The world smelled of pine and loam. Riordan’s head banged off of the ground, cushioned by a blanket of pine needles that covered everything. He almost lost his grip on awareness again, but the sensation of tugging pressure on his ankles and the scrape of his back on sandy earth let him know he was being dragged.

“Switch,” a voice panted from in front of him and the hands on his ankles changed with some quiet cursing and a series of grunts.

The reprieve allowed Riordan’s head to clear enough to recognize Whiny and Bossy by voice. He still lacked the strength to open his eyes. His head throbbed dangerously. It had been ages since he’d been hurt this badly. Civilian life had killed his edge.

With a deep grunt, dragging resumed, Bossy heaving Riordan forward. The motion bounced him and blackness threatened. Riordan gritted his teeth, holding off unconsciousness and queasiness barely, and tried to take stock.

The sound next to him was another lighter body being dragged. Riordan imagined young gangly Daniel spread out on the dirt and his heart squeezed. He could pick up that cigarette smell even over the pine and lingering chemical stink of chloroform.

Bossy and Whiny smelled of sweat, gas and dirt, with an underlying tang of something that tickled old memories. Riordan stiffened in recognition.

They smelled like blood and rotten flesh. The stench of corpses clung to their bodies. The taint of murder clung to their souls.

Bossy grunted and swore. “Shit, he’s twitching again.”

“What is that guy made of?” Whiny asked, disbelieving.

Bossy dropped Riordan’s ankles. It sounded like he was rummaging in a pouch or pocket. “Hell if I know. The boss will probably be thrilled. Something about a strong life meaning a strong death, or some such bullshit.”

It was too soon. Riordan hadn’t recovered enough from the beating and the drugs. A bottle popped open and he smelt chloroform. Fucking hell. He couldn’t let them dose him again. Swallowing back the sting of vomit, Riordan wrenched his uncooperative body into motion, kicking out at where he could hear Bossy. His heavy combat boot impacted against flesh and bone. The man hit the ground with a startled yell.

Riordan rolled away, trying to get enough distance to rise safely. Once upon a time, he would have drawn strength from his team to push through the worst of injuries. He would have bounced up and torn these men apart with his bare hands. That time was long gone. He’d been on his own for far too long and his well of strength, while deep for a single person, mostly went to just keeping him going. Being able to move again so soon after a life-threatening injury was already a miracle.

He heard Whiny curse and drop his hold on Daniel. Bossy was quickly scrambling back to his feet. Riordan only made it to a crouch before a blow connected with his shoulder and sent him sprawling again. He tucked his chin in to protect his battered skull from more damage and took another blow to his torso in exchange.

“Fucker,” Bossy spat out, kicking Riordan in the ribs.

Riordan jackknifed his body, kicking out at Bossy’s leg. Bossy hopped back out of range this time, Riordan’s shot clipping his ankle, only to return with a few more vicious kicks. Riordan felt bone crack in his side and groaned. He couldn’t get enough of a reprieve to make a real counterattack, not without breaking all the rules that bound him. The consequences for that made death almost seem gentle in comparison. The best he could do for the moment was to play possum and hope he got a better shot later.

His body went slack as Riordan forced himself not to react to the blows Bossy continued to land. It wasn’t much of a stretch given how much his head swam with pain. His skull had to be healing or he definitely would have passed out again.

It said a lot about Bossy’s personality that he kept kicking Riordan even after he went limp. Riordan had lost his stomach for that kind of ruthless violence over the years, but he still recognized the deterioration of spirit that allowed a person to inflict pain on another because they liked it, not because it was necessary. In fights like this, the person who was willing to go further, to be more brutal, had a distinct edge because they were willing to do what would make a moral person hesitate.

Hesitation always cost you. Then again, so did brutality, though it was a different coin.

Bossy panted as he stopped his assault. Riordan lay still, listening and trying to breathe as carefully as possible. For a moment, no one moved, but then Whiny spoke up quietly, “He’s down, Jimmy. C’mon, leave it.”

Bossy, whose name was apparently Jimmy, snorted derisively, stepping away from Riordan. “He was down before, Kent. Now he’s going to stay down until we’re done with this. It’ll be a damn pleasure to string him up.”

Riordan suppressed a shiver at the glee with which Jimmy said that. The man walked away from him, his footsteps heading towards where whiny Kent was standing. Jimmy barked an order, “You grab his heavy ass. Least you could do after being so useless.”

The smaller of his kidnappers scurried to obey and soon Riordan felt his legs lifted as Kent began dragging him through the woods again. Riordan couldn’t let himself think about how much it hurt, dirt and pine needles scraping over his bare back as his shirt rode up, his head bouncing over the uneven ground, his newly broken ribs stretching as his weight fought the pull and sending shooting agony through his whole body.

This method of moving a body was only used in emergencies since it was basically guaranteed to be painful to the victim. Riordan had only ever done it to corpses himself. If he had to move a comrade, he went with a blanket drag or one of the carries, though the best of those took more than one person or a conscious person. He hadn’t thought about this shit in years, but the violence threw his mind right back there, to memories that he had hoped were dead and buried.

He’d been a civilian for years- hell, he’d been a vagrant for years now- and he’d let himself get soft. Riordan couldn’t bring himself to regret the change for his own sake, but he could hear Jimmy dragging Daniel nearby. If he’d still been able to dish out brutal violence at a moment’s notice, it might have been enough to save Daniel. Except, he couldn’t be sure he would have wanted to save someone else back then. Especially not some random weak human.

The sound of buzzing flies and the sweet stench of rotting flesh pierced Riordan’s dazed state. The sheer scope of the smell, growing stronger with each step that Kent dragged him, overwhelmed Riordan’s sensitive senses. Gods, the summer heat deepened the stench and the breeze carried it even further. How many people had these men already killed and left to rot? And why?

“Ugh, the smell makes me wanna puke,” Kent whined, breathing heavily through his mouth. “Can’t the boss do anythin’ ‘bout that?”

“You want to bother the boss with a bit of squeamishness?” Jimmy laughed harshly, “Well, it’s your funeral.”

Kent’s grip on Riordan tightened. “No way. I’m jus’ sayin’, ya know? If the heat keeps up like this, someone’s gonna find this place just by the smell.”

“Anyone getting close to here who shouldn’t be will get strung up too,” Jimmy said confidently. “Stop bitching and move faster. We’re almost there and I ain’t staying here longer than I have to either.”

Riordan was clearly running out of time. He turned his attention inward, trying to encourage his body to heal faster under these less than ideal circumstances. His reserves were low and his energy moved sluggishly from disuse, but he pushed everything he could muster at that part of himself that made him more than human, feeling some of the ache in his head ease.

The smell of death grew. Riordan’s skin crawled. The foul air choked him and anxiety crept up his spine like a knife blade. There was something here, more than just corpses. He could feel it thrumming invisibly in the air, aware of it with that secret sense that was awake in his kind. He could feel it watchin them, waiting for something.

Magic.