The Breeders Series: The Complete Box Set

by Katie French

  The drive is eerily familiar. Memories of driving this path in reverse as we fled the sheriff and went in search of my mama and Auntie play in my mind as we drive over the moon-drenched patches of pitted highway. I recognize car husks and abandoned buildings. The only sound is our truck burning through the night.

  When the barricade appears across the road, I lose myself to worry. The town’s barricade is made up of pillars of wood, topped with barbed wire and broken glass. A twenty-foot watch tower holds an armed guard ready to shoot anyone who seems out of sorts. It’s a bad situation no matter how you slice it.

  Clay pulls the truck behind a mound of concrete rubble that used to be a shop and kills the engine.

  “I’ll go on foot from here,” he says, grabbing a backpack and filling it with guns, most of our ammo, and some water. “I’ll find out who of my compadres is still inside and rally the troops. Then I’ll pop back out to collect you.”

  I bite my lip to hold back the flood of uncertainty that’s threatening to spill over. He makes it all sound so easy, but nothing in this life goes down just like you think it oughta.

  “If you’re sure,” I say. Trust, I remind myself. You promised to trust him.

  He locks eyes with me and gives me his confident smile, blue eyes blazing. “Before I left, there were guys in there who would lay down their life for me. I know some of ‘em still will.” He leans in and pecks me on the forehead and ruffles Ethan’s hair. “I’ll leave you the shotgun. Just sit tight. Be back in a few hours.”

  “And if you aren’t?” I ask, unable to stop myself. All of this feels rushed, ill-advised. “I mean, what if you don’t come back? How long should we wait until we come for you?”

  “Can’t we stay with you, Clay?” Ethan whines, his head drooping in his forlorn puppy-dog look.

  This time Clay ignores Ethan’s sad, brown eyes. “I’ll come back. Don’t worry.”

  And he’s gone, out the door, loping into the moonlight with his limping gait. He looks so strong and confident striding over the desert that I almost believe this plan will work.

  Almost.

  I wake to the driver’s side door creaking open. I fell asleep? Dammit. The empty rifle comes up in my arms before I can even see who it is. “Stay where you—”

  “Ri,” Clay says, holding his hands out. “It’s me.”

  “You’re back.” I sit up, stretching the kinks out of my neck. It must be nearing dawn. The sky’s a gray-blue and the horizon sports the thinnest rays of pink dawn.

  Ethan stirs from where he’s lying on my lap and looks up. “Clay.”

  I study Clay’s face for an answer on how things went down, but his jaw is tight and his brow furrowed. “How’d it go?”

  “Okay,” he says hesitantly. “I think it went okay. I met up with two of my old stompin’ buddies. Told ’em what I wanted to do. They say they’re behind me.”

  “Just like that?” I ask, setting the rifle down. “They’re ready to go up against the warden just like that?”

  Clay nods. “Warden is a ruthless bastard and a terrible leader. Greedy, selfish. They told me a story ’bout him gutting a tower guard and leavin’ him moanin’, insides spilled in the street, for fallin’ asleep on guard duty. My friends figure it won’t take much to turn everyone against him.”

  “Okay,” I say. “What’s the plan?”

  Ethan sits up straighter. “We goin’ in shooting?” The glee in his voice is disturbing.

  I shush him, but Clay smiles at my brother. “Goin’ in shootin’ ain’t always the way to go, little man. Goin’ in quiet, that’s the best way. That’s how we’ll do it. My boys are gonna let us in the gate tomorrow night when all’s quiet. They’ll set us up with a place to hide while we build up a team. Then we strike when the time is right.” Clay punches his fist into his palm with the bullet wound in the middle, making a dull thunk.

  He’s so confident, so happy, I almost feel happy, too. I push down my dread and bring up a smile. “Let’s go over the plan, and then you need to get some shut-eye. You have a big night ahead of you.”

  We go over the town’s layout, the names of his friends, the warden’s cronies. We talk about weapons, who’s good at shooting and who can’t shoot worth a lick. We imagine scenarios until my brain hurts. Ethan, bored after the first twenty minutes, has moved into the truck bed and practices cocking and firing an empty revolver.

  We try to sleep the heat of the day away in the cab of the truck, but it’s stifling and I toss and turn. Eventually both Ethan and Clay are snoring, so I slip out of the truck, close the door, and go for a walk, careful to stay out of sight of the guard tower. Luckily, there are plenty of broke-down buildings for me to skulk behind.

  The crumbled mound that used to be a warehouse has been long since picked over, but I still find a few trinkets in the concrete rubble—a blue ballpoint pen and a giant, rusty wrench that has Armaloy stamped into the side. I uncover a lizard hiding under a plastic light cover and he skitters into a dark crevasse. As I watch the lizard go, my chest feels tight. I don’t want to go back to hiding in basements as we build up a force to take on the warden. I know that Clay’s plan is solid, but a bigger part of me wishes we could snag Auntie and hit the road. Why does he have to take over town? Does he think it’s the safest place for us, or is it his ego driving his thinking? And once he has what he wants, what’s to stop him from becoming just like his father?

  I turn around, deciding that I’ll wake him up and ask him these questions myself, when a lean shadow draws up behind me. I whirl around.

  Clay stands with his thumbs in his belt, squinting at me under his cowboy hat. I push the sweaty hair out of my eyes and look at him.

  “Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.

  I shake my head and hold out the wrench. “Doing some hunting.”

  “Good work,” he says, taking the wrench and turning it over in his fingers.

  “Clay, I—”

  “You don’t have to say it,” he says, his eyes on the rusted metal in his hands. “I know you’re nervous, and you got every right to be.”

  I nod, chewing on the inside of my cheek. “I’m sure you’ve got this all figured out.”

  “But”—he says, taking a step closer and meeting my eyes—“you’re just not sure stayin’ in town and fightin’ is the right thing to do.”

  I nod, feeling relieved he said what I was thinking.

  He takes another step, lowers the wrench, and puts a hand on my cheek. “I ’preciate you takin’ this leap of faith. It means the world to me.”

  I lean into his touch, his palm warm on my face. “I know you’ll take care of us. I just hope you let us take care of you, too.”

  That night we hike into town under moonlight that makes me taut and tense. Ethan crouches beside me with the hunting knife clutched in his fist and his eyes dragging across the landscape like a scythe. Clay is on my other side, eying the wall confidently, his gun at the ready.

  Ahead, the town wall is a noose circling the horizon. I’d forgotten how wide it is and how tall. The barbed wire along the top looks fresh and twice as sharp as I remember it. And the guard tower beside the gated entrance makes me feel as if eyes are watching us trek through the darkness.

  Before we get close enough to be seen by the guards, we slip around the side of the wall, hugging the wood to our right and avoiding the guard tower. Our hope is to find the side door where one of Clay’s friends. But when we find the door, and Clay raps his knuckles on the wood, nothing happens.

  He frowns. “Kimber must be runnin’ late.” He stares at the wood grain as if he could see through it, his brow wrinkled in worry.

  I heft my pack and glance back at the dark desert behind us. “We can trust Kimber?”

  Clay nods. “He was my right-hand man up until I left. He swore he’d help us.”

  I swallow, listening for footsteps, and hear instead the drone of insects and the howl of coyotes. Beside me, Ethan lays his forehead against the wood. I pat his back a lit
tle. He’s tired. We all are. If we don’t get in soon—

  There’s a scraping sound on the other side of the door and a creak as hinges swing back. The door opens, revealing the dark landscape on the inside of the wall. Then a man’s face appears. My hand goes to my knife.

  “Kimber,” Clay whispers, his face brightening.

  “Sorry,” Kimber says, pulling the door back. “Got caught up for a minute.”

  Clay nods, stepping inside the wall. “No worries.”

  I follow him, beckoning Ethan in behind me.

  Kimber closes the door and snaps the padlock with an awful click that sends my heart skittering. We’re locked in.

  Clay pats Kimber on the shoulder, smiling again. “Thanks, brother. You know I’ll repay you when I’m leader.”

  Kimber lifts a thin smile. He’s lean, but muscular, a taller version of Clay with a cowboy hat and boots, worn jeans, and a brown T-shirt. A long jagged scar runs up one forearm and wraps into his sleeve like a tattoo of a snake curing up his bicep. His face is expressionless—dark eyes, thick eyebrows, a hooked nose and thin lips that make his face seem severe and humorless. If Kimber and Clay were friends, I don’t see it.

  Kimber nods toward town where gas lamps wink dimly from porches and in windows. “Got a place for you to stay.” He looks Ethan and me over as he says this. I duck my head, letting the brim of my hat shadow my face. Clay and I decided it would be best if I’m seen or heard as little as possible. I don’t meet Kimber’s eyes. Instead, I study my surroundings, remembering the layout of the town from the one time I was here months ago. From what I remember, we’re at the northern-most point of town. Clay’s old house sits to our right; the big white Victorian is quiet with no lights on. I wonder who moved into the sheriff’s old place once he was dead.

  Past the big house, smaller houses line the main road. Only those wealthy enough, or corrupt enough, live inside town walls. Down the street I remember a livery, jail, doctor’s office, general store, and brothel. And at the end, the main gate. They’ll have to find a house to put us up in, probably a dank basement or sweltering attic. But we knew this coming in.

  I lift the brim of my hat a little to see Kimber leading us through the yard and out toward the road. Clay waves at us to follow.

  “Stay close,” I whisper to Ethan.

  He nods, his face hard, a miniature of Clay’s serious expression.

  We follow Kimber through the dark spaces between houses, slinking past quiet homes. Down the street an out-of-tune piano plays an old dance song. In a back alley, two men are arguing. The hairs on my neck stand up and I pull my bandana up over my mouth and nose. God, I hate this town.

  Kimber steps out of the shadows and into the main road. I shoot Clay a look to ask what the hell he’s doing. He shakes his head at me, his brow furrowed beneath the brim of his hat. He steps from the shadows, trotting after Kimber, and reaches out to grab his friend’s arm, but Kimber whirls on Clay. His expression is hard and sharp as metal. Clay takes a step back, his hand slipping to his gun.

  A light blasts on, blinding us all. I throw my hand up to shade my eyes and squint into the beam. A giant spotlight. We stand frozen in its glare like an animal in a car’s high beam. Between us and the light, a lean, tall structure throws shadows down the road. It looks like a light pole erected in the middle of the street, but that doesn’t make any sense. Why would someone put a pole in the middle of the road? And I thought this town didn’t have electricity. Either way, this is bad. I reach for Ethan. We have to run.

  Another light snaps on, this time from the side. With the light not blazing in our eyes, I can see what they’re spotlighting. It’s a pole, all right, but it isn’t for light. Someone is hanging from it, tied by his hands, arms extended upward, head dragging forward as if dead.

  As I stare, shocked, horrified, the body turns. A long mane of gray hair stirs lightly in the wind. Not a man, a woman. A woman with long gray hair.

  Clay grabs my arm. “Run.”

  But I can’t run. My heart is pounding in my chest like a bass drum. My mouth tastes like iron shavings.

  As her hair twists in the wind I see what I feared—the bruised and bloodied face of my Auntie.

  I can’t move. Can’t speak. My legs are liquid, my belly a fist of fury and fear. Auntie’s body twists, the rope creaking, and I can see her face, the purple-blue mask of someone who’s been beaten.

  “No,” I cry, low in my throat. She’s not moving. Why is she not moving? Behind me, Ethan begins to cry.

  I run, blinded by panic. Ten steps and I’m at the pole. Before me, Auntie’s body hangs from the wrists. Her bare feet sway inches from the dirt. Jagged red marks, like fingernail scratches, run the length of her collar bone. Dried blood encrusts her chin like a red-brown beard. Her eyes are shut, her features motionless.

  “Auntie!” My chest squeezes until I can barely suck a breath. “Auntie!”

  Clay stumbles up, takes one look at Auntie, and flicks out his knife. He hands it to me. “We got to get her down. Get on my back.”

  He hunches over and I do my best to scramble up, one hand on the pole to steady myself. I reach up for the rope that binds her hands.

  Below, there’s a sickening crack and Clay cries out. I fall and hit the ground hard, breath oomping out. Dazed, my eyes travel to the dark shape in front of me.

  Kimber stands with his fist still balled, knuckles bleeding from where they collided with Clay’s face. When he lifts the revolver and aims it at us, I can’t say I’m surprised.

  Clay staggers up and touches the bleeding cut on his cheek. “Christ, Kimber!” He glares at the gun. “I thought we were friends.”

  “We were friends,” Kimber says in the detached voice of one who’s already come to terms with betrayal. “Then you left. We all gotta do what we gotta do. You understand.”

  “You’ll understand when you’re flat on your back, beggin’ for forgiveness,” Clay says, reaching for his gun.

  Kimber cocks his revolver and shakes his head. “I’ll kill you dead in the street before you can draw that gun. We trained together, remember?”

  Clay’s hands go up in surrender. “Let them go and we can talk this out.”

  Kimber shakes his head.

  “My aunt,” I manage to choke out, pulling down my bandana. I want him to see the hatred in my face. “Is she dead?”

  “Wasn’t last time I checked,” Kimber says, flicking his eyes to the silhouetted figure still twisting on the rope.

  “When was that?” I want to kill him.

  Before he can answer, more lights appear at the town gates. More spotlights? No. Headlights. They bounce over the dirt road, heading in our direction. More enemies. Ethan, Clay, and I tighten into a circle, back to back. I grab Ethan’s hand, then reach for the knife in my pocket. It might do me no good, but I can’t wait to cut any sonovabitch who gets between me and my family.

  Please let Auntie be alive, I pray as the headlights near and dust thickens the air. The slow creak of the rope as she turns is like a blade slowly sawing through my ribs.

  An open-topped Jeep skids to a stop, spraying up dirt. We all cough and I think of Ethan’s asthma. It’s been better lately, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

  Two figures step out of the Jeep and walk toward us, black silhouettes in the glaring light. Even Kimber stands up straighter, like whoever’s coming is someone to be respected or feared. Either way, it doesn’t bode well for us.

  I glance at Clay. How can we get out of this alive?

  “Son,” a voice says.

  My insides ice over and crackle into bits. Before us stands Nessa Vandewater, Clay’s mother and a Breeders doctor. A vile, evil woman who tried to kill us not too long ago. Dear God, she’s tracked us down.

  Clay pales, his tight jaw dropping. “You…you found us.”

  She smiles, wry and confident like a lioness. Her auburn hair is pinched back in the severe bun like the last time I saw her. The worst thing about Nessa Vand
ewater is that she has Clay’s eyes. Or rather, he has hers. And yet, on her, they’re humorless shards of blue glass. I can’t look at them. Instead, I focus on her throat and picture jamming my knife into it.

  “You didn’t think I’d be far behind?” She reaches across the night air and cups his cheek. He flinches and pulls back. Her smile widens. “Those who run often don’t get very far, do they, Warden?”

  The figure beside her narrows his eyes. The warden reminds me of a cobra—slicked hair; green, soulless eyes; his white shirt piercing in its pristine color. The last time I saw him he’d had Arn beaten and thrown in jail. I can’t figure out who I’ll use my knife on first.

  “Riley,” she says, turning on me. Her tone is one of mock greeting. She runs a red fingernail down my cheek. “You look… Well, I’d like to say you look well, but you’re a mess. Cowboy hat and bandana. It’s so overdone.” She yanks the bandana off my neck. I practice killing her with my eyes.

  “What have you done to my aunt?” I spit through my teeth. “If you’ve hurt her—”

  “Shut up,” she says. “We’re wasting time. I hate wasting time.” She gestures to Kimber and he strides behind me, his hand clamping over my mouth and another around my chest. He smells like horse manure. I fight him, but his arms are strong. Beside me, Clay turns to fight, but the warden raises his gun and two more guards slide out of the back of the Jeep.

  Clay’s eyes find mine and we exchange a look, one that says we’ll get out of this. It’s a lie and we both know it.

  “Take her,” she says, indicating to me.

  “No!” Clay lurches forward, catching the warden off-guard. The gun in the warden’s hand goes off with a bang and the stink of gunpowder. I scream into Kimber’s hand, afraid for Clay, but he’s still moving. He’s on the warden now, wrestling for the revolver. They fight over the gun like two dogs over the last scrap of food, teeth gritted, veins bulging. The warden’s eyes flash wide as his hand slips. Clay’s hand closes around the gun.