The Complete Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

They sat quietly for a long while, hand in hand.

  “Michael was right,” he finally said. “I mean, he’s naive and sophomoric, but I don’t know what I’m doing here anymore.”

  She suppressed the urge to say something. He’d say what he wanted to when he was ready. She kept his hand in hers and waited.

  “There’s no winning. I cut down fifteen men, and you bet your ass fifty more are gonna step up to bat. And somehow, some way, the good people always end up getting dragged into the shitstorm.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not a good feeling, you know, ending lives. Surprise, right?” He pulled his hand free from hers. “I lost count a long time ago of how many people I’ve killed trying to protect other people.”

  He swallowed audibly. When he spoke again, his voice was thick. “It’s too much. The things I’ve seen people do . . . This world is so breathtakingly fucked, I don’t even know where to start. And I feel tainted, like I’ll never be free of it. I don’t think I ever can be free of it.”

  “Jarek,” she whispered.

  “And now Pryce is dead, for all I know, just because I wanted to get my goddamn suit back. And for what? So I can get back to doing this shit at full steam again?”

  “Jarek.”

  He met her gaze.

  “You saved lives today.” She thought back to the kids in the sanctuary and the girl she’d freed from the marauder in front of the church. “We saved lives. Good ones. And maybe it’s not forever. Maybe another raiding party rides in tomorrow and levels the town. We can’t stop bad things from happening. But at least we gave them more time than they would’ve had without us.” She shrugged. “It’s not perfect, but it’s something.”

  He contemplated her in the fading light. “Christ, when did you decide to join the scouts of America?”

  She smiled. “Right about the time I saw your sad ass still sitting here.”

  “Right. Fair enough.” After a pause, he added, softly, “Thanks, Rachel.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “What?”

  “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever called me by my name.”

  “Not true. I distinctly recall yelling your name in front of the church today. Just before I heroically saved your life, I might add.”

  “Oh, yeah. You mean just before you tackled me to the ground like a rampaging gorilla, right?”

  “You’re welcome. Don’t pretend like you didn’t like it, sweetheart.”

  She scowled and threw a light punch at his shoulder. He deftly brushed the attack aside in the dark, moving so that her hand somehow ended up in his once again. After a moment’s hesitation, she relaxed, allowing his fingers to once again intertwine with hers.

  They sat that way for several minutes before he said, “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “How are you holding up? You looked a little green at the gills back at the church.”

  “Yeah, well, believe it or not, I’d never seen someone dismembered in real life before.”

  “Hey, we don’t have to talk about it. I just thought, you know, I’m airing my shit out, only fair to listen if you wanna do the same.”

  She slid her hand free and considered what it might be like to tell him what had been going through her head when she’d saved that poor girl today. How some tiny part of her had felt like maybe, just maybe, she could undo what had happened to her family (and to her) if only she could save someone else. How she’d felt shockingly little remorse when she’d helped Jarek cut through the rest of the bastards.

  She’d never really talked to anyone but Michael and their dad, John, about the home invasion that had claimed two-thirds of her family and left her next to dead. Others had garnered rough ideas, but it wasn’t something she willingly relived. Even with Michael and John, she’d never been able to say it all. How could she explain the animosity, the raw, unfettered hatred that had been unleashed on her, to people who were decent and good?

  Somehow, with all the shit he seemed to have been though, Jarek might understand better than her brother and dad had ever been able to. But baring herself like that . . . Why did the thought alone sound so terrifying?

  “I saw,” Jarek said.

  Confused, she followed his gaze and realized her thumb was tracing along her left forearm. She folded her arms tightly in front of her chest. Any crazy ideas of opening up to a complete stranger evaporated as more practiced responses took over.

  She stood and walked down the steps.

  “It’s okay, Rachel,” he said behind her.

  It really wasn’t. How could it be? That kind of trauma didn’t just go into the vault for later recall, like the time you tripped and scraped your knee on the pavement. The reminder of how completely defenseless she’d been, of how completely her worth as a living, breathing person had been disregarded, was a constant weight on her mind. At times, it was suffocating. Even now, thinking about those memories indirectly, she felt the hot wetness of tears forming in her eyes.

  “Suffice it to say that there’s a reason I don’t necessarily disagree with your killing career assholes,” she said, managing to keep most of the waver out of her voice.

  “Fair enough,” he said, nodding. “I’m sorry for whatever happened. I’m not great at this whole talking thing, but for whatever it’s worth, I’m glad you pulled through.”

  Justified as she might be, she wasn’t accustomed to losing her shit, especially not in front of other people. She did her best to cover a wet sniffle with a forced chuckle.

  “This from the guy who uses words like ‘sophomoric’ and ‘defenestration.’” She turned her head to dab away the brimming tears. “Totally helpless. Clearly.”

  “I mean, I may have read a book one time, but . . .”

  Silence stretched as the darkness grew thick enough to partially obscure his features from view.

  “Have you ever thought about joining the Resistance?” she asked after a while.

  “Not really,” he said.

  “Not even with a nickname like the Soldier of Charity?” She took a few steps closer so he’d see her small smile.

  He seemed to snap back from somewhere far away. “Thought I heard Pryce talking about that last night. Well, if he told you anything about the guy who first called me that, you’ll understand why I’m hesitant to jump onto any ship that sails on promises of a better tomorrow.”

  “What happened?”

  Dark was falling in earnest now. She stepped closer.

  “Long story short, a guy by the name of Connor found me when I was—”

  His head jerked up like a dog who’d just heard someone at the door, and his hand slid smoothly to the pistol holstered at his right thigh. There was a low, mechanical cough from somewhere behind her and to the right. Then something stabbed into the back of her right shoulder.

  “What the fuck?”

  She reached for her shoulder. Her voice sounded strange in her ears, deep and weirdly distorted.

  Her hand found a small cylindrical object protruding from her shoulder. She pulled, and the world lurched—no, she had. She saw a well-formed butt in front of her and realized Jarek had hoisted her over his shoulder. But why?

  Two gunshots cracked out right beside them, then two more. Jarek’s gun?

  “Hold on, sweetheart,” Jarek said from somewhere far away. He sounded like he was standing at the bottom of a pool.

  The world spun around her as she managed to bring the little cylinder she’d pulled from her shoulder up close enough to see. A tiny dart. That wasn’t good. Because? God, why was it so hard to think?

  Because . . .

  “Oh, shit,” she murmured as darkness closed around her.

  18

  Whoever said chivalry was dead was probably right.

  Sure, Jarek was doing his best to protect a quickly fading Rachel, but if that meant she had to take another tranq or two to cover him as he hauled her up the steps and into Alaric’s cabin, so be it. He couldn’t very well hel
p either of them if he went down too, could he?

  Long live the pragmatists.

  Once they were inside with the storm door shut behind them, he yanked a dart from Rachel’s lower back and another from her lovely little rump. He searched around the dark room for options to their current predicament. There weren’t many. Luckily, having an AI on board your getaway ship was a decent ace in the hole.

  He set Rachel down on the table. “Hostiles, Al. Rachel’s been hit with a tranq.”

  “Oh dear,” Al said. “Shall I come for you, sir?”

  Jarek bit down the urge to immediately reply hell yes, he should come for him. Instead, he took a glance out the closest window, keeping low. To the left, across the street, shadows moved—six, no, maybe eight of them. More appeared as their predecessors spilled across the street and fanned out into the yard and the small lot that separated Alaric’s cabin from the town jail.

  Who the hell were these guys? More marauders, coming to spring their men free? No, they were too organized, and the tranquilizers didn’t fit that picture.

  It didn’t matter who they were right now. What mattered was getting out. A pickup would be messy at best with that many men out there, but it wasn’t like tromping through the woods in the dark with Rachel slung over his shoulder would be a much better idea. These guys were equipped with tranq guns; what if they were packing infrared specs too?

  He’d take his chances here. If it all went ass over teakettle, at least he’d go down in a blaze of glory instead of tripping on a shrub and breaking his neck in the woods.

  “Okay. Save us, Mr. Robot.”

  Al’s reply was lost beneath the voice calling, “Come on out, Slater. It doesn’t have to get messy. Yet.”

  Was that . . .? It couldn’t be.

  He peered through the window again and caught sight of the silhouette. He groped for the leftmost switch beside the door, picking at random. Light poured out from the porch.

  There was a glint of red, and his stomach fell to the floor as Seth Mosen materialized in the light of the front yard.

  “Don’t leave us waiting, Slater. I see you in there.”

  He ducked away from the window and dropped down beside the table, lightly slapping at Rachel’s cheek for some response. No luck. He choked down a dry swallow and glanced back at the window, briefly wondering if any of the townsfolk would dare to step in.

  Not good. This was not good.

  He took a steadying breath and called out, “Seth Mosen, as I live and breathe . . . Didn’t I put a bullet in that big old head of yours?”

  “Mosen?” Al said in his ear. “Oh dear. Hold on, sir.”

  “Busy week,” Mosen called. “Couldn’t spare the time to go dying.”

  Jesus, did he sound that cheesy when he was making his own wisecracks? He crossed the room and grabbed Alaric’s coat from the rack. No, he decided as he threw on the battered long coat, he was definitely craftier at practiced nonchalance. Way craftier.

  None of that remotely explained how the hell Mosen was still breathing. But that was a problem for later, when they weren’t pinned down by the Reds, as was the question of just how the hell they’d even found them here, though he had a sinking feeling that Pryce’s abduction had played a role in the latter.

  He moved back to the window and pinched the coat’s sleeve experimentally. It probably wouldn’t stop a tranq dart, but it was certainly better than his Henley.

  “You know,” he called, “in my experience, it’s better if only one of us tries the wise-guy routine. Things get confusing way too fast otherwise.”

  A movement from the tree line behind the jail drew his attention to the right.

  “Son of a bitch,” he murmured as the slinking shadow drew close enough to resolve into the figure of Alaric Weston.

  “Sir?”

  “Alaric’s back,” he said. “This might be a hairy one, Al.”

  “When has it ever not been, sir?”

  Fair point.

  Mosen was just finishing some line or another about how he’d just have to beat the wise-guy out of him. What to do, what to—

  “Seth.”

  Jarek froze at the sound of Alaric’s voice in the quiet night. It wasn’t the commanding, surly tone he’d heard him use before. Somehow, in that one word, he thought he heard fragility.

  Mosen turned toward the voice, a more substantial red glow flickering in his eyes, and Jarek’s breath caught as a string of thoughts fell into congruent order. Seth is dead, Alaric had shouted at him. Seth. Pryce’s story about what the raknoth had done to Alaric’s family, what they’d done to his son . . .

  For the second time in as many minutes, Jarek found himself staring down an impossible conclusion.

  “Father,” Mosen called, his voice strong but his tone flat.

  “Hold up a second, Al,” Jarek said.

  Alaric was walking into the open yard, hands not quite held up but clearly removed from the revolvers at his hips.

  “Alaric’s—shit, never mind for now. Just tell Michael to be ready and get your ass down here when I give the signal. Code word: party. Or rave.”

  “Acknowledged, sir.”

  Outside, Alaric stopped a few feet away from Mosen. His usual stony expression looked as if it might melt and ooze off his face at any moment. Mosen’s back was turned toward Jarek, so Jarek couldn’t see his reaction as Alaric slowly reached out a hand.

  Judging from Alaric’s expression, it wasn’t good.

  He cracked the window to listen.

  “—have they done to you?”

  “Given me gifts beyond anything you could ever hope to, Father. I’ve become far more than I could have been as your son.”

  “Those aren’t your words,” Alaric said. “They’re his. That’s the Overlord talking.”

  Mosen tilted his head back and let out a high, bitter laugh.

  The situation clearly wasn’t improving. He’d better make his move.

  He holstered his gun and gave Rachel one last hopeful shake. Aside from the tiny groan that rumbled out of her, there was no response.

  “And this is why I work alone,” he said as he gathered up the sleeping arcanist and hauled her back onto his left shoulder. He turned for the door, brushing the long coat open to draw his gun back out.

  Opening the door with Rachel slung over one shoulder and a pistol in his free hand wasn’t particularly graceful, but he managed. “Howdy, boys! Long time no see.”

  He didn’t bother training his gun on Mosen. There was the itty-bitty chance that Alaric wouldn’t take kindly to it, and there was also the concern of Mosen’s underlings and their potentially twitchy trigger fingers—not to mention the whole part where a bullet to the head apparently wasn’t such a big deal for Mosen.

  Instead, he sidled to the edge of the porch where Rachel had left her staff and bent down as best he could to snag the end of it with the fingers of his gun hand. He managed to awkwardly transfer the staff from his overly full right hand to his left, which was slung across Rachel’s legs just beneath her butt.

  That accomplished, he gave himself a satisfied nod and looked out to meet the gaping faces of the Reds beholding him in all his damsel-toting, cowboy-ninja-wizard glory.

  “I think you’re a few months early on the costume,” Mosen said, turning his open back on his father.

  What would Alaric do if it came to a fight? He had a feeling he was about to find out.

  “Hey, there’s a new sheriff in town.” He glanced at Alaric. “Sorry, I’ve just always wanted to say that. How was your walk, cowboy?”

  Alaric glared at him. “Lots to think about.”

  “Uh-huh, I bet. Probably lots to talk about too,” he added, gesturing between the two of them with his gun hand. The movement wasn’t a threatening one, but every one of the Reds gripped their guns—several of them not tranquilizers—more tightly and somehow seemed to aim harder at him. “Like how Seth’s big, scary boss kicked in Jay Pryce’s door earlier today.”

&nb
sp; He felt hard anger creeping onto his face.

  Alaric’s expression darkened as well, if such a thing were possible.

  Mosen smiled at Jarek. “Your fault for involving him, Slater.”

  “You hurt Pryce?” Alaric said, his expression regaining some of that stoic stoniness.

  “What do you care?” Mosen said. “You left those people behind, remember? And if you do care somewhere in there, then his blood’s on your hands just as much as it’s on Slater’s.” Mosen met Jarek’s eyes. “And there’s going to be a lot more if we don’t get the nest back.”

  Was Mosen toying with him? Most likely, he simply figured telling Jarek didn’t matter at this point, and that meant their conversation was on a clock—and probably a short one, at that.

  “Ah, yes. The old end-is-nigh rave.” He jostled Rachel higher on his shoulder. “Speaking of ends, what’s the deal with the tranqs, Mosen? You guys going soft on us?”

  Mosen’s expression soured a shade. “The Overlord himself ordered that the arcanist be captured and brought to him. He made no such order for you, which brings me back to business.” His smile returned in full force as he gestured toward the porch. “Take the arcanist.”

  The Reds started forward only to duck backward in alarm as Al brought the ship roaring down from the hilltop. Even at full power, the ship’s motors weren’t particularly loud, but the cacophony of blaring horns and alarm sounds that Al sent through the loudspeaker was plenty to send them scrambling for cover for a few mad moments.

  Jarek was ready. As soon as the racket hit, he shuffled down the steps, raising his weapon. Gaping mouths snapped shut as the men brought their own weapons back up. He shot one down and nicked another as Al swiveled the ship around and brought the opening hatch down above him.

  He glanced over his shoulder to see another Red drawing a bead on him. The man dropped dead with a neat hole in his forehead as Alaric made up his own mind.

  The ship was only ten feet from the ground now. Michael appeared on the ramp and opened fire with the rifle he’d had the good sense to grab from Jarek’s locker. He wasn’t a crack shot, but he hit one shooter off the bat and gave the rest another reason to seek cover.