begin to comprehend or register; only then did he began screaming.