Keeper's Justice
Copyright© 2025 by Charly Young
Chapter 30: Adrian Thorn
The Greyhound bus was an hour out of Spokane when the two drunken cowboys in the rear of the bus started to sing.
Adrian Thorne didn’t mind. He was a tall man, wore faded Levi’s, a sweatshirt that said Forty-Niners on the front, and a brand-new pair of New Balance running shoes that he had bought at a store called Marathon Sports in Boston. He could tolerate the bus ride, something he couldn’t do with air travel. A horse or traveling by foot would have been preferable. He couldn’t shake his upbringing, but the witches held the reins, what the Red Queens wanted, the Red Queens got. He knew better than to test the geas they chained him with all those years ago. There was enough room for his legs, and the scenery was interesting. So he was content. An alert watcher might see his dark, weathered face and close-cropped hair and immediately classify him as an ex-military man. In reality, he was two hundred twenty-two years old, a twelfth circle warlock, an assassin in the service of the Red Queens.
The cowboys in the back sang “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” enthusiastically off-key. They had been warming up since departure with a couple of pints of Jack Daniels.
The retired couple in the seats across from Thorne shifted in their seats. The wife, lemon-faced and tiny, scowled.
“Henry, you go back and make them stop,” she said. “The noise is giving me a headache.”
Henry wore wire-rimmed glasses perched over haunted eyes. His body, thin and fragile, was given to nervous tics and jerks. He made shushing noises.
“They’re just having some fun, Ethel. For God’s sake, keep your voice down,” his eyes darted toward the back to see if they’d heard. His eyes caught Thorne’s and darted away.
Thorne turned his attention to the countryside. Rolling hills covered in acres of golden wheat marched toward each other. Now seared by the relentless August sun. In winter, it would be frozen by winds that could blow up a blizzard from blue sky in minutes. Bleak. He allowed himself a brief bit of fantasy and pictured himself out there. He could get off right now. He could walk and survive—not easily, of course. He wasn’t properly equipped for it, but he could survive. He was good at surviving. The geas stabbed a jolt of scalding pain into him, warning him away from any thoughts of freedom. He sighed.
Stevie, the small boy in the seats in front of him, was slyly peeking between the seats with that steady stare of innocence that children have. Thorne stared back gravely, then winked. The boy quickly pulled his head back.
Stevie was traveling with his mother. She was sleeping. She was striking, rather than pretty, Thorne decided—maybe even beautiful. She had long auburn hair and clear hazel eyes. She also had a bruise below her left eye. She had boarded in Billings. He had watched her, seen how she fidgeted until the bus pulled out. Then he watched as she sat back with a sigh and began to weep softly. The boy seemed like a good kid. He was careful not to wake his mother even though he had grown bored with his coloring book.
Ethel, the old woman with the mean mouth, was watching him suspiciously. Thorne noticed her out of the corner of his eye and was amused. He didn’t fit with the usual run of bus passengers, and she didn’t like it. An hour ago, she had nudged Henry awake.
“Look, Henry,” she whispered. “He just sits there. He doesn’t read. Doesn’t move. It’s not natural, I tell you.”
Her whisper carried. Thorne smiled.
Henry shushed her and gave him an apologetic glance that he’d probably been giving people for years.
A fat man with sweat shining on his face sat in front of them. His eyes kept sliding over to the woman and the boy. He was wearing a cheap gray suit that was a size too small. He was reading a paperback copy of a book called Promised Land. He’d been reading for two hours but had only turned a couple of pages. He must have felt Thorne’s eyes on him because he hurriedly turned his face away and looked out the window.
The cowboys switched songs now and were joyfully singing a selection of Willie Nelson’s hits.
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