The blood within him seemed to be swelling, an emittance of heat with every word that struck him.
“And when the guilt is too much for her to bare—you know, because she’ll blame herself for your demise, since you left Hope to search for her—and she loses all will to live, I’ll help her pull the trigger, end her misery.”
He could only see red.
“All because Santiago only ever acted impulsively and selfishly.”
“Enough!” he finally bellowed, a volcano at the peak of eruption.
“Is it enough? Do you see my point yet? You deciding to go out there on your own causes a ripple effect. It’s pitch black out there. If you leave now, no one will ever see you again because you’ll be lost in the vast dessert until dehydration or hunger seizes you. We would of course send out search parties. Who knows how many others would perish in the search? And Graciela…think of what it would do to her.”
“I get it,” he grumbled. Not letting the shadows of frustration leave his expression, he turned to find Mara, already hoisting Laurel’s upper half by the underarms.
Together, they lifted Laurel off the ground and started to drag her over to a measly wheelbarrow near a bunker at the gate’s entrance. As Santiago started to move, his foot caught on a black piece of cloth that had fallen from Laurel’s pocket.
He paid no attention to it. Mara, on the other hand, couldn’t peel her eyes away. Solid black, seemingly untextured, the only notable feature was a gold winged emblem that glistened in the moonlight.
Mara nodded to Santiago, signaling for him to take Laurel’s full weight so that she could retrieve the mysterious item.
“What is it?” he asked, trying to conceal the remaining tendrils of irritation left in the wake of their previous quarrel. Every second they wasted put Graciela at further risk. His time should be spent doing more important things.
“It’s a beret,” Mara responded, a bit despondent but also intrigued. Her eyes flickered then to Laurel’s pants, to the light gray slacks with a maroon stripe running down the side.
“What’s a—” But when he saw Mara pick up the woman’s hat, he deduced enough. “I’m sure Laurel will be jumping with joy that you grabbed her hat for her. Can we go now?”
“It’s not just any hat.”
He rolled his eyes and shrugged. “Okay, what do you mean?”
Mara spun around, excitement twinkling in her eyes. “Look! This symbol, here! It’s used on all of the military uniforms in Italia.”
“Does that mean…Is she from—”
“Italia! Yes, she must be!” Mara exclaimed in astonishment, suddenly out of breath but full of exuberance. Santiago didn’t think he’d ever seen her so excited before. “The black berets usually belonged to Polizia di Stato, but multiple variations fall within this category. She could be highway patrol, border patrol, working with data somewhere in an office.”
“Why would an Italian data soldier be in the Pacific Union?”
“Boh,” Mara exhaled. It clearly baffled her as well. There was no doubt by now that Mara was beginning to regret knocking the woman out before getting any answers. “It’s more likely that she’s Anti-Terrorist Police.”
Santiago lifted his eyes, the indication he could think to give to convey his interest in her continued explanation. Secretly though, all he could think of was his own sister. About what she might be doing right now. What torment was being bestowed upon her.
“Last I heard, the Anti-Terrorist Police were the ones dealing with the aftermath of the Awakening. You’ve got to understand though, in Italia there were very few—for lack of a better word—outbreaks.”
Santiago thought the word fit just fine.
“My sisters, they told me that Italia had closed its borders in an effort to protect itself, sealing all major cities from the outside world. The government was tremendously paranoid that the Awakening was a terrorist effort. All international water, air, and vehicular transport ceased after a time, and Italia remained almost entirely unscathed. They even managed to shut down international communications, which is when I last spoke to anyone there or heard any news of Italia’s condition.” She paused, blinking furiously. “She might have intel of Italia and the state of things there. She could be the answer I’ve been waiting for. I need to know if my family is okay, if they’re in danger.”
A nod seemed the only acceptable answer. Of course, she needed answers. If Santiago had learned anything today, it was that the not-knowing was the torturous part.
For Mara’s sake, he only hoped that when Laurel awoke—and hopefully she would—she would bring good news with her.
“What about him?” Santiago asked, gesturing to Trey who remained unconscious on the desert ground.
Mara grunted. “We’ll send Darach to retrieve him.”
Not another word was shared between the two of them. With strained effort, they lugged the state official into a wheelbarrow and, as fast as the wheels would allow on unpaved road, made their way back to the medic tent.
Chapter Forty-One
Sean
It was the scent of blood that drew him in, the saccharine odor flaring his nostrils. Temptation didn’t quite cover it. Even with the USTOTA blocker, the smell of blood still made Sean sick with anticipation.
Or perhaps that was the act of slaughter.
Sean cranked his arm up and back down, machete snugly caught in an unknown man’s neck like it was made of stone. Cold eyes gaped into his soul with each pull. The man couldn’t be much older than Sean, an entire life snuffed in the blink of an eye.
No voices were to blame this time though. These murders were of his own volition.
Sean sucked in a deep breath and gave one final tug, freeing his weapon. Morals aside, the mission propelled him forward. He’d hack through just about anyone to find Graciela. That was what a mission like this called for, after all, and if he hadn’t been prepared to do it, then he shouldn’t have led his people into battle.
Sean broke forward again, forcing his legs to pump as fast as they would go, though, to his frustration, it wasn’t as fast as he’d hoped. A sea of vultures enclosed around him and the others, blood the only thing on their minds.
Another Sanguinatore charged, a streak of fresh blood brushed across her forehead. The fresh crimson hue matched that of her hair and that of the fire that bellowed deep within her. With so much hate, her skin could’ve popped from the force of the creased glare she directed at him.
Sean hunkered down on his machete as the girl hurled herself into him. With no weapon, she swatted, deranged and desperate to release her anger somewhere. He didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want to harm any of them really, but it was their only option at this point. They’d had their chance to stand down.
Sean shoved the girl so hard, her breath caught as she stumbled backward, a fallen comrade causing her to trip. He turned to run, to grant her one final chance at life, but it was a chance she neither wanted nor deserved. A shrill of anger boiled out from within her, and Sean spotted the grounded blade in her grasp.
The young woman aimed it at his heart as she charged again.
It was either him and Graciela or the woman.
Sean caught her wrist to jerk her past his own body. He ignored the look of confusion she shot when her knife skimmed past his torso, lest he find some semblance of humanity within her and lose the steam required to do what needed to be done. None of them could survive, not if they wanted guaranteed safety from any future Sanguinatore threat. A human guillotine, Sean swung the machete of justice down into her back. Spine and bone cracked on either side of the blade.
Her wails were almost mute, the sounds of the others, of the dying, a constant rumble around them.
Sean used the momentum of freeing the blade to spin her around before him. She was almost frozen, a statue of realized panic. It was as if she saw her throat being slit before he even took another swing. A sea of red spilled forth, her fingers unable to catch it.
Se
an let her body fall to the ground, as she continued clawing at the gaping wound, and tried not to think about who she had been before all of this.
The stench of death thickened the air.
Faster, Sean stumbled forth. It wasn’t their fault. He knew that. Being a blood guide changed a person, for the worse if left unchallenged. And these people, all they needed was the right mentor. Instead they’d fallen under Zane’s control. Bile like lava rose from the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t allow himself to think about the growing number of lives he’d taken, nor the ones he undoubtedly had left to take.
The blood throbbed in his fists at the thought of Zane. If they were to find Graciela and it be too late… he couldn’t think about that either. A world without her would be too bleak.
Each stride became more strenuous than the last. Sean’s breath was ragged. A trail of bodies piled up behind him. Every muscle in his body felt exhausted to the point of putty. Until another person would attack and they’d be re-invigorated. All around him, war raged on, the battle so thick he could no longer see the path forward or back the way they came.
He looked to his comrades, bloodied and battered. A certain kind of disillusionment sunk through their faces. It was the same look he imagined he had the first time he’d committed murder. That hollow sense that he’d just exorcised his own soul. If it weren’t for his duty as leader, he’d likely feel it today too, but the others needed his guidance. For this reason, and this reason alone, he maintained an outward show of strength and certainty. Each member of the Waves that cast him a look of doubt, he returned with an assured nod, one he hoped conveyed that they were doing the right thing. It was all he could do given the circumstances.
Even Ryka, a woman who was always raring for a fight, seemed unhinged. Their eye contact lasted the longest, a thread of emotions burning between the two of them. With a stern nod, he hoped it was enough to express that she would be all right.
But it was a lie. In the same moment she accepted the gesture and returned it in kind, the tip of a bayonet spiked through her abdomen.
“No!” Sean’s cry fused with another, that of a woman.
Before Ryka could look to her belly, Meeka catapulted from the crowd with a roar and pounced onto the Sanguinatore responsible. The two of them crashed to the ground, Meeka landing on top. But once she was there, it was like she didn’t know what to do. Without her power, Sean assessed, she was lost. Or rather, without her sister.
Tears streamed as Meeka reached up to her ear. Before Sean could scream again, before his cycling legs could reach her and stop her, Meeka pulled out the insert in her ear.
She didn’t stand a chance. The Sanguinatore beneath her screeched and Meeka crumpled to the ground. Sean didn’t need his power to know that her heart had stopped beating.
At first, he didn’t know why he was still darting across the battlefield. Meeka was dead. An eighteen-year-old girl that he’d led into battle. But then he saw Ryka staggering and changed course. It wasn’t too late to save her.
A table flew through the air, cracking him in the shoulder and knocking him to the ground. Sean found himself pinned atop an unmoving mass of limbs, already chilled by the presence of death.
A Sanguinatore clambered atop him, clocking Sean in the jaw for an added disorienting effect. The taste of blood filled his gum line, hot and tart. He felt the man tightening his fingers around his collar and then the blinding pain of his head slamming into the ground again and again. Pressure and ice.
With each impact, Sean lost a little more sense of reality. He needed to get to Ryka before it was too late, but then he’d blink and suddenly find himself back at Hope, Bessie waiting to be milked, with Adelaide skipping alongside him for the task. With another jolt, he was back at the Sanguinatore stronghold, in the clutches of a man just as bloodied as he was.
On each impact, Sean felt doubt’s grasp tighten. This had all been a mistake. Sean had led his people to their demise, and they’d have nothing to show for it.
Speed cut through the air, and the Sanguinatore straddling him abruptly stopped. Bleary-eyed, Sean took the man in to find a single knife jutting from his temple, jaw slack. Sean scrambled from beneath the dead weight of the man.
“That was a close one,” Carson breathed, hair slicked with sweat, more greasy than usual. With not another look at Sean, Carson plucked the throwing knife from the corpse and went back to battle as if it were normal.
Sean meant to do the same. He rushed over to Ryka, lying face first on the ground. The light was gone from her eyes by the time he’d roller her over. It was too late, just like it had been with Meeka, just like it had been with Samson.
Pools flooded his eyes until a bald, scrawled scalp came into view a yard away. Both of the men noticed each other at the same time, the world freezing around them as they squared.
“Seany-boy!” In a hush, the battle halted around them. Zane could have that effect on people, that instant sense of power and authority. It was no wonder these people fell under his command. The corners of Zane’s lips curled in amusement. “What brings you here, friend? Rethinking my offer?”
For a fraction of a second, he was tempted to respond. Zane had that air of imposition about him. A quick assessment of the battlefield reminded Sean they’d gone far past the time for conversation though. A couple dozen Sanguinatore corpses littered the earth, and none of them had needed to die. That was a choice Zane had made for them. But what struck Sean most, were the ten or so victims of Hope who’d also fallen. Some of them had families, children, spouses, siblings.
If they weren’t quick, soon Santiago would join the list of people to receive bad news from Sean upon his return.
Zane’s view, too, swept over the massacre. “No, I guess not. Something tells me you’ve come for the girl.”
“Where is she?”
“I find it interesting,” Zane’s voice boomed, Sean’s question falling ignored. “That not a single one of us seem to be able to call to the blood of any of your people still. It’s like you’ve already been drained. Which I find insulting because had you come to us first we would’ve happily done such a thing for you and avoided this whole mess.” He motioned to the bodies like they were nothing more than spilled trash cluttering up the roads.
“Where is she?” Sean asked again, jaw clenched like a bear trap.
“Come on!” A cringe-worthy smile split Zane’s expression. “Tell us your secret.”
Neither of them seemed to be listening to each other, but neither lost sight of one another either as they circled around, at the center of everyone. It was a performance for Zane. For Sean, a necessity not to turn his back to a predator.
“Is she still alive?” Sean asked.
“Surely you’re not strong enough to be holding on to them all on your own, and we already know there aren’t that many more of our kind at your little home.”
Once again, Sean found himself tempted to explain, just so Zane would have nothing left to ponder and be forced to answer Sean’s questions instead. But he knew better. Even if he gave Zane what he wanted, he wouldn’t oblige him back. It was all about the power play for Zane, and right now he was actively asserting his dominance. And foolishly, Sean had been letting himself fall directly into his trap.
“Interesting earring. Is it new?” Zane asked.
The comment struck too close to home. Weapon drawn, Sean charged.
The offensive strike, a shoulder to the gut, caught Zane mid-boast. However formidable he was though, all thick bone and even thicker muscle, he didn’t topple over as Sean had hoped. The two collided like rubber, each one of them ricocheting farther away than where they’d started.
Zane spun into a defensive stance. "You’re going to regret ever coming here.”
Before Sean could blink, Zane bolted for him, arms wide, hunched over, ready to tackle. It struck Sean as a vulnerable position. With no weapon, Zane left himself entirely open for Sean’s deadly blow. He could end this all with one swift moti
on.
There was no question about it. Sean’s blade gleamed overhead. A drop of blood dripped off the machete down his neck, and he knew that each drop spilt would have meaning from this moment forth. Each life taken tonight meant safety for the people of Hope, for the world.
Interrupted tufts of sand gave way beneath Zane’s quick footing. Each stride brought his demise closer. Only a yard away, Sean began the descent of his blade, intent on cracking open Zane’s decorated skull.
Something caught his wrist. The shoulder that should be swinging freely with the machete in hand suddenly popped with pressure, and he found his arm falling limply instead at his side. All it took was on torque from one of the demonic Sanguinatores around them, and the machete was lost. Stolen, rather.
En route and unstoppable, Zane located the nearest weapon he could find. The brown plank seemed innocuous at first, until the jagged nails protruding out the back were brought into view.
At the exact moment Sean would’ve impaled the Sanguinatore leader, he found himself being on the receiving end of impalement instead. The sharp, rusted pieces of metal caught between the bones of his rib cage. Piercing his skin with ease, nothing but flesh in their way, they bit into him with profound strength. The board was thick enough that most of the length of the nails were stuck in it instead of him. Still, they burned fiercely. Sean might’ve fallen, collapsed from the immediate shock of it, were it not for the gaggle of Sanguinatores who’d rushed in to hold him in place.
Despite the pain, Sean felt the chaos resume around him, his fellow comrades coming to his aid, or at least trying to. A horde of Sanguinatores flocked from the shadows, an impermeable shield for Zane to end this.
The wooden board became a lever in Sean’s side, and Zane used it to hoist him helplessly off his feet.
Blood Awakens Page 35
