Secrat Copé sat handcuffed to a chair.
His head still hurt, but it was better. He hadn’t the faintest clue how he had gotten himself into this predicament. Lukas Lewis tried to explain it all to him earlier, but his head ached too much to listen. Since then, he had sobered up from his stupor and was ready to hear rhyme and reason. Reason appeared to be giving him the silent treatment.
There was no one-home for The Red Flux. They traveled as a troupe, and when they were together, that was home enough. That wasn’t where Lukas had taken Copé, however.
This wasn’t The Red Flux, wide-open and free.
This was a small, desolate, and dreary cabin. It smelled damp with the odor of mold and cedar, and there was fungus sealing the jamb of the door on the other side of the room. The chair Copé was shackled to rested on the wall opposite the door. The thief tilted his head, resting it some on his shoulder. A small window engulfed by moss was to his left, small crack in the top-right corner of the glass. Copé forgot about it and laid his head back against the wall. It brought a stinging sensation, but he didn’t care. It was worth being able to rest his head.
The door to the cabin started to be cracked opened. The force it took to push it open meant there was no way it could have been done discreetly. Secrat flinched fast, rattling the handcuffs as he did so.
He wasn’t afraid.
It was more to say that he was caught off-guard. The man entered into the room, taking note of how grimy and smudged the walls looked. He walked with a purpose. His dark black boots damn-near worn to the sole.
It was Father Toucan Veras.
Toucan walked the way Copé wanted to walk. The thief had far too much ego to come to grips with that fact, but it was true. The leader of the Red Flux had presence about him like nobody he had ever seen before. When he entered the room, eyes lent themselves to him. They belonged to him, like a showman thief, stealing the attention off whoever else was in the room and putting it on himself. A bald head and a thick black-beard, a large sword sat at his side in a scabbard. Olea is what he called the blade, named after the murderer of his deceased wife. The sword was enormous, shaped and structured like a scimitar with a deep curve at the end. Gifted with an enormous blade, Toucan made the sword look like one of Copé’s knives.
A hyperbole, but the statement stood. Father Veras was a hefty size.
He was the type that was wise about concealing it as well. The rest of The Flux wore armors pillaged from either one of the five major cities; Toucan wore baggy robes. Nobody had too much of an idea how muscular he was. Concealment made him easy to underestimate.
Toucan closed the door behind him before turning his attention over to the restrained thief. Copé wanted to rub the nape of his neck or clasp his hands over his head out of distress and discomfort, but he could do neither. Toucan’s eyes were cold and serious. The white of his eyes blood-shot and the rest looked black as night. “You’ve really outdone yourself on this one, Copé.”
No inflection in his voice.
Toucan’s temper and intimidation were well-noted. He rarely showed it, but when he did, it was bad enough for nobody to soon forget. Copé felt no fear, not particularly. He felt discomfort and vulnerability. Which was almost the same.
Everything was starting to piece itself together for him. His recent traumas blocked some of it out, but he had no doubt the reason he was keyed to a chair was for the murder of a fellow Flux. Lukas Lewis brought him here after and confessed Father the sins of his adopted son, and now, Toucan was here to pass his judgment.