Книга - Shatter the Darkness

Shatter the Darkness
Ingrid Seymour


The electrifying conclusion to the IGNITE THE SHADOWS SERIESSince The Takeover, Seattle belongs to the Eklyptor government. Human sovereignty has been lost and Marci Guerrero is now working undercover, surrounded by enemies.But even in the darkest times, Marci continues to ask questions. Can a cure for this evil be found? Can Seattle break free and lead other cities to regain human sovereignty? Can Marci love again?Marci must hold on to her faith in the fight, her faith in humanity, her faith that the darkness will shatter and the light will return.









Shatter the Darkness

INGRID SEYMOUR













HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2017

Copyright © Ingrid Seymour 2017

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Ingrid Seymour asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9780008113698

Version: 2017-07-25


Table of Contents

Cover (#u9c940757-4e70-5c43-ae57-7a4c01ead486)

Title Page (#u680eded0-155a-58d3-8648-682e99497e92)

Copyright (#u52a8cf4f-c1d4-5a47-b933-8b7b99b479cf)

Chapter 1 (#u79be38f7-879a-5b04-821d-9bc67af3d7c7)

Chapter 2 (#u8eb6080a-5cbf-550e-9456-e301c5baf27a)

Chapter 3 (#ue4a00151-1f37-58c4-86c6-43788ff0b180)

Chapter 4 (#u3db6afb5-ff20-5bc5-8621-4bd7765cd2e1)

Chapter 5 (#u942be608-eb37-57ca-8b09-5979c1944ba8)

Chapter 6 (#u9d40824f-580c-5551-925a-9ffbeb4eb83c)

Chapter 7 (#u3287ad70-7b94-5aa1-82c1-c75d0241894c)



Chapter 8 (#u4824ee34-11fb-5095-9f0d-c75639023928)



Chapter 9 (#u5902351b-d63f-5827-89e0-2c585e6f5270)



Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo)



Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)



Also by the same author (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter 1 (#u7b009af6-bd19-5a8d-847b-8a5a429c2be8)


The Kevlar vest is tight and uncomfortable around my chest. I push it from the side, trying to find a perfect fit, wondering if I’ll ever get used to wearing it and, more importantly, if I’ll ever understand this new, vicious world in which my life hangs from a thread every time I take to the streets.

My black military boots thud against the concrete sidewalk as I move away from Pacific Place and Elliot Whitehouse’s headquarters. We haven’t moved, in spite of IgNiTe’s attack a month ago. We’re still in the same building. Moving would signify fear, and Elliot is too proud for that.

The late May sun warms my face, and it’s a welcomed feeling that shows me the world has kept its normal course in at least one way.

In the last month, many of the major streets have been cleared by the Eklyptor “government,” but not this one, which is exactly why I prefer it. I don’t have to walk among the invaders who pretend Seattle is theirs and us, humans, the vermin who infest it, and not the other way around. The biggest Eklyptors factions in the city, Whitehouse and Hailstone, are still not seeing eye to eye, but that hasn’t gotten in the way of their Takeover efforts, at least not nearly as much as I’d like. They have divided the city among themselves as if it were a big cake, and each is taking care of its slice diligently enough. Damn them!

I pass a burnt Metro Transit bus, its frame charred and many of its windows melted away by the intense fire that consumed it. Orange traffic cones and pedestrian safety fences lie strewn all over the street like forgotten relics from a faraway past. I skirt around them, then walk ahead, looking over my shoulder every few steps to make sure no one is following me.

My heart flutters, restless. I can’t wait to meet James and confirm he’s okay. I haven’t seen him since he took a bullet trying and failing to kill Whitehouse. He’s been too busy fighting other Eklyptor factions, and this is the first chance he’s gotten to meet me. A month ago when I last saw Aydan, he said James was recovering quickly thanks to his accelerated healing powers. Sometimes it pays to be a Symbiot. Still, I want to see him with my own two eyes.

With a certain skip in my steps, I cross 9th Avenue and continue down Pine Street. I’m eager to reach the van where I stash my motorcycle after each use. I’m dying to ride, to wrap my legs around the rumbling engine, and zip around the city streets on my way to hope.

That’s what IgNiTe, James and the crew are to me: Hope with a capital “H”.

As I pass in front of a gutted deli, I’m startled by my own reflection on one of the few window fronts that survived The Takeover riots. My features look so etched and angular that I hardly recognize myself. I’ve lost weight which is natural considering the stress of living under Whitehouse’s roof and the loss of appetite caused by dining around semi-human creatures all the time. But hey, no one can blame me, not when eating at a trough with a team of pigs would be an upgrade. My brown hair is well past shoulder length, curling slightly at the tips. My skin is sallow—not the healthy golden shade it used to be. I don’t spend much time in the sun anymore, which I sorely miss. Only my brown eyes seem the same, sharp and wide. Though, if I’m honest with myself, the sadness that used to live in their depths seems more profound now.

As I stare at my barely-recognizable image, something moves behind the window. My heart skips a beat. I jump back, hands snatching the gun at my hip, a Glock 22 with its 15-round magazine in place. I aim the weapon, hand shaking. I struggle to focus on whatever is on the other side. It takes me a few seconds to make out a shape huddled under a table. Slowly, my brain processes the information: a dirty sneaker, blue jeans, a puffy blue jacket and long, blond hair under a gray wool cap.

A girl!

A perfectly human girl, judging by the lack of buzzing inside my head.

Her face is obscured, but I can still see her wide blue eyes, brimming with fear. She’s clutching a yellow bag of chips close to her chest. Her hands shake as much as mine. Her face is contorted in a grimace of the worst kind, a mask of terror I know all too well. I’ve felt it on my own face one-too-many times. And why shouldn’t she be terrified?

She thinks I’m an Eklyptor.

I’m walking the streets in plain daylight, as if I have nothing to fear. Only our enemies do that these days. She has no idea of the courage it takes to pretend you’re one of them.

I put up my left hand in a pacifying gesture and slowly lower my gun. The grimace on her face deepens, letting me know she’s aware that when Eklyptors show mercy, they’ll make you wish they’d shown you death.

She pushes further under the table.

I should help her, but it would be a mistake. She wouldn’t trust me. There isn’t an explanation I could offer that would satisfy her. Not that I would fault her for that.

If she’s stayed alive this long, she must be doing something right. I carefully holster the gun. Without breaking eye contact, I step back to the edge of the sidewalk.

A horrible sadness fills me and, suddenly, I feel like crying. How many like her are out there? How much longer will they be able to hide? Something passes between us. Her grimace softens an infinitesimal amount.

I look away and, fighting my rising shame, I continue down the street. My heart seems to shrivel in my chest, shame wrapping itself all around it and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. I take a deep breath and stuff my hands in my pockets, shoulders to my ears, eyes on my boots.

She’s better off without you, Marci. You’ll just get her killed or captured, and how are you gonna feel then?

A hell of a lot worse; that’s how.

I’m almost to the parking lot where I’ve kept the van ever since that first night I hot-wired it when I notice two moving black blotches against the blue sky.

I stop, all my senses on alert.

Scouts!

With measured steps, I continue down the road, more aware of my Kevlar vest and my .40 caliber gun. I don’t like that they’re flying in my direction and that I have nowhere to go but toward them. I’m in the middle of the block. Turning back or hurrying ahead would simply bring them here much faster.

And what about the girl? God, what about the girl?!

As their monstrous, dark shapes move closer, losing altitude, I keep wishing they’d spot something more interesting on another street and leave me alone.

No such luck.

Their enormous aquamarine and yellow wings flap in unison, making a rhythmic thwack, thwack sound. The sun shines on their colorful membranes and the sight is almost beautiful. Flying Eklyptors aren’t common. It takes them years to morph their hosts into air-conquering beings. Even from a distance, it’s obvious these scouts are older than old. They move too gracefully, almost as if they were born this way.

Within seconds, they cover an entire block and descend onto the middle of the street, about twenty-five yards away from me. I stop and hold their gaze. They size me up, then walk forward and get within buzzing distance. My head drones as I know theirs do. The one I judge to be the leader walks a few steps ahead of the other one.

He or she is tall—well over six feet—and, on the ground, moves clumsily on leathery talons tipped with ebony curved claws several inches long. Its legs are tall and spindly from ankle to knee but widen into muscular, smooth thighs covered in dappled yellow and aquamarine skin. The wings spring from its sides and are now folded neatly behind its back, extending well above its head. Its torso and arms are still human in shape and proportion, but covered in the same bizarre skin and voided of any markings that may identify it as male or female. Neither one wears any clothes, just a belt around their waist with a weapon, extra bullets and a standard issue scanner attached to it.

They stop about ten feet away, looking wearily at my gun. They both tip their bald heads to one side as if to listen better. Their eyes have no whites. They’re round, orange marbles with small black pricks in the middle, like hawks’. They watch me for a moment. Their long, beak-like noses twitch and make snuffling sounds as they scent the air.

“Faction?” the leader asks in a slithery voice that is almost feminine. I decide this one was once a woman.

“Whitehouse. Yep, yep, Whitehouse it is.” I treat them to Azrael’s crazy talk. Ever since my agent took over me and revealed its deeply disturbed behavior, I’ve kept up the pretense that the creature is still in control. It is a useful tactic that helps me keep a low profile—no one wants to deal with a nutcase.

They frown their huge brows. I’ve never met these two before, but I need to stay in character in case I see them at headquarters or anywhere else with Eklyptors who know me.

Slowly, I pull out a pair of dog tags from behind my shirt. After Zara Hailstone’s death at what was supposed to be a friendly meeting with Elliot, hostilities between Eklyptor factions have intensified, creating the need for a way to easily tell friend from foe.

“Toss them,” She-Bird says, putting out a long-fingered hand.

I throw them. She catches them in one hooked claw, examines them for a moment, then passes them to her companion.

“Check this, Griffin.”

Griffin pulls the scanner from the belt at its waist and plugs one of the dog tags into a thin slot. An instant later, there is a short double beep.

“Clear,” the second scout says, tossing back the dog tags.

I catch them and put them back on. “Seen much action today? Huh? Huh?” My tone is casual enough. I should have nothing to fear from any Whitehouse Eklyptors, but I think I’ll never stop being unnerved and wary of them, no matter how deeply infiltrated I am.

“There’s some fighting going on in the west side. Around White Center,” the leader says with a squawk. “Igniters, I think. That’s all we’ve heard. You?”

I shake my head. “I just left headquarters. Haven’t seen a thing. Nope, not a thing.” An image of the scared girl in her blue jacket pops into my head.

The scouts nod. She-Bird looks down the street. “Where are you headed?”

“Just … uh … repurposing. Looking for a new ride. Something fun.” This is common enough. There are so many abandoned vehicles I could drive a new one every day. “A motorcycle, maybe. Yeah, that would be fun.” I make engine noises with my mouth, sputtering saliva like a toddler.

The leader scoffs, looking disgusted. “Not graceful,” she says, giving its wings a quick shake to demonstrate how much she thinks of motorized means of transportation.

“Best I can do right now.” I shrug and point a finger down the street. “Need to go. Gotta be on my way.”

They look about as ready to get away from me as I am to get away from them. A great benefit of my crazy Azrael act.

I give them a military salute, then march forward, sensing their eyes on the back of my neck. It takes all I’ve got to ignore the feeling and keep moving without looking over my shoulder. With every step, I wait for the flap of wings, instead I hear the retreating click, click, click of claws against asphalt.

Finally, I give into my curiosity and look back. They’re walking away from me, their unusual shapes swaying from side to side, their noses pointed upward as they sniff the air.

“Shit!” I murmur under my breath and slip into the recessed entrance of The Paramount Hotel.

Suddenly, the leader turns its head sharply toward the deli and gestures Griffin. They take their guns out and clamber toward the small restaurant on their leathery talons.

The girl’s luck has just run out.




Chapter 2 (#u7b009af6-bd19-5a8d-847b-8a5a429c2be8)


I pull away and press my back against the wall. “Shit, shit, shit.” I slap my hands to the sides of my head and squeeze.

What do I do? What do I do?

I have to help her.

Yeah? And get yourself killed?

No. Can’t risk that! Getting rid of Elliot is my priority.

I’m still deliberating when I hear a loud shattering sound, followed by a shrill scream. In an instant, I make my decision.

This fight is for every human being, not only against every Eklyptor.

If I lose sight of that, I may as well let my crazy agent take over again.

Before doubt creeps in, I jump out of my hiding place and run the way I came. What I see sends a jolt of adrenaline into my veins, electrifying me.

She-Bird is holding the girl by the neck as if she’s nothing more than a doll. Her legs kick in mid-air while she scratches her attacker’s forearms like an enraged feral cat.

My boots slap the pavement and catch the scouts’ attention. Their heads snap my way.

I stop, chest pumping, mind reeling with possible things I could say to prevent this disaster. With no other option and little hope, I go for the crazy, stamping a maniacal grin on my face and clapping with happiness.

“Ooh, you got one. You got one!”

The scouts stare down at me with their big, orange eyes. She-Bird’s mouth twists and tightens. “We’ve got this under control. Move along.”

The girl’s legs continue to kick, though not as forcefully as before. Her face is turning pale and her screams weak and hoarse.

“Can I have her? Tell me I can have her!” I say, as if the girl is a bug, and I’m a sadistic child with a magnifying glass and ideas fit for a summer day.

“Why would you want her?” Griffin asks, giving She-Bird a sideways glance.

The girl’s arms fall limply to the side as her attacker gives her a shake and a tighter squeeze around the neck. Her eyes widen for an instant, then roll to the back of her head.

Do something, Marci! She’s gonna die.

“Uh, she could be my pet. Yes, my lovely pet,” I say.

“There’s no room for pets,” She-Bird says. “They either die or they join the ranks. Except without Spawners, the second option isn’t really possible, is it?” she asks the question as if the lack of reproductively-capable Eklyptors is my fault. If she only knew.

I almost laugh, but I’m too scared for the girl. The truth is: I’m responsible for the extermination of Whitehouse’s Spawners. I was the one who found out where he kept them hidden and gave IgNiTe the intel so they could kill every single one of them.

“So the girl dies,” She-Bird says, then slams her against the blacktop and leans into her, putting all her weight into a killing chokehold.

“No!” I scream, unable to help myself.

As if my word was a threat or a punch, Griffin crouches into attack position. “You’re a fuckin’ Fender,” he says, the word rolling off his tongue the same way the word Eklyptor rolls off mine.

“Take her!” She-Bird orders. “Alive, if possible.”

So much for lying my way out of this one.

Heart, blood, lungs automatically pumping into action, I spin to the side just as Griffin lunges. Like a raging bull, the beast charges past me, staggers to a stop and spins to face me again.

Their plan might be to take hostages, but mine is not. I go for my gun. Inhumanly fast, Griffin gets his weapon first and, in the same motion, aims and shoots before I even have a chance to lift my arm.

Two hammer blows hit me in the chest. My body jerks twice. Pain blossoms from a pinprick into a huge mushroom cloud and drops me to ground. I fall on my back and blink up at the blue sky, fighting for breath.

“Alive, I said, you asshole,” She-Bird scolds.

“I wasn’t about to let her shoot me,” Griffin complains.

“Go check on her,” she growls.

Get up. Get up. Get up.

Gun still in hand, I roll to the side, shooting. One of my bullets strikes its intended target, piercing She-Bird strangling forearm. She growls, lets go of the girl and cradles the wound to her chest.

Pain still burning under my vest, I keep rolling until I reach one of the many abandoned vehicles that litter the street. I take cover behind it and jump to my feet. Crouched low, I scurry to the back end of what turns out to be a large SUV. I press my back to the vehicle and thump my chest three times.

God, it hurts.

I’m panting, wishing I could rip the vest right off.

Bullets pierce through the back windshield and zip past my head. I duck, run around to the front of the SUV, and shoot at Griffin over the hood.

My aim is true.

Griffin’s inhuman eyes go wide. In slow motion, he looks down at his chest. Blood squirts out from two round holes on a yellow patch of skin. He drops the gun and falls to his knees, wearing a dumbfounded expression.

Eyes roving from side to side, I look for She-Bird. She’s nowhere in sight. I whirl, thinking she might have sneaked up behind me, but there’s no one, just the trashed sidewalk and the once-trendy brick buildings.

Breathing in overdrive, I pull away from the SUV, spinning, the gun sweeping wide circles around me. Slowly, I make my way to the girl, my head snapping this way and that as my imagination conjures shadows in every possible hiding place. I look up, trying to spot a flying figure in the sky or up in the buildings. I find nothing but feel watched. Thoroughly watched.

“Hey!” I nudge the girl in the ribs with the tip of my boots, afraid to let down my guard and check if she’s breathing. She doesn’t respond.

God, was this all in vain?

I poke her again. She moans. I point the gun to the ground and slowly squat, my gaze still jumping from the street to the sky and the top of the buildings.

“Hey, hey! Can you get up?”

The girl rolls to her side and curls up, grabbing her neck and sobbing in a weak, broken voice.

“C’mon, you have to get up. We have to get out of here!”

My heart is racing faster than ever. Images of monsters dropping from the sky flash in and out of my vision. God, what if She-Bird went for backup? We’re not that far from headquarters. If she did, my cover is blown. Shit!

“C’mon!” I growl in my most commanding voice. “If you don’t get up, I’ll leave you here, and you know they’ll be back.”

She rouses at the threat. Her eyes blink open. She swallows audibly and winces. After a moment, she looks up. Our gazes meet. Her blue eyes are bloodshot and terrified.

“Do you want to live or not?” I ask.

She nods but looks so doubtful it makes me think she might rather die. Well, screw that. I didn’t risk my life to have her give up on me, so I hook an arm around hers and force her up.

“Follow me. We have to get out of here. C’mon!” I push her toward the SUV, then move that way myself.

I give the car a quick inspection, checking its tires and general state. It looks drivable. It’d better be.

I run to the driver side door and try the handle. No such luck. Holding the gun with both hands to steady my nervous grip, I take a couple of backward steps and shoot at the window. The girl yelps, startled by the sound.

The bullet drills right through the glass, creating a large spider web of cracks that spreads outward.

Teeth clenched, I slam my elbow against the fractured glass. It takes a couple of hits before the window collapses inwardly and I’m able to pop the lock. After tossing the sheet of broken glass onto the street, I hurry inside and unlock the passenger side door.

“C’mon, get in!” I command the numb-looking girl. She doesn’t move. Instead, her eyes dart from side to side as if looking for a place to run.

“Don’t be stupid. You’ll never outrun them,” I say as I smash the butt of the gun against the plastic that wraps around the steering column. The cover snaps off, revealing a bundle of wires.

My heart races like a ticking clock in overdrive. We have to get out of here. Stat!

I set the gun down on the seat and get to work. I’ve just finished pulling the bundle of wires loose when the girl shrieks and takes off down the street at a full pelt.

Jolting upright, I go for the gun but, before I get a hold of it, there is a whoosh, and I fly away from the car and land in the middle of the street with a bone-shuddering thud. My lungs empty themselves at the impact. I wince in pain but force myself into action.

In one fluid motion, I bring my knees toward my face then kick-up to a standing position. Just as I get back on my feet, She-Bird tackles me to the ground. I land on my back once more and lose what little oxygen I’d managed to take in. The scout straddles me. Her hawk-like face is twisted in fury. She balls her hand into a large fist and pulls it back. I throw my arms over my face and manage to block the blow.

“Thought I’d let you get away, you little shit?” She-Bird tries another jab. I block it, too. She growls in frustration and tries to get my arms away from their protective position.

Pulling hard, she grunts between pointed teeth. “Whitehouse pays extra for Fenders and doesn’t care if they’re bruised up or not. Not as long as they’re alive.”

Her tall wings blotch the sky above, shining, translucent. It’s a beautifully cruel sight.

With the high-pitched cry of an eagle, She-Bird digs her sharp claws into one of my wrists and pries the arm away from my face. Through the opening, she uses her quick, avian reflexes to sneak in a powerful blow. I growl between clenched teeth, feeling as if a boulder has smashed against my cheekbone.

But there is not time to wallow, not when the punch has unbalanced her, and countless karate sparring matches taught me the required moves to escape this sort of situation.

The technique comes to me as second nature. In a brisk, strong move, I thrust my knees into She-Bird’s butt. The unexpected thump unbalances her further. She lurches forward. Her hands move to brace the fall and land right above my head. I follow up by sweeping her arms from under her and pushing her sideways with all I’ve got.

To my surprise, all I’ve got is too much. She-Bird is lighter than I thought, surely a trait required by all flying creatures. We tumble over and over and, when we stop, the scout ends up on top of me again.

Shit!

With a jerk, she pulls out her gun and aims it at my forehead. I freeze.

“You sure are more trouble than I thought you’d be,” she says between sharp breaths. “Maybe too much trouble to take you in alive.” Her face twists grotesquely as she seems to ponder what to do with me. Her orange eyes pierce mine, hatred burning in their depths.

I see the instant she makes up her mind to kill me. A cold shock bursts in the middle of my chest with the knowledge that I’m about to die. I close my eyes and, for a moment, regret my decision to fight for the girl. The regret only last for an instant, though. Confronted with the choice again, I’d do the same thing. Any other decision would be one I couldn’t live with.

The shot explodes with a deafening bang that sends a jolt through my body. I jerk, startled by the loud crack and a wet splatter on my face. My eyes blink open. She-Bird wavers over me, her forehead blown open, brain matter dangling from a jagged hole. She tips forward and crashes on top of me.

I lie still for a moment, uncomprehending. All of a sudden, She-Bird’s dead weight turns into a suffocating force. Desperately, I push her off me and sit up, swiping at my face over and over. My heart thumps in my ears. I spit blood and wipe my tongue on my sleeve, vomit rising to my throat.

I don’t know how long I sit there—wild and horrified by the fact that I’m wearing someone’s death all over my face—before I realize I’m still alive. Eventually, I come to and look around, wondering how come my brains are not the ones splattered all over the pavement.

A pair of blue eyes looks down at me from behind the barrel of my own weapon. The girl I planned to rescue stands in front of me, legs shoulder-width apart, gun gripped tightly between trembling hands. The SUV sits behind her, the driver side door thrown open. Two parallel streaks run down each side of the girl’s face as tears spill freely down her face.

Her mouth trembles. She looks scared out of her mind and doesn’t seem willing to aim the gun in any other direction but the bull’s-eye between my eyebrows.

In a shaky voice, she asks, “What … what the hell are you?”




Chapter 3 (#u7b009af6-bd19-5a8d-847b-8a5a429c2be8)


I snake the SUV between abandoned cars and debris, expecting to run into an impassable section of road sooner or later. Still, I don’t dare take the viable roads Eklyptors cleared for their purposes, not while carrying strictly human cargo.

“What’s your name?” I ask the girl.

“Hannah,” she says from her crouched position at the foot of the passenger seat.

I can’t afford to let her sit where an Eklyptor might spot her. If they see two people but sense only one, they’ll give chase. Our chances are precarious enough riding on these roads. My hope is that the Igniter battle She-Bird mentioned will keep the skies and streets clear for now.

“I’m Marci,” I say.

“Where are you taking me?” Hannah’s question is full of suspicion, as if I didn’t just save her life and she decided to repay the favor.

“To safety.”

“Why had they let you go?” She’s surely having second thoughts about putting herself in my charge. Her eyes are wide and scared. She looks as frightened and paranoid as a mouse. But who can blame her? Only God knows what she’s been through, what she’s had to do to survive. Very likely it’s the paranoia that’s kept her alive this long.

It’s a heck of a good question, anyway, one I cannot answer. I got her in the car with a promise to tell her everything, but now that we’re on our way, I don’t have to tell her jack. The situation is too complicated to explain. I can’t tell her I’m a Symbiot. Not when I’m hoping James will take her with him. There are very few Symbiots among James’s ranks, and their identities are revealed on a need-to-know basis. I know only three others: James, Aydan and Rheema. If there are more within the ranks, they’re hidden from me as well. I doubt IgNiTe, the group of human rebels who openly defy Eklyptors, would appreciate the news. Everyone is doing their best to keep their spirits up; there is no point in giving them more to worry about.

“Well, um … I’m a spy.” I can’t think of anything else to tell her. Besides, it’s not a lie.

She shakes her head, looking as if I just told her I’m a hungry werewolf with rabid thoughts of taking a chunk out of her.

“I’m with IgNiTe,” I add, hoping this will ease her fears.

“IgNiTe?!” she exclaims. From the excited ring of her voice, it seems I have quickly risen from werebeast status to saint. “Are you serious?!”

Man, I feel like a celebrity. I nod and keep driving north. The further away from downtown we go, the clearer the streets become and the slower my heart beats. Scouts keep closer to headquarters. Their numbers are limited, and Elliot likes to keep them close. He won’t be happy to learn that two of them are dead. It’s not like he can easily replace them—not when it takes years to morph and grow additional appendages.

Hannah seems content for a few minutes, then the questions begin again.

“But how does that work if … if you’re human?”

Smart girl. Surely another reason she’s still alive. She should make a nice addition to James’s ranks. This fight can use every person we can get, especially if they’re intelligent.

“Uh, some of them like to keep humans around, like pets.” My stomach twists. The simple idea of being a traitorous, Eklyptor pet makes me want to retch.

Hannah’s nose wrinkles with a disgusted grimace. “That has to be horrible. How can you stand it?”

I shrug.

“And what if they decide to turn you?”

“It’s a risk, but these are desperate times.”

She puts a hand over her mouth. “I couldn’t do it. I would just …” She muffles her words and shakes her head, looking horrified.

“It isn’t easy. I assure you.”

We don’t speak for a few blocks. I’ve managed to take us completely out of downtown, and I’m well on my way to my rendezvous spot with James.

Hannah hugs her legs to her chest and rests her chin on her knees, looking pensive. “Will IgNiTe take me?”

“If you’re willing to fight. If you’re not, they’ll find a safe place for you. One of the underground human communities.”

“They really exist?!” she asks as if I just told her Sasquatch is real, and she can’t wait to meet him. “We heard rumors, but we never saw them.”

“We?” I ask, then immediately regret it.

She stares down and pulls at her jacket as if it’s out of place, which it isn’t. You’d think I would have learned by now. I’ve lost enough people in this fight to understand the touchy subjects.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t …” I trail off. There’s nothing to say.

The silence between us is heavy for a long moment, then Hannah speaks, “Mom, Dad, my sister, Josephine, and Mack, our dog.” She worries at a hangnail, pretty much obliterating it.

I don’t want to hear this. I don’t. If she expects wise words from me I have none. If she expects sympathy—I have plenty of that, heck, I even have empathy—but I’ve never been good at expressing it.

“We lived in a condo right on Olive Way. We were at home when all hell broke loose. We stayed holed up in there until the food ran out. About two weeks.” Hannah pauses and takes a deep breath.

The Eklyptors never bothered searching people’s houses. A good number of citizens just came voluntarily in the beginning of The Takeover, believing the lies the beasts spread through the news channels, the ones that said the authorities would provide answers and help. They were like mice crawling inside the lion’s mouth. They never stood a chance, because Eklyptors took control of everything that was important: hospitals, government, police. They had their infected monsters in place, ready to assume power as soon as hostilities began. As for the humans who stayed hidden, Eklyptors knew they would soon have to come out in search of food. The creeps are in this for the long run. So why hurry?

“We tried to talk to the neighbors,” she continues, “but the few that were still there wanted nothing to do with us. One guy even threatened us with a gun, saying we wanted to steal his provisions. The empty units had already been raided by them. We found a few cans of soup, but that was it. So Dad … he decided to go out to find stuff to eat. He took Mack with him and made us stay back. It was so hard waiting for him, not knowing if he was all right. We were so relieved when he came back. He ran into no trouble, was even able to fill a backpack with enough food for a few days. Stuff like canned tuna, crackers and Slim Jims.”

A vivid image of her family huddled together, dividing up the few items, pops into my mind. How many families went through the same? How many are still together?

“Of course, the food didn’t last,” Hannah continues. “Dad felt confident he could go out and get more. He hadn’t run into any problems the first time, so he assured us it would be fine. We still didn’t like it. He had no idea how awful waiting for him had been. I told him we should stay together, but he wanted to make sure we were safe. He said that was his priority.”

Hannah doesn’t need to say what happened next. Her story is charged with the power of an awful punch line.

Her father never came back.

She cries silently. Her hands flutter to and away from her face as she wipes tears off her cheeks and jawline.

I clench the steering wheel and look straight ahead. I doubt there’s a human left on Earth who doesn’t have a nightmare story to recount. I have my share of them, but I’m not burdening her with mine, am I?

What does she expect me to say?

Apparently nothing, because she goes on, oblivious to my discomfort.

“We stayed there for two days, eating little more than cracker crumbs and crying ourselves crazy. Finally, I convinced Mom we had to go out and look for him. In case Dad came back, we left him a note that said we’d be back every night. We packed what we could. Flashlight, matches, first-aid kit, stuff like that.

“We were terrified, but at least we were doing something, instead of just waiting like useless fools. First, we went to the convenience store where Dad went the first time. He’d said there was nothing left there, so it was unlikely he’d gone back, but it was all we had to go by. It was so hard moving through the streets. We kept expecting someone to jump us from every door and alley.” She gives a dry laugh. “I saw people watching us from their condos. They just stared at us from behind their curtains. No one offered to help. No one.”

She lifts her chin and looks over at me. I throw a quick glance her way. The wonder and gratitude in her eyes let me know how surprised she is that someone, namely me, gave a damn and risked everything to save her life.

Yep, it was nuts. Even I can’t believe it, so she should shut up before she makes me regret it.

But Hannah is on a roll, and I don’t have the heart to tell her to stop. Maybe she needs this, maybe it’s therapy. Too bad I’m not a shrink.

“I used my cell phone to navigate us, snapping pictures of the areas we had checked. It’s so odd that phones and TVs and all that crap still works when everything else’s gone to hell.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, it was slow going. We hid and crouched more than anything else. We almost got spotted a couple of times by … people driving past. Then, just when we were about to go back home, we … we found Mack. He was Josephine’s dog, a good-hearted black Labrador. He was dead. Shot in the head and laying by the side of the street.

“Josephine lost it. She went hysterical, screaming and crying, clinging to Mom. We tried to calm her down, but we couldn’t. ‘If Mack is dead. Dad is dead,’ she kept saying over and over again.

“Then, all of sudden, this man comes out of one of the buildings. He looked furious and dangerous. At first, I thought he was one of them, but he was mad because of the racket Josephine was making. Not like he made it any better by yelling at her to ‘shut the fuck up unless you want the Eklyptors to show up.’

“When Josephine wouldn’t shut up, he tore her away from Mom and slapped her across the face. He looked like he was ready to kill her. Mom and I pulled him away and that’s when he pulled out a gun and he just …” Hannah trails off, too choked up by her tears to continue.

The corners of my eyes prickle. I think of Dad, Mom, Xave, all gone. The pain of their absence smarts like a wound freshly opened. It always rides right under my skin, but it hasn’t resurfaced is some time—not when hatred and revenge-lust are my prevalent emotions while living among Eklyptors.

I want to curse Hannah, want to blame her for pouring salt on the wound and reminding me of my own misery and loneliness, but she’s gone through enough as it is. The last thing she needs is my brand of bitterness undoing the little comfort she’s found in pouring her heart out.

After her tears run out, Hannah takes a deep breath and shifts in her spot, one hand digging inside her blue jacket. I look sideways at the exact moment she pulls out a small revolver from the depths of her puffy top layer. I nearly slam on the brakes, expecting her to point the gun at me, but she just lets it dangle between her thumb and index finger.

“I killed him,” she confesses, though not with regret. She sets the gun on the seat at her side, mouth twisted in disgust. “He shot Josephine and Mom, but I … I fought him. I took the gun from him and … I used every single bullet. I’m still waiting for the guilt to keep me up at night, but the only regret I have is killing him too fast. I wish I’d made him suffer. I wish I’d let him linger, knowing he was gonna die. I’d have loved to see the fear on his face. Does that make me a monster?”

This a rhetorical question, right? She must know the answer. Except she looks up at me, her blue eyes full of fear for what my answer might be.

“You might be asking the wrong person.” I take the next right and notice a car ahead of us. The way is fairly clear on this road. The obstructing debris—shattered glass, broken down cars, chairs and tables from the nearby restaurants—have been moved to the sides. I don’t warn Hannah or remind her to stay low. She’s scared enough as it is and wouldn’t risk even a small peek out of the window.

“Why do you say that?” she asks.

I sigh and bite down my response. Butt out, those are the words that come to mind first, but I make an effort to be civilized. The fact that I live with animals doesn’t mean I should act like one. I would have answered her that way before The Takeover, but only because at the time she would have been able to find someone else to bond with. Post-Eklyptors, not so much. The going is tough. People who love you and understand you drop like flies at your feet. Now it sort of feels like any stranger you meet can be your friend, as long as they’re the human kind, that is.

“Because I happen to know real monsters. To me, you’re just a girl.”

The car ahead of us turns onto another road. I don’t get to feel at ease for long, though, because another one appears; this one headed in our direction in the opposite lane. It’s a couple of blocks away, so I still don’t say anything. Instead, I look for a way to turn, but the intersecting streets are barricaded. I clench my jaw.

Hannah rests a cheek on her drawn-up knees. Blond hair spills to the side, tangled and dirty. She looks like she hasn’t showered in weeks and, judging by the red circles under her eyes, hasn’t slept much either.

“I keep thinking maybe Dad’s out there, somewhere.” Hannah closes her eyes as if she’s having a daydream. I think she is.

“Stay down,” I say behind my hand. “A car is going to pass by. Don’t freak out.”

Hannah holds her legs tighter, going rigid with tension. I keep my left hand on the wheel and the right one on the gun on my lap. When the car passes—a red BMW—I exchange a glance with its passenger. From here, he looks perfectly human, but my head buzzes, letting me know he’s an Eklyptor. He nods and keeps on his way. I breathe a sigh of relief.

As long as we don’t encounter any morphed creatures with super noses or thermal vision, they won’t detect Hannah. If we run into more scouts, however, we’re screwed. I worry at the leather steering wheel with a sharp thumbnail, leaving marks behind.

We ride in silence for a few blocks. We run into a few other cars, but we pass them without problems, although not without considerable heartburn. For the most part, the drivers look perfectly human, except for one with colorful, butterfly-like patterns on her skin.

The older Eklyptors who have managed to develop useful traits are higher in the pecking order. They were the commanders for the different factions during The Takeover. The newer Eklyptors are the regular “citizens.” They are the ones keeping things going, showing up to work to make sure the cities they stole from us don’t fall apart. So the further we move away from downtown, we should be less likely to run into enhanced beasts. I relax a little.

Finally, I turn onto 15th Avenue East, the road that leads to Lake View Cemetery and my rendezvous with James.

“We’re almost there,” I say.

I stop at an intersection. A car comes to a sudden stop on the opposite corner. My gaze locks with the driver’s. I wait for the buzzing to begin. It doesn’t. I judge the distance between us. The guy is close enough. My head should be buzzing.

He’s human!

My eyes widen in surprise. When he notices my startled expression, his eyes grow as wide as mine and, in the same instant, he steps on the gas and sends his tires screeching and smoking. His car, a white truck, seems to sit still on the spot for a moment, revving, then tears down the street, going from zero to sixty before I blink. I watch him fly by the front of my SUV and disappear down the intersecting street like a bat out of hell.

“Wow.” In spite of everything I’ve seen since I learned about Eklyptors, I’m surprised by this. It’s too terrible an example of what our once-trusting society has become. It makes me wonder about how it used to be. Did we really use to sit next to each other at the movie theater? Dine in crowded restaurants? Shake each other’s hands and say “nice to meet you”?

“What is it?” Hannah asks in a trembling whisper.

“Nothing. It’s fine. Just another used-to-be dying in front of my eyes.”

I move forward, knowing that guy is feeling pretty stupid right about now, though he’s probably also breathing a sigh of relief.

We arrive at the cemetery a few minutes later. The main gate is open. I drive through it slowly, the speedometer needle barely moving from zero. I stop by the same statue of a virgin where I met James once before, the day he took me to The Tank for the first time. I look around but don’t see him anywhere.

“Stay put,” I tell Hannah, then open the door and step out of the car.

A few clouds float above. They are gray, full of the threat of rain. The sun hides behind one of them, and I wish it wasn’t so. A cemetery has enough gloom as it is. A heavy silence seeps from the tombstones and saturates the air. My soul goes quiet and still with respect for the dead. My heart finds a certain peace at the thought of at least some of us being in a better place.

The peace doesn’t last that long. Only until a gust of wind whirls around the SUV and ends up right behind me.

I stiffen. “Hello, James.”

“Guerrero,” he says, pressing one arm around my neck and a gun to my temple. “Hands up.”




Chapter 4 (#u7b009af6-bd19-5a8d-847b-8a5a429c2be8)


“Who’s that?” James demands, gesturing toward Hannah.

I’m sandwiched between the open door and the fastest human being on the planet, as far as I know, anyway. Hannah is still huddled on the passenger-side floorboard. She looks up at us, arms wrapped around her knees, visibly shaking.

I take a deep breath to calm myself. A gun to my temple is a new threat. I wonder if James is serious and took the safety off and everything.

Of course he’s serious, Marci. Don’t be stupid! A heart attack is nothing.

“Um, just a girl. Her name is Hannah.” I remember hearing somewhere that if an assailant knows your name, he’s less likely to kill you. Since he already knows mine, I give him the girl’s. “I was on my way here when I saw her. I wouldn’t have brought her, but two scouts spotted her, too. I couldn’t let them take her.”

“It’s hard enough to trust you already. This is pushing it.”

“I know. I know. But what would you have done?”

James says nothing to that.

“It’s … it’s true,” Hannah says from within the SUV, her voice so weak and shaky it’s barely audible. “She saved my life.”

“Don’t make any sudden moves.” James removes his arm from around my neck and proceeds to relieve me of my gun. When that is done, he steps back and moves his own weapon from my temple to the back of my neck. “Now, step away from the car.”

I do as he says. He sidesteps with me, staying at my back. When we are about ten feet from the SUV, he says, “Hannah, I’m going to need you to get out of the car. Hands up in the air.”

There are no signs of movement within the SUV. I think of the revolver she was carrying and hope she doesn’t try anything stupid. James almost strangled me once. I doubt that, under the circumstances, it would be hard to get him in a trigger-happy mood.

“Did you hear me?” James’s voice goes up a notch. The kind of deep tone a father might use on his daughter.

“I did. I’m coming out. I’m coming. Please don’t shoot,” Hannah says shrilly.

She wriggles herself out of the tight space and pushes onto the passenger seat, her hands up in the air.

“Now, slowly, open the door and come around the car, hands where I can see them,” James instructs.

Hannah follows the instructions closely, keeping her hands above her ears as she rounds the front of the SUV. She stops about ten paces away from us and gives James a small nod as if saying: “See, I’m just a girl.”

“All right, now take off your jacket and throw it aside,” James says.

Hannah frowns at the request but does as she’s told. It is a puffy jacket. Much could be concealed under it. She’s left in a tight fitting t-shirt that barely hides her thin frame.

“Now both of you, move away from the car.” James gives me a slight push.

Hannah and I walk side by side down the middle of the road, James following but staying a fair distance away.

“All right, that’s good. Turn around.”

We stop and face him. James reaches into his back pocket and tosses me a pair of handcuffs. I catch them in midair. I get my first good glimpse of him since the attack at Elliot’s headquarters. James looks harried, the crow’s feet around his eyes more pronounced than before. His normally well-shaved head is sprouting a few hairs from the sides, and his shoulders appear narrower. He’s never been a big man, just average height and build, but he always looked fit. I guess this war is getting the best of him. I’m sure getting shot didn’t help either.

“Cuff her,” James says, his gray eyes as intense as ever.

“Is that necessary?” I ask, though I know it’s a stupid question. We can’t trust anyone.

“I’m taking no chances.”

I face Hannah. “I’m sorry. He has a lot to safeguard, but I promise he won’t hurt you if you don’t cause any trouble.”

She nods shakily and lowers her arms. I clamp one cuff to her right wrist, then walk behind her and secure the other at her lower back. As soon as I’m done, I put my hands up again.

“Sit on the sidewalk and stay put, Hannah,” James says in a voice that is sounding kinder by the minute. “Like Marci said, just do as I say and everything will be fine.”

“I will, Mister …” Hannah sits with some difficulty. She lowers her head and sniffles a few times, but quickly composes herself.

“You can call me James.”

“Thank you, Mister James.”

He smirks and shakes his head. After a pensive moment, he jerks his head and the gun to one side, signaling me to move away from Hannah. As we walk toward the opposite sidewalk, I notice James’s ultra-firm grip on the gun. It seems he’s taking no chances with my telekinetic powers either. Ha! Like I’ve learned to control them. I can only wish.

James’s gray eyes drill into mine. “So … still Marci?”

I cock my head to one side and nod.

He sighs. “It’s a damn thing. I want to trust you, but …”

“Don’t feel bad. I’ve given you plenty of reasons not to.”

An image of my bloody hands after I failed to stop Azrael from killing Oso flashes in front of my eyes. My heart tightens with the regret that assaults me every time I think of that kind man, and of the way that petty creature took his life. A wave of disgust runs through me as I imagine the parasitic agent lodged, seething, lurking, inside my brain.

“Report,” James says.

I take a deep breath, trying to remember everything that’s happened since the last time I met with Aydan—too long ago for comfort. After IgNiTe’s attack at Whitehouse headquarters and the eradication of his Spawners, things have been busy for the Seattle resistance. Without Spawners the Whitehouse faction can’t grow its base—an advantage IgNiTe must fight to maintain.

“Well, everyone’s still in turmoil,” I say. “Lyra says Elliot has been busy doing damage control. He has been meeting with his captains, making plans few are privy to. He’s being extremely paranoid. He had his tech people check the network, but I made sure they didn’t find any of my hacks. So I’ve been able to watch the security system closely and have seen very little going on in the building. Whatever meetings he’s holding, they must be happening elsewhere. I suspect he has gone low tech. He’s taking no chances. The bastard. I wish you would just let me put a bullet between his eyes.”

“Stick to your orders, Marci. Killing Elliot would make his faction unpredictable. I know you’ve sworn revenge but, take it from me, you should strive to live for more, find a worthy reason. Revenge will blind you to the things that truly matter.”

“I know. I know.” Maybe James is right, but, at the moment, nothing sounds better than making Elliot pay.

James grunts and casts a quick glance in Hannah’s direction, frowning.

I continue, “Anyway, Lyra suspects he’s planning a trip to England, something in the next couple of months. She thinks he’s going to get the Spawners who survived the attack in the Glasgow safe house. The one the London IgNiTe cell couldn’t destroy entirely.”

“Yeah, that was unfortunate. The Takeover was more effective there, and our IgNiTe cells are weakened. I wish they’d been strong enough to carry out the job.” He runs a hand over his bald head. “But I can’t blame them, I suppose. They did their best. I wonder how many Spawners survived.”

“Don’t know.”

“At least we’ve slowed down the rate at which they’re infecting people.” The way he says this lets me know he thinks it’s not enough. “I wish we could destroy Hailstone’s Spawners, too.” A muscle jumps in his jaw, showing his frustration. “Anymore on Whitehouse trying to reach out to Hailstone to form an alliance?”

“No. That’s not going to happen. Lyra killing Zara Hailstone took care of that possibility. I doubt Luke would be up to working with his mother’s murderer.” The bitterness I feel is obvious in my voice.

Zara was not Luke’s biological mother. Her faction kidnapped him right from the NICU the day he was born, sending my family into lifelong turmoil. Karen is his real mother. The woman who, in spite of raising me and supposedly giving birth to me, isn’t my genetic match. Talk about an identity crisis. I don’t even know where the hell I come from. It turns my head and stomach just to think about it, and something tells me I don’t want to find out.

God, what a freakin’ soap opera.

“Even if Luke was game, Elliot would rather destroy them for daring to attack him. He’s dying to find out where they are hiding. He even has a task force dedicated to it, a small one, but still.”

James rubs his chin. “Is that so?”

I nod.

“We definitely need to keep an eye on that situation in case we can take advantage of it. What else?”

I pull out a thumb drive from my jacket pocket. “I’ve found some info I’m sure you’ll find valuable. Every day there’s less and less going through the network, especially this type of stuff, but I caught this.”

James holsters his gun and takes the thumb drive. I give him raised eyebrows as if asking “so you trust me, now?” He shrugs. It’s not like he really has anything to fear from me. I don’t have a weapon, and he could run a million circles around me in the time it would take to make up my mind to attack him.

“So what is it?” He gestures toward the thumb drive as he slips it into the breast pocket of his brown leather jacket.

“Weapon and ammunition delivery dates and routes,” I say, a huge smile spreading over my lips.

James’s eyes go wide. He puts a hand over his breast pocket protectively. For a moment, he looks on the verge of saying something but, instead, he presses his lips into a tight line. I know he can’t trust me with any details, but it’s better this way.

“It should be a win-win all around,” I put in. “Fewer weapons for Eklyptors, more for Igniters.”

His gray eyes narrow in assent, and I suppose that’s the best I’m going to get. If IgNiTe is hurting for weapons, that’s not something I need to know—not when I sleep in the lion’s den every night, and I’m prime candidate for “Deranged Agent Takeover Syndrome.”

“We’ll check it out thoroughly. Thank you. Now …” He sticks his hand inside his jacket and pulls out an orange zip bag. “I need your blood.”

I frown. “What for? Kristen’s tests don’t work on me. She must be checking for antibodies, so I’ll always test positive after that crazy fucker took over me.” I gesture toward my head.

“We know that, but—”

“Look, I’m not an Eklyptor.” I know the conviction in my tone is useless after all the trouble Azrael caused for IgNiTe, but it’s there nonetheless.

“You can’t blame me for wanting more proof than your word,” James says firmly, though not unkindly. “Kristen wants to take another look at your blood. Maybe there’s a marker that sets you apart from Eklyptors, and she can develop a test that puts you in the clear. Wouldn’t that be nice? For all of us.”

I scoff. “Sounds too good to be true, but yeah … it would be nice.” I dare not think of what could happen if James and the crew were certain that I’m human. Would they let me go with them? Would my stint with Whitehouse come to an end?

James gestures to my arm. I take off my jacket and let it fall to the ground. He pulls out a thick elastic band from the bag and wraps it around by bicep. With surprising practice, he prepares the syringe, finds a vein and sticks the needle in the crook of my elbow. I wince, watching as he presses a glass vial into the cartridge and blood begins to flow and fill the tube. He removes the elastic band and draws two more tubes of blood.

“Done.” He pulls the needle and stuffs everything back in the zip bag.

“It didn’t hurt,” I say, surprised.

“Yeah, I’m a regular old nurse these days. Been getting lots of practice.”

I can only imagine all the people they’ve had to test. Aydan told me there are camps where the elderly, children and those humans who can’t fight are kept safely. As is to be expected, everyone is tested carefully before being sent there—buzzing or not. Of course, those who can fight are also scrutinized. In their case, it’s actually a daily thing, to ensure no one is infected while out on duty.

Suddenly, I remember Hannah and wonder how all of this looks from her perspective. I glance over her way. She’s sitting still as if frozen, her eyes wide and full of questions.

“I’ll have to test her before I take her with me. We all carry a handful of tests for emergencies. There’s no buzzing coming from her, but one can never be too careful.” He pulls another bag from his jacket. This one is blue. “I’ll keep one and give you the rest. Maybe there’s somewhere you can hide them just in case.” He takes one small packet out of the bag and hands me the rest.

“Thanks.” I doubt they’ll be of any use to me, but you never know. I pick up my jacket and put the tests away in one of its pockets.

“Did you at least kill the scouts?” James asks, gesturing toward Hannah.

In way of answer, my mouth twists into a satisfied smirk.

“Good. I hate those bastards. Well, we’ll be in touch. I should be heading back.” He gives me an apologetic smile.

“How’s Aydan … and the others?” I add the last part hastily. I got used to meeting with Aydan, having a more frequent link to the crew, but I haven’t seen him in a while. I don’t even know why. Things are more secretive than ever.

“They’re fine. Busy. Fighting.”

Just as I expected, he doesn’t give me much. “I’m glad. Well, thanks for coming out to meet me,” I say, staring at my boots. “I know you’re too busy to deal with the likes of me.”

James sets a heavy hand on my shoulder and gives me a gentle shake, forcing me to look at him. “If we had more like you, we’d be in better shape.”

I blink slowly, shake my head and, suddenly, find my vision blurring with tears. “If it wasn’t for me, for my weakness, Oso would still be alive. Also Xave.”

Crap! Get it together, Marci.

I can’t come undone in front of James. I need him to see me as a balanced person, someone who can control her emotions and doesn’t fall apart while begging for misery-canceling sedatives. Been there, done that. I sniffle and fight to keep back the tears. They spill down my cheeks in spite of my efforts.

“Look at me. Look at me!” he orders as I continue to stare at my boots. I can’t lift my eyes to his. My guilt is too heavy.

He puts a finger under my chin and forces my face upward. “It wasn’t your fault.” His tone is firm, but no matter how convincing, I don’t believe him.

“I need you to understand that, Marci,” he continues. “If you need to blame someone, blame me.”

I blink and search his troubled gray eyes. For a moment, I think he must be saying this for my benefit, but he’s never been the kind to engage in idle talk.

“I’ve been fighting this evil for a long time.” He breaks eye contact, turns sideways and lets his eyes wander over the many tombstones. They dot the grassy area like dominoes. “So long that I forget how difficult it is in the beginning, how disjointed and disorienting life becomes. All I seem to remember is the strength needed to overtake the threat, the will necessary to stay ahead and remain in control. From the beginning, all I saw in you was that strength, your determination to fight.

“I forgot how young you are. It was unfair to expect so much from you. When I finally tried to protect you, it was too late. After Xave died, I thought being with your mother and away from us would help, but …” He shakes his head. There’s really nothing else he could add. There was no way he could have known Luke had turned Karen into an Eklyptor or that The Takeover was imminent.

He shakes his head. “If I’d focused more on us, the team, rather than my blind desire for revenge, Xave, Oso and so many others would still be alive. Marci, I … I failed you.” James’s voice breaks. And it undoes me even further. He’s never talked to me like this. I never imagined he felt this way.

“So blame me.” He turns and faces me, his gray eyes as intent and decisive as ever. “Only me. For what has passed and what is to come. Because I shouldn’t expect you to go back and continue to put your life on the line, except that … I do. Because we need you. We need everyone willing and able to fight, especially if they’re as strong as you are. And for that, I’m sorry.”

I shake my head, emotions crashing against my chest like massive waves.

He doesn’t blame me. He doesn’t blame me.

For weeks, all I’ve known is despair and nightmares, both driven by the purest guilt imaginable. Xave and Oso’s faces live in my mind in their most ghastly forms: twisted in shock and pain as they died. Xave passed on my watch. Oso, at my own hands. In the end, they’re both casualties of my inability to control my agent and abilities, casualties of my weakness.

Tears flow freely, but I buckle down and manage to cry silently, even as sobs rise to my throat, desperate to get out.

James looks down at me, his gaze brimming with sympathy and emotion. “I hope you really are Marci or I’ll feel like a real fool after this.” He puts a hand on my shoulder again and, to my surprise, pulls me into his arms.

I thud against his chest, rigid, arms at my sides. He presses a hand to the back of my head and pats me gently, as if I’m but a child who in a different lifetime might have been his daughter.

“Whatever wrong you think you might have done, it’s forgiven.” He rests his chin on the top of my head. His breaths come in and out, heavy and quite audible.

I squeeze my eyes as waves and waves of emotion wash over me.

“I hope you can forgive me, too. Because I can’t forgive myself.”




Chapter 5 (#u7b009af6-bd19-5a8d-847b-8a5a429c2be8)


I make the drive back to downtown in a lonely daze. Hannah went with James after she tested 100% human. I watched them walk away, wishing I could switch places with her. My legs trembled as they disappeared over the crest of the steep street, and I heard James’s Harley roar to life on the other side. It took everything I am not to run toward them, begging to let me come.

Now, I’m headed south on Pacific Place, almost back to the place where She-Bird and Griffin lie dead—if no one has found their bodies, that is. If they have, I’m sure the situation at Whitehouse HQ has gotten pretty interesting.

When I get to the parking lot where I stashed my Kawasaki, I pull in and park the SUV next to the delivery van I stole several weeks ago. I hop out and check the van. It looks untouched besides the four punctured tires and busted headlights I personally inflicted on it—which so far have been enough to keep anyone from repurposing it.

Nervously, I peek through the driver side window to confirm my bike is still inside the windowless delivery area. I spot the tip of a handlebar and breathe out a pent up breath. It’s ridiculous how relieved I am at the sight of it, especially when I could repurposesomething much better out of the thousands of abandoned vehicles throughout the city. But I don’t have much from my previous life, especially things that link me to Xave the way my bike does.

He helped me make the choice when I bought it. Afterward, we worked on the custom details and adjustments I wanted, then rode it through Seattle together. I can still feel his arms around me when I take it for a spin and close my eyes against the wind. He’s been gone for some time now, but the way my chest tightens at his memory makes it seem as if it was only yesterday that I lost him. I miss him so much. I turn, press my back to the van and throw my head back. Shutting my eyes against the now-gray sky, I inhale and try to regain my composure.

I pull myself back into the moment and remember James ad how his words dismantled me. I don’t know why I thought having his acceptance would make things easier.



It doesn’t.

On the contrary, I feel as if the strength that has fueled me all this time just ran empty. Puff, gone up into the atmosphere, much like the air from the van’s tires. From the beginning, a big part of my drive against Eklyptors has been the desire to prove myself to James, to show him I’m good enough to be part of his team. Now, it seems I’ve been wasting my time and, all along, he’s considered me worthy, capable.

I exhale, unclench my fists which have tightened of their own accord, and find myself feeling sort of … aimless. I don’t need to prove myself to James anymore. I never did, it seems. I chuckle at the irony.

Could I leave now? Could I abandon this side of the fight and go back to IgNiTe? I think of the test James talked about, of the possibility of regaining my humanity in the eyes of my Symbiot friends. Would they blame me for wanting to go back? Would they accept me in spite of everything?

Or could I quit altogether? Lay down my weapons and let others do the fighting? Could I do that without disappointing James and the others, without feeling I failed them? Would they understand I’ve already given so, so much?

I laugh a short, derisive laugh.

Who am I kidding?

I may not have to prove myself to James anymore, but he did say he needs me and asked for forgiveness for what he still expects of me. But even if that wasn’t the case, there’s that small promise of revenge I made to myself. I have a score to settle with Elliot Whitehouse and Luke Hailstone. I’m not going anywhere.

Yes, James’s acceptance is satisfying, but it will pale in comparison to the pleasure of making Elliot and Luke pay for all they’ve taken from me.

For that, I can be courageous.

For that, I can be strong.




Chapter 6 (#u7b009af6-bd19-5a8d-847b-8a5a429c2be8)


As soon as I enter the mess hall, I sense a charged mood in the air. Everyone is talking animatedly, hardly touching their meals. I move to the food line, ears perked to the many ongoing conversations. I catch words, but nothing definite.

Captains. Trip. Scouts. Shot. Igniters.

I snatch a red tray from the pile, place it on the metal rails and slide it forward. As I point at the braised pork chop, steamed vegetables and rice pilaf, I think of Hannah clutching a bag of chips to her chest, her face gaunt and pale. My stomach turns to stone.

The server—a tall, blond guy with a face as smooth and white as a toilet bowl—hands me a plate full of food. I force myself to take it.

“Good deal. Good deal, Narcissus,” I ramble in my usual Azrael fashion.

“I’ve told you a thousand times my name is not Narcissus,” he barks.

“Yeah, whatever,” I mumble.

He’ll never convince me he doesn’t spend hours in front of the mirror, looking for wrinkles and blemishes so he can zap them with his Eklyptor morphing powers.

I turn and give him a backward wave. My gaze sweeps the dining area looking for Lyra. She’s not here. My boots tap against the chevron-patterned linoleum floor as I practically march in place. Briefly, I consider dumping the food in the garbage can and leaving. My appetite has vanished, and eating among these beasts isn’t likely to improve it.

Except not staying might appear fishy, so I find a spot on an empty table and set my tray down. Dozens of Formica tables are lined up in rows, most occupied by camo-clad Whitehouse members. The place never fills to capacity, since people eat in shifts based on their scouting and fighting duties. Though it’s always seems crowded enough for my taste, especially when some of the diners are too big for the narrow chairs.

I stare at the pork chop and can’t help myself but wonder how many people are starving to death, hiding in vacant buildings, too afraid to go out and look for sustenance. I stab my fork into the center of the chunk of meat.

“Both shot dead. I knew Griffin, but not the other one,” Hounddog says as he and Gecko Man take a seat at an adjacent table.

I perk up and surreptitiously watch them, eyes on my plate most of the time.

Gecko Man’s tongue flicks in and out of his mouth so fast that he leaves me no doubt he could catch flies in a snap. The fleshy appendage flicks out a few more times before he gets it under control and says, “Fuckin’ Igniters! They’re getting bolder. But let them keep venturing closer. We’ll show them.”

So they found the dead scouts and think Igniters killed them. Well, they’re not wrong. No wonder everyone seems more irritated than usual. I press my lips tight to repress a grin. It’s nice to see my efforts giving the beasts some heartburn.

On my way back to headquarters, I avoided passing by the deli, fearing no one had found the bodies and trying to avoid being spotted anywhere near the scene of the crime. I wonder who found them.

Gecko Man’s protruding eyes blink with lids as big as napkins. God, someone needs to tell him he’s taking the bug-eyed look way past gecko and well into giant bullfrog territory. If he doesn’t watch, he’ll poke an eye out with his fork one day.

“Have you heard the rumors?” Hounddog leans forward and, from where I sit, I can almost see his features reflected on Gecko Man’s eyes.

“You mean about Lyra and the tailed one, what’s her name?”

I frown and lean slightly forward, wondering what sort of rumor could involve both Lyra and “the tailed one.” He’s talking about Lamia, the lizard-looking woman who’s had it in for me ever since I killed Tusks.

Food twists in Gecko Man’s mouth like laundry inside a washing machine. Gah, talk about an appetite killer. Come on! It’s not like I need extra help with that.

Hounddog lowers his voice to a whisper and, once more, I find myself wishing for enhanced hearing. I wonder how I’d go about modifying my body to gain that ability. I really need to find out. My accidental telekinetic powers are cool but completely unreliable. A skill developed on purpose and, therefore, dependable would be better—even if less awesome. If only I could handle those stupid meditation sessions, but I’m useless at them.

I catch nothing of what Hounddog says. Not one word.

Seething, I take a bite of broccoli and chew it listlessly. I’m about to cut a piece of pork chop when a rippling murmur begins by the mess hall entrance. I try to see what is causing the commotion, but people jump to their feet, obstructing the view. I push my tray away and stand, too. I still don’t see anything.

“Damn damn damn,” I say under my breath and climb on my chair for a better view.

Even on the chair, I see nothing, except the double doors swinging closed.

Hounddog’s black, dog nose twitches. “I guess the rumors are true.” The upper lip of his slowly-growing muzzle lifts in a sign of dissatisfaction.

“What rumors? Damn it!” I say, louder than I intended.

Hounddog gives me a nasty glare. He normally acts as if I’m not here, so much that I’d started to believe he was unannoyable. I’m glad to see he’s not. I wave at him and give him my fakest smile. At least I don’t have to pretend to like any of these jerks. If that were the case, my life here would be infinitely harder than it already is.

I stretch my neck to look past the mass of monsters lined up at the entrance. From the way they’re standing—so straight and proper—I’m certain Whitehouse just walked in the room. I think of turning on my buzz-o-meter to confirm I’m right but decide against it. These days, I only do that if I have to, like when I roam the streets. Most of the time, I keep it down to a one-way channel. My life is a lot easier without rank signals droning inside my head.

A moment later, Elliot Whitehouse—flanked by Lyra and Lamia—moves into my line of sight and climbs the raised dining area at the end of the mess hall. It’s his favorite spot. He loves to get up there to tell us what to do and not to do.

He faces the crowd, his unnatural golden eyes surveying his subjects. My fists clench. My vision tunnels. His gaze locks with mine for a moment, then moves on. Lyra spots me and frowns. Her round, yellow eyes flick downward almost imperceptibly. I think she’s trying to tell me to get down from the chair, but the view is too good to relinquish it.

Lamia spots me, too. Her mouth curls up, the way it always does when she sees me. Her long, barbed tail twitches from side to side, something I’ve discovered is a sign of irritation. I smile at her, trying to convey a message.

So glad to have that effect on you, Little Godzilla. She looks away first. Score!

“Good evening, everyone,” Elliot says as if he’s dealing with respectable people and not a mild upgrade from the inhabitants of the Woodland Park Zoo.

“Good evening,” everyone repeats. If parrots can sound polite, so can this bunch. That doesn’t make them decent, though.

I, for my part, choose my words with sincerity. So I mouth “screw you,” instead.

“Let’s get straight to the point. As you well know, IgNiTe’s vile attack on the reproductively mature members of our faction was an unexpected, low blow that has hampered our ability to grow our numbers.”

Elliot sounds as if he just swallowed a giant frog. I almost laugh out loud. It must be hard for him to eat his pride and admit these things.

“We did not go into this battle lightly,” he continues after clearing his throat and adjusting the sleeve of his jacket. “We knew Seattle would not be easy to occupy. Our pre-takeover analysis told us as much. So we went in expecting the fight to be fierce from the beginning. However, the city’s IgNiTe cell is strong. In spite of our most conservative prediction, it seems we … underestimated them.”

God, it’s so hard not to laugh out loud.

“These human rebels combined with our hostilities toward the Hailstone faction have cost us dearly. So much that now, as hard as it is to believe, our numbers are dwindling compared to those of our opposition. Every day, the casualties chip away at our faction, reducing the advantage we worked so hard to build.

“We. Cannot. Allow. That. To continue.” Elliot’s voice rises with every word along with the redness on his face. Maybe he’ll blow up. That would be nice.

The crowd assents, echoing his sentiment by nodding, stomping, and repeating his words.

I huff.

Elliot holds a hand up. The crowd quiets. “In spite of that, Seattle is still under our control and I intend to keep it that way. Humans will not get in the way of our faction’s success. And once they’ve become nothing but a nuisance, the strongest Eklyptor leaders around the world will get their chance to campaign against the weak and undeserving factions. In the end, the winners will take the spoils and will control everything. As of now, our faction is poised to be one of the strong, if not the strongest, contenders in that final race.

“However, that will not be the case if we do not focus on eradicating IgNiTe first. We have to stabilize our hold over the city. Then we can worry about our faction’s position.”

Well, that’s new.

“To accomplish that, we all must do our part. Directed by you, my elite, our troops continue to fight bravely against our enemies. For this, I commend you. Your efforts won’t go unnoticed when our faction rises to the top.

“This war is far from over, and we need you and every single one of your soldiers in order to win.”

He pauses and slowly lifts a fist over his head. “We shall be victorious. IgNiTe and their rumors about a cure do not scare us.”

“No, they don’t!” several voices echo.

“This is a minor setback, one we will all help overcome. For my part, I’ve already been hard at work, devising a plan that will ensure our success. The details are on a need-to-know basis but, rest assured, the wheels are already in motion.

“Today, I’m here to inform you about a hierarchical change that will ensure our efforts go as planned. As of this moment, two of our most effective and loyal members, Lyra and Lamia”—Elliot demonstrates to his right, then to his left, inclining his head; both women stand firmer and practically click their heels, Hail Elliot style—“have been promoted to my first and second in command, respectively.”

Gecko Man makes a grunt of disapproval in the back of his throat. In truth, most of the men seem to echo his sentiment with similar signs of discontent. That figures.

“I trust,” Elliot says, raising his voice and staring down anyone who seems to disagree with his choice of leaders, “their orders will be respected and followed as if they were coming from me, because, indeed, they will be, whether I’m here or not. Do I have your understanding?”

A loud “Yes, Sir!” rumbles through the room. Even Gecko Man adds his voice, louder than everyone, it seems. They all fear Elliot too much to risk being singled out for lack of proper support.

“In the upcoming months, my absence might be necessary, and I can’t stress enough the importance of following the chain of command.”

“So it’s true,” Hounddog says under his breath, a low growl of discontent vibrating deep in his chest. Not a few weeks ago he was at the same level as Lyra and Lamia. He certainly isn’t happy to find himself outranked, not when his buzzing vibe is the same as theirs.

My thoughts reel. Were Lyra’s suspicions right? Is Elliot traveling to England to bring his London-based Spawners here, to tip the odds back in his favor by stealing our human soldiers and turning them into monsters that will fight for him instead?

At the idea, my blood begins to boil, bubbling and rising all the way to my head. Getting the list of Whitehouse’s reproductively capable members and convincing James to trust me on the matter was no easy task. All the Seattle IgNiTe cells fought, at great peril and loss, to exterminate every single Spawner. I can’t allow Elliot to fetch more of those creatures to replace the ones he lost here. The scales are slowly tipping in our favor. We can’t lose this small advantage we’ve gained.

My hands shake at my side. I imagine a gun between my fingers, my grip tightening around its cold handle. But I don’t have a gun. I’m not allowed to carry one in here. There’s only me and a crowd of people between us, and I would never get to him. I’d be ripped to pieces before I’m able to pull one hair off his miserable head.

But you don’t need to get to him, Marci. You could just …

Suddenly it’s not a gun I imagine in my grip. It’s Elliot’s heart, supple and fragile. My body tingles with a strange energy that should, by now, be familiar. My powers are surging. For once, I let my instincts guide me, willing the energy to find its way to the surface.

Elliot’s mouth continues to move, but I don’t hear the words. I’m in a vacuum where nothing can reach me. My eyes focus in and out, and I’m pulled forward as if sucked through a giant straw. There is a flash. I see Elliot for an instant, then he’s gone, obscured in a sea of black and red. A part of me urges me to pull away, but I ignore it. Like sand slipping through fingers, my mind falls away from the moment and into that strange reddish darkness.

The world thuds around me, making a rhythmic whooshing sound. I am bone and tissue and heart. In a detached way, I’m aware of my body, still standing on the chair. But, at the same time, I’m here, just where I want to be.

Blood rushes in and out, relentlessly. I’m strong and feel as if I could go on forever, except, maybe, that’s a bad idea. Actually, a terrible, terrible idea. What if I just stop. What if I refuse to go on.

There’s a cough, followed by another and another. There’s pain, the brutal, arresting kind. I sense it, taste its bitterness as if from a distance. I will it to grow, to paralyze this black, cruel muscle that I’ve become, except something fights me, but what? I can’t tell.

I gather my will, pack it as tightly as I possibly can, then release it.

Stop.

Beat no more.

I stretch and stretch and stretch. I have no end and no beginning. The effort to impose my will tugs in both directions and my center becomes thinner. I’m a piece of chewing gum pulled to the point of breaking apart.

A shadow rises in front of my eyes, followed by a hundred more. They take me by surprise, swarming my thoughts like starved piranhas. They haven’t attacked in weeks, and I think they’ve been hiding, waiting for this chance.

Everything is thrown into a deeper darkness. My heart, my own heart, thuds out of control.

No. No. No.

I’ve been eclipsed. Azrael bided its time, made me think I had defeated her for good and I was safe. But that was never the case.

My heartbeat escalates, reaching its peak. I’m at the sharp edge of no return when my defensive mechanisms engage, and my thoughts begin to jump like never before.

Greasy hands.

Chalked hands.

Cues and billiard balls.

Another life. Not this life.

A better one. A lost one.

My chest spasms. My eyes spring open as I take a deep breath and resurface. Miraculously, I’m still standing, feet planted on the chair, even as I sway and put my arms out to regain my balance.

My eyes dart desperately in all directions. Did anyone see? Does anyone know what I was trying to do, what I was going through? Has the mole been unearthed?

The first thing that registers through my addled senses is the uneasy silence that hangs over the room. Sweat and fear slide down my spine, turning my courage to pulp. I’ve been discovered I’m done for.

But, as my senses settle back into place, I realize no one, and I mean absolutely no one, is looking at me. Instead, everyone’s attention is still glued to the front.

Shaking my head, I grab on to the moment and process the situation. My gaze snaps forward like everyone else’s, taking in the sight. Confused, I wonder why Elliot isn’t talking anymore and, instead, is standing slightly bent over with a hand to his breastbone. Lamia hovers over him, touching his back, wearing a worried expression.

He coughs and thumps his chest. I stare at the top of his head, shocked with the realization of what I’ve manage to do. I press trembling fingers to my mouth. To anyone, I may look like a scared Eklyptor, anxious about her leader’s wellbeing. But what I am is a traitor full of expectation and hope.

God, what if he dies? James thinks his death would mean chaos. What if he’s right?

Elliot coughs a few more times, then straightens suddenly, slapping Lamia’s hand from his back. His face is pale and twisted in a hideous grimace. He takes deep breaths and rubs his left arm, eyes darting around the room, examining the upturned faces of his followers with something that looks like hatred, as if he blames them for this lapse, for this display of weakness and vulnerability.

Does he suspect one of us did it? Can he tell?

His golden eyes scan the room. I fear the moment they’ll meet mine to discover it was I who supplanted his heart and tried to steal everything from him—just the way his kind supplants us and steal everything we hold dear. But when he sees me, propped high on my chair, a hand pressed to my mouth, he doesn’t pause—not even for an instant. And why would he? He thinks I saved his life. I couldn’t possibly be trying to kill him now. I’m his loyal Azrael.

When he’s done with his inspection of the crowd, he jerks his jacket down and squares his shoulders with determination. He takes a step, falters. Lamia’s hand flies to his elbow to steady him. He shrugs from her grasp and throws a nasty glare in her direction.

Head held high, he takes another step, then a third one. Finding himself steady, he descends the two steps in front of him, then strides resolutely toward the double doors, Lyra and Lamia following at a respectable distance.

I almost killed Elliot. The thought soaks through me like a downpour, chilling me to the bone. Would meditation bring me that kind of power? Would I want it?




Chapter 7 (#u7b009af6-bd19-5a8d-847b-8a5a429c2be8)


After Elliot leaves the mess hall, I jump off the chair and sit down, feeling dizzy. The din of cutlery and conversation returns by degrees. I rest my elbows on the table and hold my head, thoughts still jumping, shifting away from the shadows that still loom over my mind.

Damn you, Azrael!

I almost killed Elliot. I shake my head, thinking how easy it would be to be rid of him if I could fully control my powers, how quickly I could end this war if I systematically killed every Eklyptor leader. If only I could practice meditation every day, but I haven’t seen Aydan in weeks, haven’t had his help, and I’m still too scared to do it alone.

Could someone else help me? Lyra, maybe? She must be a master at meditation. She’s morphed herself into Cheetara, after all. Could I trust her?

I bite my bottom lip, considering the other side of this coin, the morality of having the power to kill someone with a mere thought. The idea sends a chill straight into my bone marrow. No one should have that kind of power, especially not a sixteen-year-old with a temper.

The chill deepens when I think of all the people I might have killed during my lifetime if that skill had manifested early on. God, I almost did the same thing to Aydan right after Xave died—rage and my desire to push him away nearly turned me into … what? A murderer? Or something far worse I can’t even name?

Elliot deserves to die. He’s a monster, and I’ve promised myself to make him pay. But what about others just like him? Eklyptors and humans alike. What would stop me from killing them? What would give me the right, make me the judge?

Would anyone feel comfortable around a person who could do little more than blink to render you inert? Hell, I wouldn’t want someone like that near me.

I drive stiff thumbs into my temples as a headache throbs to life. This philosophical debate combined with keeping the reawakened shadows at bay is giving me a migraine.

Shakily, I stand and take my tray to the conveyor belt, food cold and stiff on the plate. I leave the mess hall, turning my back on the black-uniformed Eklyptors, trying not to think what it would be like to snap my fingers, then turn to find every single one of them lying on the floor, clutching their chests.

Some part of me thinks it would be wonderfully easy to end this war that way, while another part feels almost certain I’d be unable to live with that kind of god-like power and the guilt of being able to impart instantaneous death—no matter how well-deserved.

When I make it to the barracks, I crash on my bed and put a pillow over my head. The large room is blessedly quiet since everyone’s still at the mess hall. I want sleep to take me away, to erase my twisted thoughts and give me fluid dreams the shadows can’t chase. But sleep runs in the opposite direction, totally mocking me.

“Azrael,” a voice says right next to me.

I sit up with a start and send the pillow flying to the floor.

Lyra, in all her black-furred glory, is standing between her bed and mine, looking down at me with her round, green eyes. They are intense, angry even.

“Shit! You need a bell around your neck. What the hell?!” I stand, pick up the pillow and throw it back on top of the gray covers.

She ignores my little quip and drops the satchel she’s carrying on the floor. “What happened in the mess hall?”

I frown. “Huh?”

Is this about Elliot? No, it can’t be. She doesn’t know about my powers. I’ve never mentioned them to her. And even if I had, making the leap from knowing someone can move objects with their mind to suspecting they can crush someone’s heart is pretty extreme. Maybe she’s asking something different. Maybe something else happened after I left.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, deepening my frown.

Lyra narrows her eyes, which doesn’t quite have the mean effect she’s probably going for. The gesture just makes her look like a friendly, content kitten.

“I’m talking about Elliot, and his … episode,” she says.

“Episode?”

“Don’t play stupide.”

“Are you talking about him coughing in the middle of his speech? Maybe he has walking pneumonia.”

She snarls deep in her throat.

“You’re acting weird,” I say with a dismissive flick of my hand.

Nope. No chance in hell I’d let her help me with meditation. She might be IgNiTe, but I don’t fully trust her. One, I met her as an enemy and first impressions are hard to erase. Two, she openly threatened me, said that if I’m part of Hailstone’s grand plan to get rid of the need for human hosts, she would be against me—a nice way to say she’d put a bullet in my brain. Three, I’m not sure I want to make anyone aware of my monstrous potential. This feels private, like a reason to slick my hair back, don horned-rim glasses, change my name and pretend to be harmless and adorably clueless.

“I’m acting weird?” she asks. “This from someone who channels a creature like Azrael and sneaks through the ventilation system doing who knows what.”

“Someone who channels Azrael?! That’s not fair. I do what I have to do.”

I rub circles into my temples and sit on the desk chair, wondering how she knows about the ventilation system. I haven’t even used it since I planted a bug in Elliot’s PC, the day I discovered I could switch off my buzz-o-meter in both directions when he almost caught me spying. Why is she bringing that up anyway?

“The ventilation system is a thing of the past,” I say, figuring there’s no point in denying it. “I can go in and out as I please, now.” I pat the access card that hangs from my belt loop.

“So you didn’t put poison in Elliot’s food or through the vents in his office?”

I laugh. I can’t help it. This is what she thinks I did? It’s kind of sordid. My kind of idea, really, but so far off the mark. “I don’t know the first thing about poisoning. Though, maybe I should set my mind to learning the task.”

Lyra’s beautiful emerald eyes regard me for a moment longer. Finally, she seems to believe me and sits on her bed, looking puzzled. She scratches her head with a sharp feline claw, then preens her fully-grown whiskers. “He says he’s in top health. There should be nothing wrong avec son cœur.”

His what?

“His heart,” Lyra says when she sees my confused frown.

“I’m all for learning French, Lyra, but it’s at the bottom of my priorities at the moment. Surviving sort of puts a cramp in my personal improvement goals. Capisce?”

She rolls her eyes. “Americans.”

“Hey, you’d better watch it. You’re starting to sound like Elliot.”

Lyra shudders as if I just compared her to a street dog.

“I don’t get it.” I sit on my own bed across from her. “The old fart might be, um, sick, and you’re upset? Wouldn’t that be a good thing if he croaks?”

“It’d be a good thing if they all croaked.” She makes air quotes. “But if he dies, someone else will take his spot, someone less sophistiqué et more hungry for carnage.”

“Hungrier,” I correct.

She gives me the finger.

“Hey, just trying to help.” I put my palms up, recline on my pillow and look at the false ceiling. “I guess you’re right. James says the same thing.”

“Elliot cares about keeping the status quo and infrastructure. He doesn’t want to inherit a world in tatters.”

“Well, you’re his first in command, now.” I prop myself on one elbow and face her. “Wouldn’t you take his place if he’s gone?” I’ve many times asked myself why Lyra, who, early on, infiltrated the faction and managed to earn trust, didn’t just kill him at the first opportunity, but instead, continues to work alongside him.

She scoffs and gives me a contemptuous look that lets me know how naïve, stupid—or both—she thinks I am. “Haven’t you been paying attention? No one is happy Elliot is leaving Lamia and me in charge. Do you doubt challengers would present themselves if Elliot dies? It would most likely cleave the faction into smaller groups.”

“Well, that should make it easier to bring them down, right?”

“It is hard to predict exactly what would happen, but I fear—and my superiors and yours agree—smaller factions would be much harder to control. We would have guerrilla warfare on our hands. Eklyptors going into hiding never to be rooted out. Non, we can’t allow that. Our focus is elsewhere—on a cure.” She adds the last words in a hushed tone, even though there’s no one in the room with us. “Capisce?”

“Yeah. I get it.” It seems to me Lyra’s more worried about getting to Hailstone than the cure, but whatever.

We lie quietly for a moment, both lost in our own thoughts, staring at the ceiling as if a magical solution will flutter down on us. Finally, Lyra sits, picks up her satchel from the floor, and tosses it onto my lap.

I startle, instinctively, curling my body away from the bag. “What’s this?”

“Some things that might be useful. We got a new shipment of weapons today. Surveillance equipment came with it. Spy stuff. Trackers, tiny cameras, microphones. That sort of thing.”

“Oh, yeah?” I start to open the bag.

Lyra shakes her head. “Better not be too obvious with those. Remember, everyone still thinks tu es folle.” She winds a finger around her temple. “And I wouldn’t give a crazy person those kinds of things.”

A heavy sigh pushes past my lips. I’m so sick of this place, of hiding and pretending to be someone I’m not.

With my desire for revenge against Elliot stifled at every turn, my presence here feels more useless every day. Add to that the fact that most communications have gone low-tech, making my hacking skills about as useful as roller skates at a nursing home.

Grumbling, I stash the satchel under my bed and lie back down. As soon as my head hits the pillow, my mind races away from this place, a common occurrence, lately.

As is most often the case, my thoughts drift to a small neighborhood north of here. There, I find a two bedroom/one bathroom house with a small porch and green siding. Across the street, a one-story rambler sits quiet and empty. A boy with red, fireman boots used to live there years ago. I don’t know why I revisit these places so often. There’s nothing left there for me, just old things and fraying memories. Yet, so much more than what I find here every day.

I long to go back.




Chapter 8 (#ulink_ffbad85c-49ae-5b68-acdf-27640d48a70f)


I stand in the middle of the street, eyes shut. The silence is overwhelming, unnatural, so unlike all the memories I have of this place. Evenings like this one used to be noisy with kids chasing balls or riding their bikes, neighbors playing their stereos too loudly, and noisy mufflers announcing the passage of the tough kids from down the street.

Now, there’s just the wind rustling the trees and crickets chirping louder than they ever have, two sounds that will never make me think of home.

Turning right, I face my house and open my eyes. At the sight of it, a hook embeds itself in my heart and tugs so fiercely that my knees tremble. Xave’s house is at my back, and I fear that laying eyes on it might hit me with an emotional blow that will knock me to the ground. I don’t look. Not yet, at least.

There are bad memories in my old house too. Last time I was here, Luke was inside, waiting for me. I had come home, reeling from Xave’s death, still believing I could count on my family. Instead, dear Luke tore my already-broken world into smaller pieces, stealing my mother in the worst imaginable way. An Eklyptor. They turned her into an Eklyptor. Bastards!

And even though some time later DNA evidence proved that Luke and Karen were nothing to me, that day, I lost my family and was left utterly alone and confused.

I lace my fingers behind my neck and squeeze my head between my arms, wishing I could evict those ugly memories and leave only the good ones. Karen brought me home from the hospital, thinking I was hers. She used to smile and feel proud of me. I was safe under this roof. I was happy, at least until Dad died when I was five.

Dad.

He’s a big reason I risked coming here. Traveling alone through the streets of Seattle is risky even for a Symbiot who can pass as an Eklyptor. Running into a member of a different faction—Hailstone in my case—would be a death sentence. They blame Whitehouse for the death of their leader, Zara Hailstone. I wonder what they would do if they knew it was an Igniter who shot her point blank.

I take one slow step at a time until I reach the white-painted door I remember so well. I’m aware of just how heavy it will feel when I push it open and how much force I’d need to slam it shut. God knows I did that enough.

I think of the narrow table in the foyer and the shoebox I placed on top of it. I wasn’t strong enough to open it then. But today, I’m ready to see the things Xave left at The Tank, things Oso gathered for me because the kind man thought I’d like to have them. I swallow and fight back the tears brought on by their memories.

My hand shakes as it moves toward the door knob. The key is in my pocket, but I’m certain Luke and Karen didn’t bother to lock last time they were here. A sinkhole could devour my home, and they wouldn’t bat an eye.

The metal is cold in my hand as the knob gives without opposition, just as I thought it would. Slowly and reluctantly, I turn it all the way, fearing what I may find inside. Human squatters? Eklyptor beasts? A ransacked mess? My heart picks up its pace.

As the door swings open one inch at a time, my right hand moves automatically to the gun at my hip. I hold my breath. Trapped air burns my lungs and throat as I wait. A gloomy interior reveals itself in stages. The house seems totally empty. I step inside. A musty smell greets me, making me feel I’ve walked into a foreign place, not the only home I’ve ever known.

My first instinct is to close the door behind me, but I don’t. An old habit makes me flip the switch on the wall, and when the lights don’t come on, I’m not surprised. Eklyptors control the power plants, and make sure only the necessary ones run. Only enough electricity is generated and delivered to downtown Seattle and its southern suburbs, where the bulk of Eklyptor factions are concentrated.

Without removing my eyes from the dark depths of the house, I switch my backpack to the front, take out a flashlight and click it on. As the empty hall reveals itself, I exhale in relief. My heart quiets a bit, enough to let the thought of that shoebox jump to the forefront. I swing the beam of light to the foyer table to find nothing but a decorative set of candles and a thick layer of dust.

A stab of sharp pain goes through the middle of my chest.

Where is it? Where is Xave’s box?!

I shake my head, trying to recall. Did I put it somewhere else? Maybe it’s in the kitchen or my bedroom. I wasn’t thinking straight that day. Yeah, that must be it. I’m not remembering correctly.

I take two more steps forward and shine my light into the living room to my left. The sofas and bookshelves cast elongated shadows on the floor and the wall. Everything looks undisturbed, just the way it did the last time I was here. I press forward, but not without casting a quick glance over my shoulder. Past the front door, the evening melts into a deeper darkness.

On the right, the master bedroom door is closed. I have no desired to open it—none whatsoever, but I have to check every room if I want to keep my heart from hammering its way out of my chest. I push the door open and peer inside. After a quick inspection, I walk in and check the closet. For added peace of mind, I even check under the bed. Only dust.

Of its own accord, my hand points the flashlight to the night table. I inch closer toward the circular beam of light that spotlights a picture frame. I pick up the photo. My index finger caresses the side of the metal frame as my eyes drink the familiar image: a snapshot of Karen, Dad and me at the beach.

“Dad,” I say in a shaky murmur. There’s a broad smile on his face and his brown eyes sparkle as if he holds the secret to happiness. I stand in the middle, wearing a pink bathing suit, my smile so much like his. Karen looks happy, too, but out of place—more than ever before. Her wind-blown, light hair and blue eyes don’t belong. She never felt like my mother because she wasn’t. I wonder if she knew. I’m sure she felt it, but did she know?

Overtaken by a desire to set things right, I set the flashlight on the night table, hastily take the picture out of the frame, and rip Karen out. A tear rolls down my cheek. I wipe it off on my shoulder and try not to think about what Dad would say. Karen was the woman he loved and chose to marry. How can I blame her for being so much less without Dad? His loss was a blow that would have ruined better women. She was supposed to grow old beside him. Without his love, she grew bitter instead.

I let the torn piece flutter to the floor and slide the other into my jacket pocket. Having a picture of Dad gives me a strange sense of calm, like I could pull it out at any time and say: “See, that’s my Dad,” and people would reply “Oh, gosh, you look just like him.” It feels like insurance to my dogged resolve to call Brian Scott Guerrero my father, even when my origin has become a big question mark and I sometimes doubt I’m his daughter.

With a jerk, I press a hand to my breast pocket and affirm, “You are my father.”

Being no DNA match to a mother who never loved me and a brother who was nothing but fake doesn’t mean I’m no match to Dad. This whole situation is so convoluted anything is possible. Besides, if I was capable of seeing Karen and Luke as family when they gave me little reason to love them, I can definitely claim Dad. He at least cared for me the way only a real father can.

Hand pressed to my chest, I leave Karen’s room and shut the door behind me. If I ever get to live here again, I will gut this bedroom and leave no trace of her behind.

Pushing those thoughts aside, I move further down the hall. Next, on the left, is the kitchen. The flashlight shakes in my hand, casting a trembling light onto a fallen chair. Images of my fight with Luke and Karen flash before my eyes.

We want to help you, take away the pain. Give us a chance.

My teeth grind. What do they want with me? What is this “grand plan” Hailstone has? And how does it involve me? The questions whirl inside my head, even though I don’t want to know the answers.

The sweet smell of decay registers faintly. Dirty dishes in the sink? Spoiled food inside the fridge? Dead mouse? I don’t really want to know. Methodically and without stepping into the kitchen, I shine my light onto the table, the counters, the floor, looking for the shoebox. Not here either.

At the end of the hall is my bedroom. Directly overhead is a small attic with a pull-down ladder and a padlock to keep it off limits. I look at the dangling cord, wondering what might be left up there, maybe things that used to belong to Dad and Karen didn’t get rid of. I put the attic in the back of mind for now and, instead, step toward my bedroom door.

The jamb is splintered. Luke chased me in here and kicked in the door as I escaped through the window. I barely made it out with my laptop, a few hundred dollars in cash, and Dad’s copy of a Neruda book of poems. I blink the frantic memory away and sweep my bedroom with a quick arch of the flashlight. It’s empty. The hammering of my heart slows to a subdued drumming I can live with.

Again, I search for Xave’s shoebox, on the desk, the bed, the floor. It isn’t here.

Damn!

Luke must have taken it. It’s the only explanation. He probably threw it away out of spite. My spirit withers. I don’t even know what was in the box, surely nothing important, but they were Xave’s things.

For a long moment, I sit at the edge of my bed, moving my light from one spot to another, regarding, in wonder, all the things that once seemed so important to me. A pair of scuffed Harley boots. A top of the line gamer keyboard. Several pairs of protective motorcycle gauntlets. Xave was with me when I bought half those things.

I press a fist to my mouth until the pain distracts me from it all. I can’t think of the past. Not if I want to be able to put one foot in front of the other every day—even if my only reason for doing so is vengeance. Maybe it’s a good thing the shoebox is gone. I’m not strong enough to think of all those I’ve lost without disintegrating to pieces.

Shaking myself, I stand. I’m not here to dwell in the past. I’m here for a very different reason. I came to search the attic, to find something, anything, that might have Dad’s DNA on it. It’s a long shot after all these years, but I need this answer.

I go back into the hall and stand under the trap door. After setting my open backpack on the floor, I take out my gun, aim carefully, and shoot the lock. It comes apart with a metallic ding and thuds to the floor.

Good aim, Marci. I’ve gotten better. Target practice with Lyra has helped.

After holstering my gun, I jump, snatch the dangling string and pull it down. The trap door opens with a squeal as the springs stretch. I tug on the ladder, let it unfold to the floor, then take the steps two at a time. I stop halfway in and shine the flashlight into the small space. It reveals nothing but inch-thick layers of dust and cobwebs.

My heart sinks until I spot a lonely cardboard box in a dark corner. Hope surging, I climb the rest of the way and step lightly in its direction. The plywood groans under my weight, but it holds.

I shine my light on the box. I crouch and wipe a hand over the dusty top to expose the handwritten label. A million dust motes fly into the air, in and out of the light beam. I squint and pull the edge of my collar up to my nose. As the dust settles, block words etched in Sharpie take form: BRIAN’S THINGS.

My throat tightens, and it isn’t only from the dust that has worked itself in there. “Brian’s Things”? This is what Dad’s life is reduced to? What Karen deemed appropriate for the few belongings he left behind? God, I hate her more than ever. I should have had this box. She should have given it to me.

I take a knee, thinking of Xave’s shoebox and how it parallels to this. The two men I’ve loved the most are gone, and all I have left of them are two cardboard boxes.

With a fingernail, I work at the corner of the tape that keeps the flaps together. It comes off easily, its adhesive quality obliterated by years of heat and cold exposure in this space. After a deep inhale, I open it and shine my light inside. At first glance, the plainness of the contents is underwhelming. Dust has seeped inside and covers what seems to be a stack of manila folders. They look like medical records and probably are. Dad always brought work home. He cared that much about his patients.

I dig past them and discover a few other things underneath. My spirits lift. I take the files out and set them aside. A smile stretches over my lips as I do a quick reconnaissance. This is more like it.

I’m itching to take it all out and inspect it right there and then, but I stop myself. I want to savor this. I want to take my time and look at everything under better lighting.

The feeling that I’ve regained something—I’m not sure what—swells in my heart. It’s stupid, I know, but I can’t help it. All I have from Dad is that book of poems, when I’ve always wished for so much more, something to connect me to him. And, now, this might be it.

Quickly, I stuff the medical folders back into the box and, with some difficulty, take it down the rickety ladder. I set it down next to my backpack, fold the ladder into place and push the trap close. The spring whines again. The door clanks shut.

I’m about to pick up my stuff when the sound of steps freezes me on the spot. My heart takes a leap and a surge of adrenaline bursts through my system like jets of fire.

Without thinking, I drop the flashlight and let my hand fly to my hip. My gun goes up as I turn to face the danger.




Chapter 9 (#ulink_5aacc3ea-ce3e-5ee1-be86-01a7b8d2404e)


I’ve only turned halfway when someone kicks my arm so hard that my hand opens on reflex. The gun crashes against the wall and clatters to the floor, right on the path of the fallen flashlight. The loss of my weapon sends my already surging adrenaline to new levels, spurring my survival instincts to the max. If my powers were reliable, I would order my attacker’s brains into next week, but for the moment, I have nothing but my own fists to defend myself.

I jump back, doubling the distance between us, giving me a fighting chance.

The flashlight illuminates the gun and casts a faint light on a pair of man boots. I squint, trying to see a face, but all I see is a dark silhouette.

“Hello, Marci.”

Recognition thrills through my body in a sickening wave.

“Luke!” My voice is a hateful growl.

“I knew you would find your way here sooner or later,” he says in a conversational tone that could make someone think we’re friends. Except we are not. What little used to be between us, whatever that was, never even came close to friendship.

My eyes dart around, looking for his Hailstone cronies. He seems to be alone, though I highly doubt it. They’ve probably surrounded the house by now.

Careless. So careless and stupid.

He must have left a trigger behind, something to let him know the second someone crossed the front door. I should have guessed that, but I clearly underestimated how badly he wants me.

Now, how the hell do I get out of this one?

I look to my backpack, which is closer than the gun. I try to remember what I packed. Could any of it help me escape? Extra bullets, a few of the surveillance gadgets Lyra gave me, and some food. That’s it. Shit! Why didn’t I pack a grenade? That would have been useful. Now my only hope is to club him to death with a protein bar, then snatch the gun and run out of here, bullets blazing.

“How have you been?” he asks.

“Screw you, Luke!” If words could kill, mine carry the weight of an Avada Kedavra.

I wish him dead and reach for his heart with my powers. I wait for my vision to tunnel, for that clarity and awareness to flood. Nothing. I quest for the gun next, imagine it flying into my hand, but it’s the same. Nothing happens. I feel empty, as powerless as an infant. There isn’t the slightest surge of energy within me. I’m useless.

He chuckles sadly. “I know I’m not your favorite person, but it can’t be that bad. Can it? I’ve never harmed you, Marci”

“Your faction killed Xave. Trust me, it is much worse than you think.”

“Him?” he scoffs with dry amusement. “That was an accident. He was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and with the wrong crowd. Besides … you must know, he wasn’t good enough for you.”

“Shut up! You’re the one who’s not good enough, even to speak his name.”

Fuck this! I don’t have to sit here and make small talk just because I’m a good-for-nothing Symbiot whose powers won’t kick into heart-crushing mode. I have my own hands to do the job.

I crouch low, a smile suddenly stretching my lips as I realize something. He doesn’t want me dead. If he did, I’d already be lying on the floor with a bullet hole between my eyes. I guess that means he needs me.

For my part, I have no intention of falling into his web, plus I do want him dead. And, I’m not afraid of him. He might be big and muscular, but he has no sparring training, at least not at my level. I can take him.

Without warning, I sprint at his dark shape, accidentally kicking the flashlight. Shadows revolve in the narrow hall as it spins.

Dark. Gloom. Dark.

It’s like fighting my agent. My thoughts begin to jump as I close in, slamming my shoulder into Luke’s stomach.

He staggers back, hands flying to his middle, bending forward, gasping to catch the air I just forced from his lungs.

The spinning flashlight and shadows slow down.

Dark … Gloom … Dark.

It stops and goes out.

Pitch black.

Quickly planting my feet on the floor, I throw a front kick to his head. He surprises me by lifting an arm and blocking it—quicker than I thought he could move.

Damn! Where’s the gun? Eyes flickering downward, I search for it. Luke finds it first and, again, moves faster that I expect him to. He kicks the heel of his boot backward, sends the weapon spinning into the darkness.

In the split second it takes me to consider what to do next, Luke’s huge, dark figure lunges forward and tackles me. I stagger backward, trying to keep my balance, but he’s too heavy.

My legs give. We fall to the floor, knocking my backpack on its side. My neck snaps. My head hits hard tile. Pain. Specters awaken in my mind, ready to take advantage of this awful moment.

Agony crawls up my spine. I desperately shake my head. I can’t fight the agent and Luke at the same time. I can’t. The fear sends my mind into overdrive, and I imagine Luke’s Eklyptors outside the house, swarming like fluid shadows, swaying and shifting, creating shapes more monstrous than Azrael can.

They’re swallowing the house whole, their inky essence climbing up the siding, covering the windows until there’s no light left in the world.

God, no!

I need a light.

A flame.

Anything to shatter this awful darkness.

Luke tries to pin me down.

I jam a knee against his crotch. He rolls off to the side, groaning. I wriggle out of his grasp, scramble to my feet, and desperately reach for the flashlight.

Luke clasps my ankle, and I go down. Both hands out, I brace my fall. The side of my face hits something. I panic for an instant until I realize it’s my backpack.

Terror still scratching its way up my throat, I jerk my leg to yank it free, but Luke’s grip is strong. I try again, this time twisting my body and, at the same time, kicking at his knuckles with my free leg. He lets go.

“Would you stop?” Luke says between his teeth.

With a furious growl in the back of my throat, I jump to my feet again, the backpack in my clutches. Making a big show, I dig inside of it, causing the impermeable fabric rustle.

“Stay where you are or I’ll shoot you,” I say, my voice firm in spite of the lie. I squeeze the handheld surveillance receiver in my hand and point it at him. It’s too dark in here for him to realize I couldn’t kill a roach with this thing.

“Call your men off or I swear you won’t make it out of here alive.” I take a few steps back, feeling for the real gun with my feet, but it’s hopeless.

“My men?” Luke moves. I squint at his dark silhouette. He just sat up, I think.

“Don’t move,” I yell.

“I won’t. I’ll just sit here. I promise. I’m just … ow … seeing if my balls are broken.”

“I sure hope so.” My breaths pump in and out.

Calm down, Marci. Calm down. Think!

My fear subsides a notch, but I’m drunk on adrenaline. My body tingles. My fingers twitch, and I’m sure that if I really had a gun, Luke would be dead by now.

“Don’t be so mean. I’ll need them one day.” Luke moans.

I ignore his revolting comment. “You’re gonna tell your men to leave unless you want me to kill you,” I repeat. “I’d have no problem facing them, knowing you’re nice and dead.”

He sighs. “I’m alone, Marci. There’s no one else here.”

What? Is he serious? There’s no one out there to stop me from racing away on my bike. Why would he come alone?

“I don’t believe you,” I say. “You’re a coward. You wouldn’t come here on your own.”

“A coward? That’s what you think of me?” He sounds genuinely surprised.

“That’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

Another sigh. “No point in arguing your misconceptions. But I did come alone. You can go check if you want. I’ll wait right here.”

Something in the tired and resigned tone of his voice lets me know he’s telling the truth. I relax a little more, but don’t let down my defenses by any means.

“All right, don’t move. I’m going to pick up the flashlight.” I take a sideways step and snatch it off the floor. I’m afraid it’s broken, but it’s only switched off. I flick the button and light pierces through the darkness, creating looming shadows too similar to my own specters for comfort. Better than the alternative, tough.

I shine the light on Luke. He turns his face away and places a hand in front of his eyes. “Do you mind?”

Taking advantage of the deer-and-the-headlights effect, I shine the light to the floor and quickly look for the gun. Nothing.

Where the hell did it go?

I bring the light back to Luke’s face, just out of meanness.

“Seriously? Don’t be childish?” He places his hand over his eyes, blocking them completely. In this light, his features look strange, too sharp and savage.

I ignore his comment and take several backward steps to the still-opened, front door. The evening outside has fallen into full night. I lean backward, stick my head out and look right, then left. No one is out on the porch, so I move outside to take a better look. The street is empty, and the only difference since I came in is the large car parked behind my bike.

“Satisfied now?” Luke calls from inside.

For a moment, I weigh my options. I could turn tail, hop on my bike and leave Luke’s ass sitting there in the dark. The thought is fleeting, though. I can’t run, not when there’s a chance to find answers to the questions that have plagued my mind since Kristen ran those DNA tests. Besides, there’s Dad’s box. I can’t leave without it and have it disappear like Xave’s.

I crack my neck, square my shoulders and go back inside.

“Glad to have gained some of your trust,” Luke says.

I laugh, really laugh. “You have some nerve. Trust is a severed road between us. The kind that can never be rebuilt.”





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