Rebel of Scars and Ruin (The Evolved Book 1)

by Veronica Sommers

  "Ready!" Rak yells. "One—two—mark!"

  Bolts of light streak from the guns, peppering the fuel canisters. Rak hits the right spot instantly, and his canister bursts into clouds of glorious flame, throwing two Vilor bikes into the air. I cringe down, expecting to be smashed by a flying bike at any second. But the crashes resound to my right, and I risk a look out through the windshield of the COB. The bikes are burning, dark human forms lying beside them. As I watch, one of the forms moves, crawling.

  Another explosion, and then another as Alik and Safi finally hit their marks as well. Two more bikes down, and one of the big machines grinds to a halt, flames soaring through its engine. The Vilor leap out—one of the men runs off into the desert, screaming and trailing fire. Another comes toward us, blasting white light from his weapon. The first pulse smashes the metal perch seat into oblivion. Another blast takes out a chunk of tread, and the COB groans and leans to the side.

  "I've got to shoot him down. He'll kill us all single-handedly with that thing," growls Rak, and he rises higher in his spot to take aim.

  Another pulse strikes to the right of Rak's head, searing through the edge of the windshield and shattering part of it. I bite my lip to keep back a scream. Rak howls in pain, and I see a huge piece of glass embedded in the back of his gun hand.

  "Give me the gun, Rak. Move." Gripping the collar of his shirt, I pull him back and worm my way forward to his spot.

  "Zilara," he groans in protest.

  "Shut up. You can't shoot." I take the gun from his blood-streaked fingers and press the knife into his left hand. "Stay down."

  The second big machine and the remaining Vilor bike are circling the COB, coming around to attack us from behind. Alik and Safi follow the arc of the machines to the rear, shooting, yelling profanities or commands to each other in a language I don't know.

  I angle my head so I can peek with one eye over the side of the COB. The man with the huge gun is striding toward us, pumping in a fresh cartridge. Before he lifts the gun to fire again, I rise up and shoot at him, blue bolts splitting the air.

  The bolts tear through the man's shoulder and side, jerking him back a bit. He roars and brings up his weapon, and I flatten myself to the floor of the COB as a blast screams over my head. There's a hole through the side of the COB now, eliminating part of my cover—but it also gives me a better view of the oncoming Vilor, so I aim through the gap and shoot, again and again, yelling through my raw throat.

  The Vilor man doesn't go down, but I manage to hit his gun with boltfire—and the next time he tries to shoot, it burps white light instead of blasting like it should. He's so close that I hear him swear as he throws down that gun and pulls out a smaller one. On he comes, flanked by three other smoke-stained, limping Vilor, their faces masked with blue tattoos and grime and hate.

  I keep firing, but I'm not sure which one to shoot at, so most of the bolts miss. The ones that do strike the men don't seem to do much damage—either they have body armor under their clothes, or they're just that tough.

  Closer they come.

  I'm gasping, choking on the smoke and the clouds of dust and the fear crawling up my throat.

  Closer.

  They're not shooting me, why aren't they shooting me?

  They want me alive.

  The huge gloved hand of the big one rams through the hole he blasted and seizes my shoulder, crunching the bones painfully, and I scream. I aim at the one not wearing a helmet and shoot him through the head—he drops with a thump onto the sand. The massive hand on my shoulder tightens, and black spots shatter across my vision. The gun slips from my fingers, clattering over the side of the COB out of my reach.

  Then a bellow of pain bursts from the big man, and he drops me. Rak stuck a knife through his arm. Seizing the hand that released me, I flood it with heat, churning the molecules of the man's skin to fever temperatures, higher, higher, pumping him full of uncontrollable heat. He tries to wrench away but I have a death grip on his meaty fingers. He brings up his gun toward my head, but Rak grabs his arm and forces it away from me.

  Steam hisses from the man's reddening face and he roars, thrashing against us. The gun goes off, a bolt streaking into empty sky. Behind the big man, the other two Vilor have their weapons poised, apparently unsure whether they should shoot while we're tangled up with their leader.

  "Get them off me, you idiots!" he roars. The cords of his neck strain, and I focus my power on his blood. I will make it boil in his veins. A wicked smile spreads over my face as he gasps and stops fighting, eyes rolling back in his head, capillaries bursting like fireworks in his face, skin bubbling.

  "He's done, Zilara! Stop." Rak's voice breaks me out of my frenzy, and I let go. The man topples backward, cooked from the inside out. Rak pushes me down to the floor again as the other men let loose with a frantic flurry of shots. I'm laughing—a wild, crazy laugh I've never heard from myself before.

  "Did you see their faces?" I say. "They're terrified."

  "Zilara." He shakes my shoulder with his left hand. "Focus. We have to keep fighting."

  A scream from Safi spins my head around. Two of the Vilor have her by the hair, and they're dragging her out of the COB, her shirt shredding against the rough metal plating of the machine. Alik's gun must be out of charge—he's beating one of the Vilor with it, yelling like a maniac, his eyes wild and his golden hair shining.

  "Safi!" I shriek, and I leap toward her, careless of the two Vilor behind me who are still shooting. A bolt sears my ribs, but the streak of pain feels like a surface wound and I keep going, throwing myself over the side of the machine, down to the sand where the two Vilor are struggling with Safi.

  Springing onto the back of the nearest one, I wrap my legs around his waist and grip the bare skin of his neck with both hands. He lunges, trying to throw me off, beating at my hands with his gun.

  Another Vilor joins the one holding Safi—they're tearing at her clothes, striking her face, kicking her in the stomach. I scream, sending an avalanche of fiery heat into the man I'm holding, and he spasms under me and collapses.

  Alik leaps from the COB, crashing onto one of the Vilor attacking Safi. I charge at the other attacker, but he turns as I reach him and backhands me across the face so hard that I fly over the sand.

  My body crashes to earth.

  Pain.

  My lungs shudder again and again, trying to pull in air.

  Black spots, skittering across the world. My spine is on fire.

  People are screaming, roaring. Pulses of light and of boltfire stream overhead. My fingers twitch, but I can't move. My head throbs as I fight against the darkness flooding the edges of my vision.

  Air seeps back into my lungs and I start to regain motion; but then rough hands flip me over, pressing my face to the ground. Sand in my mouth. Someone pins my hands together against my back—grips them so tightly that pain splinters my wrists.

  I struggle to breathe without sucking in sand. Someone heavy is holding me down and the shadow of him spreads like a dark cloak over me.

  Power. I need to burn him.

  I try to focus, to tap into my ability. Nothing. My head is too dazed. I can't—I can't think. I can't push the energy.

  The man on top of me leans forward and runs his slippery tongue along my face. He licks my lips, and I cringe away, biting the inside of my cheek so I won't whimper at his touch.

  A stream of light and liquid flashes through the air, striking the Vilor across the face, leaving a red line on his skin. It coils away and then lashes him again. The Vilor looks up, growling.

  "Get away from her," snarls Rak, his whip of water slashing at the man's exposed neck.

  "You want to play, magic-boy?" says the Vilor. His weight surges off my back and he lifts his gun, pointing it at Rak.

  I flip onto my back and kick the man in the groin as hard as I can. He chuffs out air and clutches himself, but he doesn't lower the gun.

  He's going to shoot Rak.

  He's
going to—

  Rak—

  I leap to my feet in front of the gun as the whine of boltfire splits the air.

  18

  There's no pain. No hole in my stomach or chest. Instead, the Vilor wobbles, stumbles, and topples to the ground, his skull hollowed by a blast from Rak's gun, in Safi's hand.

  She's shaking, her clothes fluttering in shreds, bruises and blood a colorful medley all over her exposed stomach. Sinking to the ground, she presses her hands to the sand.

  "The other bike—it's leaving," she says.

  "Three of them got on it and left after Zilara fried their boss," says Rak. "And after I water-whipped the guns out of their hands."

  "Three of them?" Alik sits against the wheel of the COB, clutching his chest and gasping. "Those bikes carry two."

  "I know. It was a tight fit for them. But I think they were eager to get away from us. They didn't even bother going around to get the big machine." He points to the last functional Vilor vehicle, a massive beast that makes the COB look like a housecat beside a lion.

  "That water whip thing—that was clever," says Alik. "Ever done that before?"

  "No." Rak steps up behind me and wraps his fingers around my shoulder. "Zilara. Are you all right?"

  "We're alive," I whisper.

  "Yes."

  "I thought he was going to shoot you."

  "And you tried to take the bolt for me." His voice has a hard edge, and he spins me to face him. "Don't ever do that again. Do you think I could handle it if you were shot because of me? After everything?"

  My eyes drop to his right hand. "Rak, you're bleeding a lot."

  "Zilara." He takes my chin in his good hand, the left one. "You can't do that. You can't be willing to die for me."

  Alik interrupts. "Can you have this dramatic talk later? First we need to make sure these guys are all dead. I saw a few moving near the blown-up bikes."

  "I'll check this side, you do the other," says Rak. "Take my gun. I've got a knife."

  Rak clutches his wounded hand to his chest as he limps toward the bodies. My heart hurts watching him suffer. He needs that glass shard out and the wound bandaged as soon as possible.

  "Zil." Safi's voice is faint. She's lying in the shadow of the COB, purple bruises blooming around her mouth, down her arms, over her stomach.

  Snatching a bottle of water from her pack, I kneel beside her. I don't know how to identify internal bleeding, or to stop it if it's happening.

  "What can I do?" I ask.

  "Pain tablets in my bag. Get three."

  I return to the COB and push open the flap of her bag again—but my gaze skips to Rak. He bends over a prone figure on the ground, catches it by the hair, and stretches its neck out. With one quick slice, he opens the man's throat. Blood spurts and flows onto the sand.

  My stomach roils. Rak is stepping to the next body, slitting the next throat. He has to make sure none of them rally enough to attack us. Still, it's gruesome.

  No more gruesome than what I did to the big Vilor, the leader. An image of his welt-riddled face springs into my mind. After retrieving Safi's pain tablets, I lean over the other side of the COB to look at the big man, to make sure he's dead.

  He's there, face-up, eyes clouded, looking like a red, veined, putrefied nightmare monster. The vomit spews out of my throat before I can control myself, and I pull my hair out of the way as the sick splatters the metal plates on the side of the COB.

  Choking and wiping my mouth, I climb back down to Safi.

  "Did you just throw up on the Cranky Old Bastard?" she says weakly.

  "Sorry." I hand her the tablets, which thankfully escaped a vomit bath. "We blew up all the fuel anyway. We can't drive it."

  "We'll have to leave it here. I know." She closes her eyes, and the next second a tear slips from under her lashes, tracing a path through the blood and sand on her cheek.

  "You worked on it for so long," I say softly. "I'm sorry."

  "The money I put into it, the years. All the things I couldn't have, because I was buying parts—it was my way out."

  "It saved all our lives," I say. "And you are getting out. We can take the Vilor machine. In fact, you can keep it, if you want." I lift my head and look over at the Vilor monstrosity. "Although it's got a lot of blood smeared over the doors, and maybe somebody's intestines dangling from the spike on the front. Gross."

  Safi chuckles and then groans. "Don't make me laugh."

  The pallor of her skin and the sheen of sweat on her forehead sends a chill through my heart. I can't help feeling that something is very wrong with her, inside, where I can't see.

  "Alik!" I call.

  He limps over, his lean frame bending over us. "What is it?"

  "Do you have any medical supplies in that wonderful pack of yours? I think Safi may have internal bleeding. They—they kicked her stomach a lot."

  Blood trails from a cut on his forehead, running into his eye, and he wipes it away. "I'll check, but I think I only have nano-patches, for surface wounds."

  "Rak will need one of those," I say. "If he'll stop moving long enough to let me take the glass out of his hand before he bleeds out."

  "Looks like you need one yourself." Alik points down at my side. A red and black burn crosses my ribs, where the bolt scored me.

  "It's not bad," I say, although now that my adrenaline is ebbing, the pain is starting to pulse through me.

  Alik wheezes a chuckle, touching his chest again as though feeling pain there. "You're tough, Princess. You too, Sky-born. Even if you did almost shoot me by accident."

  Safi spits blood onto the sand. "You got in my way."

  Alik's smile freezes on his face at the sight of the blood. "I'll go check for those supplies. We have to move soon. She needs a physician."

  As Alik climbs into the COB to get his pack, Rak comes striding back across the sand. "This was too easy," he says, shaking his head.

  Alik guffaws, but breaks off as his breath hitches with pain. "You call this easy?"

  "They must have been tired from their raid on Ankerja," Rak reasons. "And they didn't expect our ambush with the fuel canisters, or the fact that we had abilities. Still—I didn't expect to live through it."

  "You might not, if you don't sit down and let me patch up your hand," I say. "Sit!"

  "As you wish, Magnate," he says with a glare, seating himself near Safi and tossing back his shaggy hair with his good hand.

  "Don't ever call me that." I yank the shard of glass from between his finger bones, and he roars with pain. Quickly I fold a piece of his tattered shirt over the wound and press down.

  As he glares at the wound, I watch him. His cheeks are rough with stubble, his skin grimy, his hair damp with sweat. He looks like he did the first time I saw him—an unkempt rebel with a scar through his lips. Except when his eyes meet mine, there's none of that raw hatred in them. Instead, there is familiarity, and ease, and something else, heating deep in his eyes, growing stronger the longer we look at each other.

  "Nano-patches," says Alik, tossing two into my lap.

  I unwrap the smaller one and seal it over Rak's bleeding hand. Then I open the larger patch and press it to the handprint on his neck before he can protest.

  "You're shot," he says. "That bolt-burn on your side—"

  "I'll be fine." I finish smoothing the edge of the patch, my fingers lingering against his skin. "I need to fix this."

  "You had every right to do it," he says. "Have I complained?"

  "No."

  "I deserved it, for participating in what they did to you."

  "No." Before he can say anything else, I stand. "We need to take the Vilor machine and keep going. Those three on the bike might get reinforcements and come after us again."

  "Or they might die in the desert," Alik says hopefully. "Rak, we'll have to lift Safi into the machine."

  "Let's check it out first." Rak stands, immediately stumbling and reaching out to clutch the side of the COB for support. He's lost a lot o
f blood.

  "I'll go." I pick up his gun and walk toward the machine before they can protest. After all, I'm part of this group. I'm better with a gun than I ever knew, and I can boil people alive with a touch. Surely I can handle scouting out a Vilor vehicle.

  The machine sits a short distance from the COB, angled towards it. The Vilor drove it around so they could hem us in from behind—too bad their strategy didn't work. We had the element of surprise, and more spirit than they bargained for.

  Gun ready, I edge toward the vehicle. Its wheels are as tall as I am, and the metal plate at the front bristles with spikes and blades. Blood and black gore streak along its sides, as if someone painted it with death.

  I plant one foot on the step and hoist myself up to look inside the front half of the cabin. Worn seats of dark leather, shellacked with brown bloodstains. Guns and spare bolt chargers and pulse cartridges mounted to the ceiling.

  The front seat is clear, so I edge along the step and jerk open the door to the back area of the cabin.

  A booted foot crashes against my chest, knocking me backward to the ground. The impact sets my spine screaming again, and for the second time today I'm struggling to breathe. The Vilor inside the vehicle launches himself on top of me, shrieking. His hands are mangled—a bloody mass of torn tendons and skin flaps and bone, and he scrapes them over my chest as he smashes his skull against my forehead. A sharp stab of pain starts in the center of my head and spreads, like cracks in parched earth.

  Rak and Alik are shouting, pulling the man off me. I'm too stunned to turn my head, but I hear the moment when the man's frenzied screams turn into a low gurgle and then fade to silence.

  I lie still, trying to decide if I feel sorry for the man. He must have been a bike driver, caught in one of the explosions, and he crawled into the machine for shelter during the fight. Maybe he thought we wouldn't notice him at all, or maybe he planned to kill as many of us as possible on his way out. Either way, he couldn't have made it far on his own with his hands in that condition.

  "Zilara!" Rak bends over me, his face contorted with anxiety. "I'm sorry, I should have gone with you."