The Betrayer (Crossing Realms Series Book 3)

by Rebecca E. Neely

  Blackness crept in and stole the edges of Jordan’s vision, her consciousness.

  Thirty-eight. Fifty-three.

  In her head, she recited the numbers she’d never dared write down, same way she’d done for three months, six days and . . . she struggled to remember the hours. In that space of time, they’d become her mantra for survival.

  Today they were a balm soothing her mind and body. Shifting on the unforgiving concrete, her fingers loosened around the desk’s stainless-steel leg. Her dreadlocks grazed the cuts and bruises on her neck, shoulders and upper arms, inflicted by the Keepers when they’d wrenched her from the tunnel.

  Dev and Meda, the couple she’d first seen at the motel, and again at the warehouse, had stolen Haenus’ Similitude stone from her. Then the Keepers had drained her of dark energy to create yet another stone. And she’d been helpless to do anything to stop it. Or understand it.

  It’s my brood who wants me dead.

  The words haunted her, along with the chaos in her head she could no longer control.

  It’d required all her strength to speak moments ago. Days had passed since she’d fed on dark energy, from Similitude or from what humans unknowingly created through negative emotions and violence. Abel’s relentless and regular ‘field tests’ had left her weak. Every muscle in her body ached and wept with fatigue. Her T-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes, damp and caked with grime from the tunnels and the streets, chafed her skin, miserable with it. Exhaustion steamrolled her in waves thick as the July humidity.

  The Keeper towered over her, his Vitality energy blasting her like the sun, a fiery ball in the summer sky.

  You can’t come back.

  The fear, the pity had burned bright in Kemp’s eyes, searing her with it. Her excommunication from the brood, a parting gift of sorts, was one that’d come too late. She could never go back.

  And she had nowhere to go.

  What little Kemp had told her had been underscored by the same hopelessness she’d lived and breathed for too many of her twenty-seven years. He’d been sent to kill her, but he’d been unable to do it. She hated him for it, yet could do nothing except forgive him.

  Kemp had been sorry. Sorry about a lot of things.

  So was she.

  Maybe most of all, that he’d been incapable of carrying out their brood master’s order.

  So then, this was it. This Keeper would finish the job. Forsaken, betrayed by her own people, he would put her down like a horse fallen lame, mercifully and unwittingly ending her misery. Was that some kind of warped, twisted justice, or not? Even if the Keeper didn’t kill her, without the dark energy, she would die.

  Either way, she welcomed an end to the hell her life had become. Perhaps she would soon be reunited with her beloved father in another realm. Even Magpie. Where was she? No one knew, Kemp had told her, choking out the words.

  No more fear. No more pain.

  No more.

  Beyond this realm, she would no longer hunger. Or hurt others . . . or herself.

  No tears fell, for she’d long ago cried them all. The storm inside her head dulled to a low roar.

  Twenty-three. Seventy-seven.

  Her own body odor, ripe and rank, infiltrated her, adding a palpable layer to her darkness. She sank, like a stone to the ocean floor.

  The abyss, she embraced.

  Chapter 4

  The stone at the base of Curtis’ neck glowed, warm and insistent. Automatically, he gripped it, closed his eyes, and received the directive, as he had so many times in his twenty-five years.

  Seconds later, his eyes flew open, his heart thudding in disbelief.

  Zane stood in the doorway, echoing Curtis’ unspoken sentiment. “A Compulsion? Now?”

  Eyeing the unconscious woman lying at his feet, Curtis recoiled. But only for a moment. Without question, he would do what was asked of him by the Watchers. As he had all his life.

  Unflinching, he met Zane’s stare. “Get the van. I have to get her out of here. And I need your help.”

  “But she’s—”

  “Alive.”

  Zane gaped. “It’s nothing like the usual Compulsions—”

  “I know,” Curtis snapped. Like the computers so often doing his bidding, his brain clicked, rapid-fire. He weighed and considered the distinct possibility of Betrayers returning and attacking his clan. “We have to leave. Now. We’ve taken a chance being here this long.”

  Zane scowled. “She’s a Betrayer. The woman who tried to drain Dev. Who spied on us.”

  “Take it up with the Watchers,” Curtis shouted angrily. Zane wasn’t saying anything he hadn’t already thought, in the space of seconds. As a Keeper it was his duty to obey.

  Muttering, Zane raced through the side door of the warehouse, punching a button to raise the rollup door by the loading dock. “Be right back,” he yelled.

  Curtis knelt beside the woman, holding his breath in defense of her stench. Was this a trick? A manipulation of their communication with the Watchers? It wouldn’t be the first time. Dev found out the hard way, he thought bitterly. But the Watchers had installed, essentially, an extra layer of energy to secure communications.

  Since then, the war drums had sounded for the Second Rebellion. And everything had changed in a matter of hours. Unknowns, stacking up, threatened to paralyze him. Listen to your gut instincts. He did so routinely, which helped him a great deal with the Compulsions he regularly carried out.

  Mysterious ways. How many times had he heard Nick and Dev curse them?

  Grunting, Curtis pressed two fingertips to the Betrayer’s wrist and detected a weak pulse. Why hadn’t he checked before? He’d assumed she’d been dead, after they’d tapped her dark energy. Chastising himself, he quickly patted her down. No weapons. No stones. Just a pathetic stick of a body, her skin stretched taut over her bones. Ordering himself to act, he hoisted her into his arms, alarmed at how light she was, how frail. His earlier estimation of her, that of a baby bird, had been spot on.

  An enemy bird.

  Her dreadlocks, macabre in the harsh light of the warehouse, stuck up at odd angles like a scarecrow, with a body to match. At the base of her neck a black, ornate tattoo sprawled and disappeared beneath her ragged T-shirt. Another accentuated her left wrist. Shifting her in his arms, he feared she might break.

  Again, the shreds of duct tape around her wrists and ankles, along with the scrapes and bruises punctuating her body served as harsh evidence of the clan’s treatment of her.

  We did what we had to do.

  Didn’t we?

  Curtis hustled from the prefab office, the woman motionless in his arms. Zane backed the van up the loading dock ramp and into the warehouse, stopping a few feet from the office.

  “Where are we going?” Zane jumped from the van. “Surely not the network?”

  “No,” Curtis said. He rattled off an address in Deutschtown, on the city’s North side. “It’s a house Nick is renovating. No one’s been there since Dev came and went.” At the thought of his departed brother, his heart sank, but he forced away his sadness. “We’ll hole up there for now.”

  Zane swung open the back doors to the van. Clambering inside, Curtis deposited the Betrayer on a pile of drop cloths directly behind the front seats. Next, he built a makeshift wall around her with five-gallon buckets of paint so anything shifting while they drove wouldn’t crash into her.

  Exiting the van, he quickly inventoried the various supplies Dev and Meda had left behind. Canned goods. Silverware. Notebooks. Hurriedly, he whipped open a trash bag, threw everything in, and placed it in the back of the van. With Zane’s help, they loaded the cots and the mini fridge. Curtis slammed the doors, dashed to the office, and collected his laptop and notes.

  The woman hadn’t stirred.

&nbs
p; Curtis swung himself into the passenger seat. “Let’s go!”

  Zane stomped on the gas, speeding along the loading dock and through the alley. Air, ripe with humidity, smothered them. A few fat drops of water struck the windshield. Seconds later, torrents of rain pummeled the van.

  Slowing, Zane angled through ponding on side streets. Crossing a bridge, he made a left into the historic section of Pittsburgh that continued to make strides in the way of revitalization.

  “She’s got no Similitude.” Zane’s statement hung as a question.

  “No,” Curtis verified. “No other weapons. I searched her.”

  “She can’t exist without the dark energy.”

  “I can’t think it’ll be too long.” Curtis sighed as he sent Zane a sideways glance. “She said her own people want her dead. Then she passed out.”

  “What the hell did she do?” Zane waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter. How can the Watchers ask you to do this? She’s a Betrayer, for the love of gods!”

  Curtis only shook his head in response and cracked open a letter-sized plastic case in which the clan stored the keys to their current jobs. All were neatly labeled, at his insistence. Though the computer end of things tended to be his forté, he occasionally lent a hand on site when needed. He located the keys to the reno, taking a slim measure of comfort in organization amid chaos.

  Zane drove to the rear of the one-hundred-thirty-year-old Victorian row house, where both a miserly parking space and yard coexisted. He backed the van up to the house, coming as close to the stairs as possible. The storm had slowed to a steady soaker. Silently, they unloaded the supplies, including a first-aid kit. He’d set up on the first floor.

  The reno had running water and electricity, compliments of Nick. Concealing the Betrayer in the drop cloths, Curtis carried her inside. To anyone watching, they were merely two contractors on the job. Carefully, he laid her on the floor and unwrapped her. She mumbled.

  Zane knelt, squinting in concentration. “Did she just say ‘twenty-four?’”

  Curtis frowned. “Yeah. I think so.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I have no idea.” Curtis wiped damp palms on his jeans and faced Zane. “Thank you for everything. I need you to leave.”

  “The hell I will,” Zane retorted. “I’m not going to leave you stranded here, with her. Without even a vehicle.”

  “You have to.”

  “I’m calling Nick.”

  “Good. Tell him everything,” Curtis responded calmly. “Except where I’m at. I need to do this. Alone. Go, get back to the network. And be careful.” He glanced out the window at the gray and the wet. “We were lucky this morning, at the warehouse. But there’s no telling what the Betrayers might do. Or when.”

  “Don’t worry about me, bro. But you can’t expect me to bail on you while the Betrayers are waging war in the city.”

  It grated no one would think twice about leaving Zane alone, but Curtis couldn’t be trusted to protect himself. His mood darkened. “I know you don’t want to leave me alone. I know what the clan is up against. I have my Vitality and the Flint. So do you. I can’t think I’m going to be here long. When I’m done, I’ll reach out.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  “Me either. I’m concerned our combined Vitality energy is going to kill her. If it’s only me, and I regulate mine to a low level, there might be a chance. The Watchers have their reasons. They always do.”

  “A chance for what?” Zane threw up his hands.

  Curtis’ gaze traveled to the woman lying on the drop cloths. “She knows something that can help us. And I have to find out what it is. Before she dies.”

  Chapter 5

  Zane motored around a corner on the North Side of the ‘Burgh. Dread roiled in his gut. Humidity clung, cloying. As a clan leader, tough decisions came with the territory. But how could he entertain the thought of leaving a fellow Keeper? Even when the Compulsion dictated it?

  Setting his jaw, he snagged his Smart phone and tapped the screen stiffly. It rang once.

  “Zane.”

  “Nick, I’m on the North Side. About twenty minutes away. Have some stuff I need to tell you. About Curtis. He’s okay,” he assured quickly.

  “Thank gods. I’ve been trying to reach you both for hours.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. He received a Compulsion.”

  “A Compulsion. Is he there? Let me talk to him.”

  “He . . .” Hesitating, Zane thrust a hand through his close-cropped hair. “He said he needed to take care of it on his own. Because of the Compulsion.”

  Silence raged through the phone. “He’s alone? You left him?”

  Zane glared at the Stop sign, his decision made. “Dammit,” he growled. “I’m not leaving anyone.” Stomping on the gas, he cruised through the next light and jerked the wheel to the left. Back to Deutschtown. “I’m staying close by.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Hold on.” Zane scanned the alley ahead, then stuck a hand out the window to wave past a car following close behind him. He flicked a glance in the rearview mirror.

  And a wave of dark energy ambushed him.

  Automatically, he channeled his Flint. Even as the cobwebs dissipated, the car, a classic Pontiac—a Tempest if he didn’t miss his guess—rammed the van’s bumper. Zane’s chest hurtled into the steering wheel.

  No air bags in this relic. Grunting, his breath heaving, the phone flew from his hand and clattered to the floor on the passenger side, out of reach. “Son of a bitch! Betrayers.”

  Zane sped through the intersection and yanked the wheel to the left, the Pontiac hot on his tail. He’d stick to side streets and lose this bastard. Screeching through a red light, horns blared and brakes squealed. He passed signs for the National Aviary. The next intersection loomed. He slammed on the brakes, severely testing the van’s suspension.

  Wrenching the wheel, he heard the scream of tires before he spotted a battered Chevy Impala, rocketing down the street where he’d intended to turn.

  With the Pontiac gaining on him, the Chevy closing in from the right, he jerked the van to the left and took the turn on two wheels.

  Adrenaline pumping, Zane zipped across side streets. Like an omen, Curtis’ warning to be careful echoed in his mind. Too late. Only in the last half hour had he returned to his normal level of Vitality energy. He’d been dialed down, so as to go under the radar most of the morning. It wasn’t a long-term solution. And it must be how the Betrayers located him.

  Curtis is still safe.

  “Betrayers,” he yelled again. Was Nick still on the phone? He had no idea. The clan could track his Vitality energy, but he’d provide them all the info he could. “Two cars chasing me through the city. I’m on Sandusky Street, turning on—”

  This time, the Chevy rammed his bumper. The van swerved, and the Pontiac smashed into the driver side of the van. His teeth rattling, Zane pressed the accelerator to the floor. The van responded, lurching forward.

  Where the hell are the police?

  Rapid-fire thoughts pummeled his brain as dark licks of the Betrayer’s energy sliced at him. Again, he drew on the Flint. And again, the cobwebs dissipated.

  Was it slower this time?

  His mind raced as he calculated and assessed. How many other cars were tailing him? Or lying in wait? The clobbered van shrieked in protest. No way he could keep this up much longer. Zane swerved through traffic, narrowly missing several horrified pedestrians. A bus lumbered around a corner. His heart thumping in his chest, Zane put on a burst of speed and missed it by inches. He threw a glance in his sideview mirror, cracked from the beating it’d taken. The Chevy and the Pontiac were nowhere to be seen. “Yeah!” he shouted.

  At the next intersection, he turned right. One lone pickup hunker
ed at the curb of the otherwise empty street. An eerie silence invaded the city block like ghosts rising from graves, save for his tires slapping the pavement. He’d ditch the van, get to the network on foot. He slowed to about twenty miles an hour. A gas station loomed ahead.

  Behind it will do fine. He sped toward it.

  The Pontiac turned the corner and careened head on into the van.

  “Shit!” Seeing stars, Zane thrust the van in reverse, hit the gas, then shoved it in drive and plowed past the Pontiac. He was rapidly running out of side streets in this cement jungle, with a climate to match. Tasting blood, he wiped sweat from his brow. His right eye had swollen and his knee ached where it’d connected with the dashboard.

  Ahead, I-279’s sign loomed like a death sentence.

  Nowhere to hide.

  The Betrayers’ intention all along.

  Plunging headlong onto the interstate, a maze of narrow concrete lanes converged into an open arena, cutting off any means of escape. He homed in on what lay a hundred yards in front of him. And the wheel nearly slipped from his grasp.

  “What the hell?”

  Because he had no alternative, Zane pushed the van to its rapidly diminishing limits. Steam hissed from beneath the hood.

  He’d never make it across the bridge.

  And not just because the van was deteriorating.

  The Chevy thundered past him on the right. The Pontiac shadowed him, maybe five feet away. The van’s engine chugged, convulsed for about ten seconds, and seized. The top speed of fifty he’d been able to attain dwindled to forty. Thirty. Twenty.

  “C’mon!” Zane pumped the gas one final time. But the vehicle had given its all several miles back. The steering wheel turned leaden in his grip and he maneuvered with all his strength to guide it onto the shoulder of the highway. Swiping the Jersey barrier, he dealt the van a final blow. It did a one-eighty, rocked violently on two wheels, shuddered and died at the merge point for the Fort Duquesne Bridge.