The Complete Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  Behind him came Drogan, another raknoth, and… Johnny? And Rachel, Elise, Daniels, and another dozen Resistance soldiers.

  Jarek traded a confused look with Haldin, expecting any one of the several raknoth in the room to spring at them at any moment. He followed Haldin’s gaze around the lip of the common room pit and realized most of Golga’s soldiers were watching the scene in eerie silence, their weapons lowered to their sides.

  What the hell was going on?

  “Stop them,” Krogoth said.

  Jarek tensed as the raknoth beside Krogoth prepared to spring, but he leapt well over them and Golga and landed squarely on Toady’s stout form.

  Roars erupted from every direction.

  “Traitors!” Golga bellowed.

  He lunged at Jarek and Haldin.

  They split apart. Jarek aimed a swipe at Golga’s leg as he streaked in between them, but the raknoth stepped aside from the attack.

  The two raknoth who’d dropped down behind Jarek and Haldin were moving in to help their master, but Drogan and Elise cut them off.

  Golga rounded on Jarek and charged, deigning to leave Haldin unchecked at his back.

  Jarek pedaled backward, sweeping his sword around, and used his last step to leverage a heavy diagonal cut at the oncoming raknoth.

  Golga went aerial and spun in parallel with the strike, and Jarek nearly shat himself when the raknoth’s scaly hand shot out and clamped onto the dull back edge of the Whacker.

  Golga touched down from his aerial maneuver and pulled, and between Jarek’s surprise and the raknoth’s unbelievable strength, Jarek stumbled forward, off balance. Golga roared in Jarek’s face and smacked the base of the blade with his free hand hard enough to tear the hilt from Jarek’s hands.

  Jarek let out his own battle cry, lowered his head, and drove into Golga as hard as he could.

  Golga was already scrambling to gain control over Jarek when they hit the ground. Jarek wrestled with the raknoth, throwing knees and elbows where he could. Golga made a grab for Jarek’s vulnerable face, and Jarek grabbed the raknoth’s wrist. Too late.

  He growled a curse as hot lines of pain lanced across his face. He clamped down harder on Golga’s wrist and struggled against the raknoth’s superior strength as warm blood ran down his face, forcing his left eye shut.

  Then Golga flew backward as if struck by an invisible cannon ball.

  Jarek spit blood from his mouth, pushed down his body’s pleas to slump to the floor and never move again, and kipped to his feet.

  Rachel was there at his side, staff raised in the direction of Golga’s flight. Haldin faced them from Golga’s flank.

  Golga leapt back to his feet and started forward. Only something was off. The raknoth moved like he was trapped in a pool of thick syrup—or thick concrete maybe, given how freakishly strong he was.

  “We’ve got him,” Rachel said beside him, her voice tight.

  Across from them, Haldin’s expression was just as strained.

  No time like the present, then. Jarek darted forward and threw a hard kick into the side of Golga’s head. The raknoth spun and crashed to the ground. He struggled against his telekinetic shackles to push himself up toward Haldin. Jarek snaked his arms under Golga’s armpits, locked his hands behind the raknoth’s skull, and hauled him to his feet.

  Golga struggled against his hold, but Jarek had the leverage now. A moment later, the raknoth’s arms were both tugged straight out to his sides and held immobile by unseen hands. Rachel and Haldin again, Jarek assumed.

  Haldin appeared at Jarek’s side, grabbed the back of Golga’s head in one hand, and planted the tip of a dagger in front of the raknoth’s eye with the other.

  Behind him, Rachel slammed her staff to the ground, and a low, thrumming boom swept through the room, drawing all eyes to them.

  “That’s all she wrote, folks,” Jarek cried, the taste of his own blood only adding to his frantic battle high. “Now if you’d kindly lay down your weapons and claws and get the fuck out of here, we have some stern words to exchange with this club-happy ass-hat.”

  “Surrender,” Haldin said to Golga, his expression grim and his dagger hand steady.

  Golga ignored him.

  Krogoth stalked across the room toward them. Haldin’s dagger hand stayed perfectly stable as he glanced back at the rusty-hided raknoth. Finally, he gave a small nod and took a step to the side, allowing Krogoth to approach Golga directly.

  “Traitor,” Golga said, his voice a low rumble. He wasn’t struggling anymore. “You would join these pathetic meat sacks? Rebel against the masters?”

  “I would fight for my life,” Krogoth said, “rather than lay down to the masters’ fury like a sheep to the slaughter.” The scarlet fire in his eyes dimmed in a manner that seemed almost remorseful. “You will not stand beside us?”

  “Fool. I will tear you to pieces myself if you—”

  Krogoth clutched wordlessly at Golga’s throat and wrenched with a clawed hand. Jarek’s stomach turned at the horrible wet sound and the airy screech that pierced through it.

  Twin voices demanded at equal intensities in Jarek’s mind that he stop Krogoth and that he stand aside and do nothing. The latter won by default.

  In front of him, Haldin and Rachel looked like they were experiencing a similar moral paralysis.

  Meanwhile, Krogoth calmly pushed through the gurgling screeches and methodically clawed his way through Golga’s throat until the raknoth’s body went limp in Jarek’s arms.

  He stepped back, feeling like he might puke. Jarek was no stranger to violence, but this was disturbing on a whole new level.

  Krogoth took a firmer grip on Golga’s spasmodic head, and Jarek looked away.

  There was an awful ripping sound, and Jarek slowly looked back to see Krogoth holding Golga’s disembodied head high for all to see.

  Having apparently made his point, Krogoth spiked the head to the ground and crushed it with one tremendous stomp.

  Thick, awful silence hung in the air, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the sound of someone retching over to the left. Jarek crept slowly over to recover the Whacker from the floor, then he turned to face Krogoth, sword at his side.

  “The rakul are coming,” Krogoth finally called to the silent assembly. He swept his fiery gaze around to each of the raknoth in turn. “You have all felt it. There is no choice now. There will be no mercy for us.” His gaze drifted to the huddles of Resistance soldiers around Alaric and Commander Daniels. “We must protect the blood, lest the sickness take us. We must fight, lest the masters do it instead. If any of you wishes to challenge me in this, step forward now and face me.”

  None did.

  None except Alaric.

  He set his rifle down and shuffled out from behind cover with a limp he must have obtained in the fight or the cave-in. One of the Resistance troops moved to support him, but Alaric waved him off.

  Daniels pushed out from her party and met Alaric halfway.

  Krogoth watched them approach calmly, his eyes dim and his posture bored.

  “If what we’ve heard about these rakul is true,” Alaric said when he and Daniels stood in front of Krogoth, “it might be we need to set aside the hatchet to survive. For now.” He shook his head, his stare that of pure, immutable stone. “But don’t think for a goddamn minute that means that hatchet’s buried. We’re not your blood bags to be used and discarded as you please, and we’ll never forget what you did to our planet—the destruction you bring even now. We’ll kill these rakul, and then you and I are going to have words about your future here.”

  Krogoth stared at Alaric for a good fifteen seconds before he finally turned his gaze to Daniels.

  She only returned his stare with her own brand of stony stoicism, silently acknowledging her support of Alaric’s claims.

  After what felt like another five minutes, Krogoth gave an almost imperceptible nod and leapt out of the common room pit to the lot above. “Your champions may be formidab
le,” he called back down, glancing at Jarek, Haldin, and Rachel. “But that does not put you in a position to make such demands. Be happy we leave while some of you still stand this day.”

  With that, he turned and stalked out of sight.

  The rest of the raknoth in the common room looked around at each other uncertainly and then vaulted up to the lot and followed after their new leader. Golga’s—or Krogoth’s—troops helped each other in clambering up after them, then they obediently marched off as well.

  Drogan was the last to leave. He eyed his captors of the past few days for a long spell before finally fixing his gaze on Jarek and taking a few sniffs.

  “Your wounds suit you,” he said.

  Jarek swallowed, resisting the urge to wipe at the blood still trickling lightly down his face, plastering his left eye shut. Maybe he was tired—maybe just creeped out—but he couldn’t decide what to say to that.

  Drogan leapt out of the common room before he had to.

  The raknoth turned back only long enough to give a perfectly creepy wave of his partially regrown fingers. “Until we meet again, Jarek Slater.”

  Then he strode off into the midmorning sun.

  Jarek turned his one-eyed gaze to Haldin and Rachel and forced his best nonchalant smile. “I think he likes me.”

  He must have looked garish, because Rachel just cringed.

  “C’mon.” She walked over and squinted at his closed eye before pulling him off toward medical. “Let’s get you cleaned up before you bleed everywhere.”

  Around them, people were beginning to move again—checking on ignored injuries, looking for fallen friends, and carting the wounded back toward medical. Haldin and Elise stood together in one corner, their arms tightly wrapped around one another.

  “Yeah,” Jarek said, allowing Rachel to drag him across the rubble-strewn ruins of the common room. “I mean, we wouldn’t want to go and make a mess of this place.”

  30

  Rachel had never considered herself particularly squeamish, but, then again, she’d never realized just how much a few face wounds could bleed either. As far as she could tell, Jarek’s wounds weren’t all that deep, but they’d stubbornly bled on as she’d done her best to mop up the mess and seal up the damage with the wound glue she’d nabbed from medical.

  In light of the dozens of critically wounded Resistance soldiers, the doctors hadn’t protested when she’d offered to clear out of medical and see to Jarek’s wounds herself. In fact, she wasn’t certain they’d even heard her.

  To say HQ was in shambles was putting it lightly. So they’d trekked outside and found a quiet corner in the shipping container yard.

  “Everything considered,” Jarek said, thankfully managing to not move his face too much, “I think—”

  “If you say you think things went swimmingly”—Rachel paused from her work to wave her wound glue swab in front of him—“I’m going to lobotomize you with this swab.”

  “—think,” Jarek said, holding a finger up for pause, “that it was a hell of a day.” His face split into a grin—just a tad too far. “Some medical professional you are.”

  “Annnd now you’re bleeding again.”

  His grin started to widen. “Ah, you’re just giving me the busin—Ow.”

  Rivulets of blood welled at three more points as her work cracked under the load of his insistent grin.

  “Dammit, hold still.” She leaned in closer to dab the blood away and reapply the glue where needed.

  As she worked, she idly wondered whether the wounds would leave some horrific scar raking from his left brow down to his right cheek. It’d be a shame, but, all things considered, it was probably a small enough price for surviving an ambush, an invasion, a bombing, and two fights with Zar’Golga. At least his eyes were both intact.

  Plus, knowing Jarek, he’d just think a scar was badass anyway.

  Focused as she was on the task, she almost forgot how close her face was to his—at least until she noticed the way he was watching her. Once she noticed, though, she couldn’t seem to unnotice.

  His eyes bore into hers with solemn intensity, and she felt a pull that was becoming familiar.

  “Rache, I—”

  “Don’t.”

  She hadn’t thought about saying it—wasn’t even sure why she did—but it popped out all the same. And, for some reason, Jarek looked less surprised about it than she felt.

  He gave a shrug and slipped on one of his nonchalant masks. “I just wanted to say thanks.”

  She should say something. Apologize. Explain.

  But explain what?

  She was hardly sure herself, so she followed Jarek's lead in limping away from whatever had just happened.

  “Thanks?”

  Well played, Rachel. Smooth.

  Jarek’s smile didn’t spread to his eyes. “I mean, I think we can both agree I’m good—amazing, even—but I’m not sure I would have made it through today without you.”

  She dropped his gaze in favor of the pavement. She didn't want to see the fragility in his smile knowing that she'd put it there. Part of her wanted to reach out to him, to tell him all the terrible shit that had gone through her head in the moments she’d thought she was about to lose him, when Zar’Golga had stood over him, club raised. But she couldn’t.

  “Jarek, I didn't mean I—”

  “I get it,” he said. “It’s hard. We almost died today. Either one of us could finish the job tomorrow. And even if that weren’t the case…” He looked into the distance and shrugged. “It’s hard. For people like us, I mean.”

  “That's not…”

  Not what? Not true? It's what she wanted to say.

  But it was true. And Jarek knew it. And the fact that he knew it only made her feel all the worse for feeling the need to distance herself.

  But she didn’t have a choice. Did she?

  Because Jarek was right: either one of them could be dead tomorrow. She didn’t need to look any further than the chopping block of Jarek’s face to remember that.

  They’d won the battle, but they’d barely even made it to the beginning of the war. The rakul were coming, and the thought of getting close to someone just to lose them—to lose him…

  It was ridiculous. More than ridiculous, it was stupid.

  She’d had more than enough loved ones ripped away for one lifetime. And she’d be damned if she was going to let either of them end up in a position where they let their emotions pull them into doing something stupid.

  She almost laughed despite herself.

  As if that wasn’t what led both of them here in the first place. Hypocrisy, thy name is Rachel.

  But this was different. This could be managed.

  This could be business. Slay the rakul and save the day first. Everything else later. Simple. Easy. Manageable.

  So why couldn’t she get that stupid kiss out of her head?

  She needed to say something. The silence had already stretched too long between them.

  “So what's next?” she finally asked.

  Jarek didn’t seem to begrudge her the awful segue. A few ounces of amusement even crept back into his expression.

  “Next, I suppose we pull ourselves together the world’s first human-space vampire alliance and start preparing to slay ourselves a space dragon. Assuming you’re still game.”

  The last bit took Rachel by surprise.

  “How could I not be? It’s not like we really have a choice anymore.”

  The rakul wouldn’t be keeping a list and sparing the innocent when they arrived. It was all hands on deck. Fight or die. And even if it weren’t, she still had questions that needed answered—why her mom had done what she’d done to the raknoth, what had actually happened to her in the end. It might not change anything, but she needed to know. And sometime soon, Alton Parker was going to tell her.

  Jarek sighed and stood to offer her a hand. “We always have a choice, Goldilocks. Always.”

  Christ, how did he do that? Switc
h from carefree wisecracker to somber philosopher at the drop of a hat?

  But he was right. Rachel had a choice, and she was going to see this thing through to the end—maybe even find some justice for her mom along the way.

  She took his hand and allowed herself to be hauled to her feet. “Well, in that case… Wanna come save the world with me?”

  Jarek showed her his first genuine smile since the tension had started. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  As rough as the entirety of his day had been, Jarek had to say that reflexive little whammy of rejection from Rachel might have been the most brutal part.

  Okay. In fairness, taking Golga’s club to the helmet had probably been a bit worse. And then there was the aching bloody mess of his face. But then it was definitely the rejection.

  Maybe he should put down the sword and start writing bad unrequited love songs. Not that this was… that—the cursed L word. Absolutely not.

  He enjoyed being around Rachel. That was it. Maybe he kind of wanted to do it more. Maybe without all the pesky clothes, he decided as Rachel strolled up the steps to the Enochians’ ship in front of him.

  So sue him. Add it to his bill. He’d settle up after they dealt with the intergalactic assholes coming to rain on their parade. Assuming there was anyone left to settle up with at that point. Or a planet to do it on.

  It still didn’t feel quite real, the coming doomsday via space dragons and god knew what else. But then again, it didn’t sound wildly less believable than a bunch of immortal space vampires invading Earth’s population and blowing it to smithereens after the humans gave them a crafty super virus, which had totally happened, so “real” was probably out the window at this point.

  Inside their ship, the Enochians were gathered in an oddly angle-less lounge room, most of them seated on a pair of cushy blue Enochian couches—which turned out to be more or less just like the couches on Earth, go figure—Haldin and Johnny on one couch, with Elise in between them, and Franco and James on the other. Alton Parker was standing, and Phineas sat in one non-corner of the room, slumped heavily against the smooth, vaguely purple wall.