When Stars Burn Out (Europa Book 1)

by Anna Vera

That second-long flesh-to-flesh contact—and I’ve dipped into his memories, I’ve seen who he is.

  My cheeks glow, red and flushed. I feel like every beat of my heart pounds against the surface of my skin, my blood trying to break loose, to spill . . .

  I look at Apollo in a way that must be desperate: mouth dropped open and lips trembling; eyes wide, my pupils dilated and swollen, perched above flushed cheeks.

  “Do that again,” I beg.

  Apollo gives me a nervous laugh. “I can’t.”

  I can hardly believe how ridiculous I sound when I open my mouth to a stream of pleading. “What was that? Please, do it just once more. Come on.”

  Apollo puts a fingertip to my lips, silencing me. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but my skillset is actually dangerous. Linger a little longer, and strange things happen.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?” I seethe, speaking in a whisper.

  “Because you’re a stranger to me,” he grunts, pulling on his glove as he walks off. “I don’t even know your favorite color.”

  9

  We walk in silence.

  My thoughts churn wildly, roiling like a stormy sky.

  Who is Apollo, anyway? I glance sideways, to a few steps in front of me, where he’s trudging through the snow. The urge is still there—alive, ever present.

  Touch him, it cajoles. Touch him again.

  But I’ve already considered it and it’s impossible, given his gloved hands and lack of bare skin. Also, I’d rather not look like a pervert or something. Stop this. He’s toying with you.

  At the head of the line, Lios stops abruptly.

  “What’s going on?” Apollo asks and is vehemently shushed by both Cyb and Lios, the pair frozen stiff as they listen carefully to a strange noise, like choking . . . or gagging . . .

  “Oh my god,” Cyb breathes. The realization dawns on us all simultaneously, but she’s the one who speaks first. “MEROPE!”

  We whirl in unison, facing the space twenty yards to my left where Merope was once standing, but is now folded over herself, gasping frantically for breath.

  It’s common knowledge that, as an Empath, Merope will detect the Muted from afar. What we knew, but are startled to see for the first time, is how this detection manifests. Apparently it’s like being locked in a Mute’s body—breathing through the phlegm clotting its lungs, spitting up bile, heaving shrieks . . .

  Merope falls into the snow, convulsing. Cyb’s at her side in a flash, trying to soothe her. “How long?” she asks me. “Do you know how long!?”

  “It’s different for everybody!” I mutter in reference to the time it takes for an Empath to acclimate. Their first encounter with a Mute’s frequency is shocking, but after a little while, they acclimate, becoming capable of handling it.

  I yank out my pistol, eyes widening against the dark.

  Where are they, where are they, where are they . . .

  “Keep her calm,” I say to Cyb. “I’ll cover for—”

  The words aren’t even off my lips before the forest explodes with noise: the snapping of twigs, the crunch of yellowed tufts of grass being walked over. An approach.

  I skitter backward a few steps and run directly into the dense trunk of a tree just as I hear Cyb scream, “BEHIND YOU!”

  I don’t have to look around to realize what I’m standing up against isn’t a tree—because trees don’t have fingers, clawing and sticky, with nails hanging loose, halfway ripped off.

  Whirling, it’s clear the dense thing I’ve just backed into is none other than a real, living Mute.

  I pitch forward, rolling out of the Mute’s grasp—easy to do, given the Mute is still as a stone statue. Cyb, having seen what’s happening before I even did, is Persuading it to stay motionless.

  Getting to my feet, I spin, looking it in the face.

  I lose feeling in my hands, my legs.

  It’s . . . it’s horrifying.

  This one has its left cheek stripped off, exposing blood-red tendons flexing and pulling, tugging its jaw wide so it may shriek a sour, wet breath directly in my face.

  A scream rips through my throat as fast as the bullets fired from my pistol. I peg the beast with five shots, all directly in the chest, and yet it’s still alive.

  The Mute’s body is haggard, a skeleton in a bruise-colored casing that is thick as hide. Strands of graying hair dangle from its scalp—scarce, wiry.

  And what’s worse, it doesn’t have eyes—just two carved-out sockets, hollowed and pitted, oozing tears of puss. Its eyelids are useless flaps of skin, reminiscent of an ancient Egyptian mummy.

  Just as I’m about to puke, the scent claws forth.

  The Mute smells stale and decayed, like cracking open the mouth of a corpse and inhaling. It’s so sickening, I practically lose myself completely.

  I aim again, palms sweaty, and fire. This time I aim for the gap between its empty eyes. I know immediately after pulling the trigger that I’ve managed to kill it. Seconds later, I leave it heaped messily in the snow.

  But that’s only one dead Mute out of hundreds more, all of which perpetually shriek and cry, bringing the sleepy midnight forest to life. To chaos.

  Merope and Cyb are gone now, completely out of sight.

  All I can see are the Muted.

  I stop, pressing up against a tree—a real tree this time—and catch my breath. The forest is alive with movement. Every gap between trees filled, every pocket of shadow twisting vociferously with life.

  I move through the forest like I’m lost in a fog—not really thinking at all, just acting and reacting—my pistol bucking in my palms, popping bullets through Mute skulls.

  This is not the glory I envisioned. This is not the exciting adventure, the thrilling risk. This is nothing like my dream . . . This is a nightmare!

  All around me, I hear the Muted’s ragged shrieking.

  Their breath is on my neck, their sticky fingers grabbing for my clothes; their stale, bloody odor as thick as a cloud rolling out over the landscape.

  They have descended upon us like locusts.

  I turn a corner too quickly, skidding and falling. The snow explodes in my face like a feather-filled pillow cut open, and for a few foggy seconds, I can’t see. The ice melts. I blink.

  Lios stands before me—so does Apollo, both fighting with knives now, presumably out of bullets. Just as I heave myself up, I spot a Mute approaching Apollo.

  “Apollo!” I say, shouting the warning.

  He turns, but isn’t fast enough. The Mute is there, heaving plumes of steaming breath, a bull ready to charge. But somebody stops it before it gets any further.

  Lios.

  He throws a knife, planting it in the Mute’s throat.

  Apollo lunges forward and rips the knife free of the beast’s esophagus, lancing it elegantly through its empty eye-socket. The blade sinks into brain.

  The Mute falls, only for another to approach.

  Another nobody sees.

  It’s big. Bigger than all the others. And it would be coming straight at me if it weren’t for Apollo standing between us, acting yet again obliviously inattentive.

  Lios sees the Mute going for Apollo just as I do. He dives between the pair, shoving Apollo away from the Mute’s readying lunge, and takes the blow himself.

  Apollo panics, trying to fire his gun—it’s empty—and when he goes looking for Lios’s knife, we both realize he’s left it in the eye-socket of the last Mute.

  I try firing my gun, knowing already it’ll be empty.

  I’ve shot over ten rounds already—all on one Mute—and when my hand dives into my pocket for the magazine I’d packed there earlier, I realize it’s missing. It’s missing.

  The Mute fights Lios like a wolf, jaws hooked
on the front of his jacket, thrashing. In seconds, Lios is thrown prostrate on the ground and attacked by a host of the Muted, all diving in to have their share of him.

  I am screaming.

  I am screaming like a madwoman.

  Blood blossoms out from under Lios’s body as he kicks his legs and throws fists, but the beasts upon him aren’t deterred in the slightest—their hunger overshadowing all else.

  All the while, I’m trying and failing to get the knife out of my new boot, but my hands are shaking and numb, and I can’t get a firm grip on its hilt.

  Finally, I rip off my boot in full. I sprint forward, met head-on by another Mute. I punch the blade just as Apollo did before, right in its empty eye-socket, but another is swarming me, and another, and another . . .

  Apollo screams in the distance. I lose my knife, stuck in the belly of a Mute. I dip and dodge, trying to find my path back to Lios, screaming uncontrollably, unashamed.

  By the time I’ve gotten to Lios, Cyb and Merope are there, firing rounds wildly at the group of the Muted.

  I hear their guns click.

  “RELOAD,” Cyb demands frantically. “RELOAD!”

  But there isn’t enough time. One Mute remains, looming overtop Lios, its cruel maw glistening with his blood. The sight is like getting kicked in the stomach, and without thinking or strategizing or considering, I find myself on the ground, raking my hands through the snow.

  I withdraw a rock—jagged and sharp, its surface pitted like the moon’s lumpy, cratered flesh—fingers gripping it in my fist as I roar, launching myself at the Mute mauling Lios.

  Plunging a heavy boot into the beast’s spine, I successfully knock it off balance. Apollo sees what I’m doing and leaps forward, pinning the Mute on the ground.

  Falling to my knees beside the Mute, I elevate the rock over my head, recruiting the vigor of gravity. And I throw it down as hard as I possibly can, breaking it against the Mute’s skull. Again and again and again. I don’t stop until I see its brains spilling in a messy halo around its ugly, hellish face.

  Silence. Total silence.

  Apollo gasps, gripping my arm. He gives a shaky nod.

  Good job.

  Except we got here too late. Lios is groaning in agony at my side, so pained he can’t move. I drag myself closer, suddenly feeling heavy and exhausted. My bootless foot freezes in the snow.

  “Lios,” I gasp, tears hot and sour in my eyes.

  “How bad is it?” Cyb begs, staying away—as though it’s too much for her to handle seeing herself. “HOW BAD?”

  I glance at Merope, who’s still pallid, but is at least standing on her own, having acclimated at last. She looks back with a raw and terrible grief in her violet eyes.

  “There are others,” I growl, trying to shield Lios’s shredded body with my own, addressing Merope. “You done reloading?”

  “We’ll cover for you,” she says vacantly, tugging Cyb’s sleeve in her fist, urging her to go along. “Get . . . get Lios together.”

  “I will,” I say, voice cracking.

  The pair trudge off through the snow, leaving Apollo and I alone with Lios. The night sings with gunfire. Every single part of me wants to collapse, but I keep myself together as I peel off the front of his ripped jacket and examine his wounds.

  His chest is completely ripped open, skin hanging like a flap over his ribcage. The Mute went after his heart. I gulp back the sick rolling up from my stomach, telling myself that if we find help soon enough, he’s fixable. He’s savable.

  But is he?

  I run fingers through his hair. “You’re okay,” I cry, barely able to speak, as I tear off my jacket and place it over his body.

  Apollo is at my side, whispering something I’m not paying any attention to. I feel his hands slide down my forearms in an effort of comforting me, but I shrug him off.

  “This,” I snarl, glaring at him, “is your fault.”

  “I—I’m so sorry.”

  “That isn’t good enough,” I cry, breaking. “You weren’t paying attention! You cocky, self-satisfied bastard—out there like you’re invincible, like you’re too good—”

  “I said, I’m sorry!” Apollo yells.

  “Just get away from me—from us,” I spit, shoving him hard in the ribcage. He stares back at me with the audacity of having hurt in his eyes before getting up, walking off.

  I gladly return my attention to Lios, stroking his hair out of his sweaty face, trying to ignore the sickening way his blood spills in distinct pulses, bleeding out with every beat of his heart.

  “It’s okay,” I lie. “You’re fine.”

  “Eos,” he whispers, sapphire eyes locking on mine: tearful but so utterly brave, so coherent.

  Lios reaches for me. I take his hand—too cold, far too cold to be okay—and press it against my cheek as I whisper, “Just rest for now. Save your energy.”

  But Lios’s hand grips mine tighter, and I know he’s asking me to come closer—to listen.

  “What is it?” I ask quietly. I lean in, ear to his lips, not at all prepared for the raw certainty in the words that follow.

  “I’m dying, aren’t I?”

  10

  “You’re not dying.”

  I sit on my heels, sniffing back tears. Lios’s hand goes limp in my own, but I don’t release it.

  “Stop being a wimp,” I add. “You’re going to be fine.”

  A final gunshot sounds and everything is quiet at last, the rest of the Muted either bored, scared off, or dead. Merope and Cyb return red-faced and sprinting, the torch I’d thought we lost held high in Merope’s hand.

  Cyb stops about twenty feet away, as though she’s tethered to the spot and can’t come any closer.

  “How is he?” she asks breathily, quelling a cry.

  To the emotionally stable onlooker, it would seem bizarre that she wouldn’t run to Lios’s side—but Cyb’s always been this psychologically guarded, especially when it comes to Lios.

  What she’d do if she found out he’s . . .

  That he could actually . . .

  “He’s fine,” I lie again. “If we can find help.”

  “Help,” she echoes distantly, a very real edge to her voice now as she pins me with those silver-gray eyes. “Help? Out here, in the middle of the forest? After midnight?”

  “Cyb,” I warn.

  “Who’s going to help him?” she asks shrilly, her emotional well overflowing. “Who, out here, could possibly—”

  Merope steps closer, the torch casting a dim, flickering light over Lios’s bloody scene.

  “Actually,” she whispers, “help might find us yet.”

  “Native-borns?” Cyb asks disbelievingly.

  “I’m sensing three. They’re coming this way.”

  “Now?” I say, shooting up to my feet.

  “Yes, right now.”

  “From which direction?” I pull out the compass.

  “North.” Merope chews her lip. “I can’t say for sure, but it seems like they’re coming from Mabel’s quarantine. If they are, we have to stay on guard.”

  “Let’s go find them,” Apollo says, addressing me. I twitch at his sudden emergence at my side. “You and me. We’ll meet them directly, head-on. We’ll convince them to help Lios.”

  For a moment I regard him curiously, those startling eyes searching my own—uncharacteristically vulnerable. It’s as though the shield he wears has fallen.

  I look to Merope. “We’ll be back in fifteen—tops.”

  “And what if you’re not?”

  “Then run,” I say firmly.

  Apollo loads a handgun, forking it over. I holster it without thinking and we go, leaving Merope to look over a too-quiet Lios and a tearful Cyb.

  Before I dip into the woods, I find Merope’s eyes. We make a brief exchang
e, wordless but meaningful, that feels a lot like a secret language we’ve developed together over the years.

  Merope’s eyes tell me, You know I’m not running. If you’re gone too long or if I hear a single scream from the north, I’m coming.

  I give her a stale glare. Love you.

  She returns it. Love you too.

  Apollo and I traipse northward, my bootless foot screaming against the frigid snow. I almost didn’t realize I’d lost it, in the chaos of almost losing Lios to a pack of the Muted.

  “Look—up ahead,” Apollo whispers, nodding to an orb of golden light bobbing in the dark. Then he shouts, “Who’s there?”

  The light stops, hovering in the air.

  I tug Apollo’s sleeve. “Keep going—I’ll play backup.”

  “Backup?”

  “I’ll go west,” I urge, leaving before he can argue. I put fifty yards between us, but stay parallel to his position and keep myself well within sight.

  From afar, I hear him yell, “Who’s there? Answer me!”

  And yet again, they don’t give a reply.

  Apollo quickens his pace, rifle raised as a precaution, his stride fast and sure-footed. Something wiggles uncomfortably at the pit of my stomach. Why aren’t they responding?

  I crest the edge of a clearing just as Apollo penetrates it.

  Standing at the center is a boy Apollo’s age. He’s smoking a cigarette, a torch tamped into the snow at his feet. When Apollo bursts into the clearing, he raises a rifle. “Stand down!”

  Apollo raises his hands in submission. “We aren’t here to pose a threat. We . . . we’ve got a friend who’s injured, attacked moments ago by a Mute.”

  Cigarette Boy’s eyes rake through the dark forest.

  He asks, stiffly, “Why would I care?”

  “Help us,” Apollo begs.

  “Give me your rifle.”

  “Fine. It’s yours.”

  “Very nice.” Cigarette Boy tosses the rifle over his shoulder after a brief examination of it, making no move to help Lios or do anything at all, really.

  “Are you going to help us or not?” Apollo prompts.

  “Of course we’ll help.” This time, it’s somebody else that’s speaking. This boy, similar in age to the first, has ash-blond hair and pale eyes. He’s slender—gangly in the way a person that’s malnourished often is, all angles and dirt smudges.