The 9 lives of Cats and Gods (Merry Men Book 1)

*Intermission*

Courdelion
I failed him, at the end of the day, I failed him. The last person, the only person I swore I would never let down.
The first time I met him, muddy, been living on the street and in the woods, using his bow to kill game and occasionally people.
"Mother was a lady of the night, god knows who the father was. Poor little bastard, I give him scraps when I can get 'em. The police are looking for him but he's only a little lad, don't know what he does is wrong," the barkeep explained, as he carried out a plate of leftover food from the bar. It was past last call and I was delaying going back to my hotel, looking for company. Well I found it it seemed.
"How old is he?" I asked, watching as the wild boy with red hair and angry green eyes looked cautiously about before snatching the food.
"Maybe ten? I dunno, he's never said a word, even when the mum was alive. She weren't a bad sort, did her best for the boy," he grunted, going back inside.
The boy was eating the scraps so hungry, cramming them in his mouth even though he was still chewing the last bite. The plate was empty and he was clearly still hungry, wiping it clear of the smallest scrap.
"There's ah, corner shop, open twenty four hours," I nodded, down the way, "If you're still hungry, I'll buy you, whatever you like."
He frowned.
"No conditions. You just looked hungry, my ah, father would always try to stop my brothers and I from getting into sweets and things. We always managed anyway," I said, shrugging.
In the end, something made him follow me. I bout him ten packs of cookies and two bags of chips. I'm sure the poor thing gorged on those all night.
I extended my stay a week. Within a couple of days, Robin would meet me after last call and I'd buy him what he wanted to eat. Within a week he'd sit down and eat lunch with me. I offered him to come back to America with me. He still hadn't said a word. At that point I thought he was mute, or developmentally delayed. Oh how wrong I was.
The first time I lost him was in the airport. Turns out he could talk just fine. And could he lay on the charm. If the customs agents hadn't known me I'd have been arrested for trafficking considering that's what he told them I was doing. He had an American accent, then London one, then French imitating my own diction, then if he liked German. But never his native Yorkshire accent. By the time I got him home I learned he could speak English, Spanish, and Japanese, and Mandarin. Mandarin he'd picked up from tourists, Japanese because his mother would watch Anime with him. I still don't know where he got Spanish.
The second time I lost him was in the second airport. He ran away from me for whatever reason and  did in fact run into an actual pedophile. Don't worry that person didn't survive meeting him. By then the boy had gotten hold of plastic cutlery and had made a proper shiv. By the time I and my traveling companions found him the would be pedophile was bleeding out and Robin was going through his wallet, completely calm.
"How many people have you killed?" I asked him, by the time we were done with airport police and on our way again. That's like, three days later. It was a long trip.
"Why?" As always charming, currently the chameleon was imitating my own accent. It irked me and I didn't even know why.
"Because I want to know. I'm not going to turn you in I think I've  made that obvious. You can go anytime you like," I said.
"Seven," he said, shrugging, "You going to ask me who?"
"No."
I offered him a deal. A very simple deal. He would not attempt to harm anyone, he would not murder anyone. And he could live under my roof, go to school, be clothed and fed and do as he liked so far as entertainment (within reason) that did not include robbery or murder. And in return I would provide for him and protect him. He liked that my job was basically trying to make the world a better place his sense of justice was strong. So I said he had the opportunity to grow up and get an education and do the same. He was clearly very very smart, and then he could make a difference and help people like him. All he had to do was not commit murder. In return I would protect him.
And by some miracle he agreed.
He was smart, smarter than I even knew. Languages weren't his only gift, with a little tutoring he quickly was with his age group in reading, he could do complicated sums in his head. School bored him, teachers bored him even more. He might have missed grades but he caught up and quickly surpassed his age group.
And his sociopathy knew no bounds. His face was nothing but a mask, constantly shifting. He could go from ice cold anger to soft and laughing in the blink of an eye. He could do uncanny imitations of all my friends and relatives, often tricking us for his own amusement. I never knew what he was thinking and over half of what he said was blatant lies for the sake of saying them. He loved mind games, and puzzles, and he cared very little for me. I was to be used and nothing more.
But his soft heart did finally begin to show. Oh it was nothing like easy. And I spent more nights than not wondering what I'd inflicted on myself by bringing him into my house. By giving him the chance. A chance I often felt he didn't deserve. But in the end he was still a child. Still a small child who did need care no matter how strong he might seem.
And the cracks in his armor finally began to show. I'd had him home a year or so at that point, he'd run away a total of fifteen times not counting our airport experience on the way home, each time to show back up pretending he'd never been gone and driving me insane.
That night though, he showed up middle of the night, of course he didn't set off any alarms but I was awake and I saw the light on in the kitchen. I didn't know if it was a new murderer or the one I willingly housed so I went down to see if he was there and if he was keeping up his end of the deal.
He was standing at the counter, full carton of ice cream, shoveling into his mouth. He didn't even look up or react. I was sure he'd been out doing something awful. Now, later I would learn most of those times he disappeared he'd just go pick pockets and rob cars and then donate whatever he stole to charity. Way he saw it, he didn't need to steal anymore but rich people still didn't need their money. He'd give it to homeless people or go to a bad neighborhood and just hand people the cash. I found this out not because he specifically told me but I caught him stuffing a Salvation Army box with hundreds of dollars and he casually explained where he got it. That was the day I officially lost my mind. Anyway.
That night, I was cross as ever. He'd worried me sick, I'd driven around looking for him. He couldn't go off and do as he pleased hell probably killing people I should just take away his precious bows and so on. That was all going through my mind.
But somehow, I remained composed, and all I said was, "Thank you for coming back. I missed you."
He just stood there for a minute, not moving. And I expected some smart remark, to which end I was about to turn to go and leave and just go to bed.
But then I heard the smallest of sobs.
His face was stone though, no emotion, just tears dripping from his green eyes.
"Why?" He said and I didn't recognize the voice for a moment. It was the first time I'd heard his real voice, his native accent, thick and ruddy an octave deeper than the typical speaking voice he chose.
"Why did I miss you? I like having you around, when you leave I worry," I said, gently.
He wiped his face with his hand, and nodded. His face was still expressionless. That was when I realized the facial expressions were all for show. This was him. Silent, quiet, and scared. Just an eleven year old boy.
"I'm glad you're back home, that's all," I said.
It wasn't much but it was a start. I'd be lying if I said all went well from there on out. It wasn't. It was a whole lot more like hell than a happy family. But we were healing, slowly. He was learning to trust me. He was starting to believe me and knew that while he might lie to me I wasn't lying to him. And now and again he'd give me ever such brief glimpses into who he really was. He'd drop the mask and not try to hide it. He'd crack a joke or pretend to have left only to be lying on the sofa under a blanket waiting for me to find him. He'd go to school and come home properly and tell me what happened in the day. And more and more he'd trust me and act more like the person he was than the ten people he pretends to be.
And I failed him.
When my men got the news that I'd been accused of fraud, it was the middle of the night. I was up. I knew I needed to leave the country, immediately.
"What is it?" Robin heard the noise, came out of his room in flannel pants, no shirt. Red hair standing on end from sleep. He wasn't concerned. His voice flat and normal.
"We—we have to run. My brother's framed me, I'll be arrested if I stay in the country he'll ensure I never get out, we have to go," I said, and I watched the hurt in his face. The betrayal even though he knew it wasn't my fault. And his mask slipped back on. "I am leaving tonight, they may catch me if they do you cannot be with me you understand? They could find out who you are. Go to the monastery I'll send for you in two days time."
I pushed a satchel of cash, clothes, and credit cards, into his hands, "Now, I'm so sorry."
"Go, it's all right," he nodded, his face stone.
"I'll send for you in two days."
"Okay."
He killed eight people in the next sixty days. The monastery, to be clear, was about five miles away. I gave him car keys but he could have walked. I wasn't strictly surprised he didn't heed but I was disappointed. I thought we were farther than this. I thought I could start to trust him. I thought I'd begun to get through.
But no. Back to his old tricks, minutes after I left the country. He didn't even hesitate. I'd be angry if I weren't so sad. If it wasn't my fault. I'd barely begun to teach him that some people could be trusted some people were worth staying for. And then it all got dashed away. I will hit my brother for this, I'll blacken both his eyes not for doing this to me (this is slightly typical of our relationship), but for doing it to Robin. He didn't deserve that. Doesn't deserve this.
And I'm still trying. I'm not giving up on him, even if he's given up on himself being more than he's already decided he is. A petty criminal. A murderer. Not a man who deserves a rich full life.
"Robby? I'm sorry it's so late, I just saw the news," I say, as he mumbles an answer.  Aw, it's his real voice. Soft, getting husky, a sometimes incomprehensible Yorkshire accent. So I don't know what he says but I think it's a cuss word. It's still his real voice. So he still trusts me with that.
"What news? That psycho Blake? Yeah I'm on it," he mumbles.
"Yeah, he goes to your school and now he's taking credit for your crimes? That is not great, does he know?" I ask.
"If I say yes are gonna have me kidnapped or somethin'?"
"No, I wouldn't endanger kidnappers in that manner."
"Ha, good."
"He suspects you?"
"Yeah he's got no proof he's a —savant but he's also very not right in t'head. Nobody listens to him," Robin scoffs, sounding like he's sitting up, "I can 'andle 'im."
"Just let me send you tickets, your friends came come, just come stay we'll get this sorted out," I say, sighing.
"If we run now then we look guilty. He'll be spoutin' off that we did it, someone might listen t'him. If we bolt. If we don't we stay here we appear innocent and it's all grand."
"You're right but I don't have to like it," I sigh.
"You do not. But I remain right he's a madman nothing more. I am more than a match for him. Anyway. You're t' one who's always on about me needin' a challenge, eh?"
"Robin."
"What? I'm not gonna rile him. I'm going to be fine. Trust me. Also, I can do more good here. Marianna and I can work your case from inside t'country and I can keep protecting people. Have you even looked at the Archer facebook page?"
"Yes, and those, strange sad banjo songs—,"
"Oh you met my bard he's actually really cool—,"
"Yes I've seen it,"  I sigh.
"Two hundred new posts tonight. People waitin' to be rescued."
"I don't care about them Robin! I don't care about all the people you're helping I care about you. I could give a shit about them, I want to rescue you can't you see that?" I sigh.
"Yeah. That's what you need to be in therapy for."
"You're such an idiot," I laugh.
" 'Oh look at me, I've got bleeding heart syndrome I'm going to rescue me the saddest sack murder child in all of the British isles and try to parent it'," intentionally over emphasizing my own accent to do a comedic impression of me.
"Yes you're very funny shut up," I say, trying hard not to laugh as he laughs, "This is serious, Robin, this Blake is dangerous."
"So am I."
"I know," I sigh.
"You worry too much. I'm fine; god hasn't killed me yet."
"I'm aware but I'd still like to stop tempting him," I sigh.
"God is a woman, you're a whore, I'm a slut, I'm going back t'sleep, you can keep talking if you want to," he says, voice dribbling with this heavy accent making the words all the funnier. That's how he says goodnight to me regularly. Yes I know it sounds weird but the first time he did it it was an insult at the end of an argument but he was like twelve and actually using his real voice he was so pissed at me so it was very very funny and remains incredibly funny to me.
"Night, Robby," I say, trying to smother my laughter. He hangs up the phone maybe intentionally maybe unintentionally. God what am I going to do with this boy?