by Amy Cook
Running a hand through his hair, he shifted his accursed eyes back to the clock. Releasing a disgusted grunt, he turned his back on it. He was turning into such a wuss. He hated having to stalk the kid, but truthfully, it was easier to be in the shadows than to actually weather the inner workings of relationships he knew nothing about.
Bowing his head, he immediately took the thought back. No matter the complications of his social ineptitude, he’d never take back the friendship he’d garnered with her. He felt his eyes burning to turn and look at the clock again. The phone suddenly rang, saving him from the clock. Lunging for it, he quickly answered.
“Harley,” he stated gruffly.
“We got a problem, Harl.” Cajun’s voice came back to Harley over the phone, and an itch of unease immediately came over him.
“What now?”
“Is your bird there with you?” The unease grew.
“No. She’s late.”
“Uhh.” Cajun hesitated. “Charleen just found Amiel’s bike, crushed under a bus on the outer fringe of the Skirts.”
“What the hell?” Harley nearly choked.
“When Char found it, she called the guards at the apartments, hoping they could give us a clue as to how the bike got out here…” He cleared his throat. “They haven’t seen her since last night, mate. They said she flew out of the apartment complex on her bike in nothing but a t-shirt and pajama pants.”
Harley hung up, bounding down the stairs with Hell’s fires on his heels. He tried calling her cellphone, the restaurant, and came up empty-handed. He reached Charleen and Cajun’s location in record time, easily finding their scents. His heart fell to his feet when his eyes zeroed in on the crumpled mess of Rabid bodies, and the twisted metal beneath the bus.
Harley closed his eyes, senses filtering out everything but the one thing he craved: Amiel’s scent. He found it, but it was too faint to follow. Clearly she’d been out here, but enough time had passed since then that, had his nose not been so attuned to the scent, he would have missed it entirely. He walked toward the bike, examining what he could see of it and the bus for any signs. The fender of the bus held a smear of blood that smelled of Amiel. His Hybrid rose to the surface, antsy anticipation growing with each drop of blood Harley found.
Marks in the dirt and gravel showed signs of what could have been multiple scuffles. Granted, there was a pile of Rabids on the ground, which was likely where those markings came from. The bloodied helmet lying nearby left no doubt as to how the Rabids had died. He walked to the pile, examining what was left of the mess that had clearly already been picked apart by scavengers, Rabid and animal alike. His eyes shifted from the massacre, back to the bus. Amiel had killed these Rabids, then someone driving that bus had run over Amiel’s bike and obviously hurt her in the process, based on the blood on the fender.
Standing, Harley approached the bus, darkly intent on finding evidence as to who was going to pay for running her over. The doors were mostly closed still, trapping more clues in the air than there were outside. Shoving the doors open wider, Harley drew a deep breath.
Clean. The scent was all Clean, and all too familiar. His teeth set on edge. An image of Amiel’s frightened face as she lay beneath the Cutthroat, months earlier, rose in his mind, instantly fueling his two sides into agreement of worry and fury. He felt his eyes shifting to reflect his darker nature, responding to his inner thoughts of vengeance. He turned back to his companions, and their eyes shifted in response to his. The air was heavy with the primal force one would expect to feel amongst a wolf pack just before the hunt.
“Fan out,” Harley grunted to his brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law. They nodded, Charleen not even flinching at the command. Clearly, she was just as determined to find the girl as he was. Without another word they spread out, the hunt on. Not five minutes later, Cajun’s text buzzed on Harley’s phone.
“Blood.”
Immediately Harley zoned in on him, following his brother’s scent until he ended up in a long, grimy alleyway. Cajun pointed toward one of the walls, where small fingerprints of blood lay against the rust-colored bricks. If it weren’t for their keen eyesight, it would have been easily overlooked.
“It’s too old; I can’t get a read on the scent,” Cajun supplied, leaving it to Harley’s senses to try to determine the ownership of the DNA, as he texted Charleen to join them. Harley pressed his nose near the blood, drawing deep.
“It’s hers.” His voice was gritty, weighed down with the certainty of that knowledge. He stalked along the alleyway, picking up every clue on the way. Charleen joined them just as they came to a dead end.
“They had dogs,” she stated, with a growl of disapproval. Hybrids hated animals, and animals hated them. It was a naturally born hate as ingrained as breathing.
Harley zoned in on the dumpster, its odd angle and the conspicuously dented corner drawing him in. His fingers slid across dark tracks along the metal. The hairs on his body stood on end as he followed the streaked finger trails, evidence of someone pulling themselves upward. A small shred of dark fabric lay on the lid, also smelling of Amiel. A smear of blood and skin lay on the dented corner, and his heart dropped. It dropped further when he saw the small pool of blood on the pavement, and the accompanying torn fingernails left on the ground nearby. His hands shook. It was a dead end; there was blood everywhere and torn fingernails, the scent clearly marking it as Amiel’s. Yet there was no Amiel.
“She’s gone,” he muttered. “The trail ends here. He had to have taken her.” The Cutthroat was gonna die.
“Wait, look at that windowsill,” Charleen whispered in awe. “Is that what I think it is?”
Harley followed her gaze, rising without conscious effort to do so. There, above his head on the second-story, barred windowsill, were two distinct handprints in blood. Blood, and a single torn fingernail barely visible on the sill.
“She jumped up there?” Cajun guessed, voice disbelieving. “How is that possible? I mean, I know the tags give her skills, but that much of a leap for an injured Clean?”
Harley took a step back, reevaluating the area with new eyes.
“She used the dumpster, jumped to the window…” Harley’s gaze shifted until it landed on the fire escape. He turned toward Charleen with a questioning expression. Charleen nodded.
“It fits. She climbed on the dumpster, jumped to the windowsill, and then tried to jump to the fire escape. She fell.” She pointed at the dent in the dumpster, and Harley cringed. How could the kid survive something like that? “Bounced off it and rolled to a stop here.” Charleen crouched at the pooled blood on the ground, picking up one of the fingernails. “She lost some nails when she grabbed the windowsill. Somehow she got back up, climbed back onto the dumpster and jumped again. That’s where the bloody hand prints come into play on the windowsill up there.” Char shrugged. “Either she made it to the fire escape that time, or they took her.”
“Strewth.” Cajun shook his head in disbelief. “How is any of that possible? I don’t mean to doubt you, babe, but she left a hell of a crater in the dumpster. How could a Clean walk away from that, much less pull a second round of Spidey tricks?”
Harley stared at the fire escape, mind reeling.
“She’s no ordinary Clean. And let us not forget the powering aid of adrenaline. Human history is full of amazing deeds done while filled with adrenaline,” Charleen reminded her fiancé.
“Sure, but she’s not superhuman,” Cajun challenged.
“I am telling you what I see. Take it or leave it, Cajun, but it is what it is.” Her voice left little doubt as to which he should choose if he were smart. Harley’s fists clenched.
“If there is even an ounce of possibility, I’m gonna find it.”
Cajun sighed, nodding in agreement.
“All right, then. Let’s see if we can find another way up there. I’m no Kanga, so jumping that high isn’t going to happen.”
Harley nodded stiffly, and they immediately set about t
heir search.It wasn’t long before they found the broken-down door, and the steps that led upward to the roof. The smell of dog was stronger in here, reminding them that animals had been in on the hunt. Harley bounded up the stairs, two at a time, until he burst onto the roof. He immediately ran toward the fire escape, knees feeling weak when he saw the bloodied smears.
“Stone the crows! She did it. She actually did it,” Cajun remarked at Harley’s side.
“But where did she go after she got up here?” Charleen replied, tone curious and oddly proud-sounding. No doubt Cajun would be in for an earful later about doubting her instincts.
“There.” Harley pointed to the roof across the way. They both turned to look at him.
“There?” Cajun frowned, tone doubtful once more. “Well… I guess it’s not too much further than the leap for the fire escape.”
“If she made it this far, she could make it there,” Harley argued stubbornly. Setting his jaw, Harley took off across the rooftop, gaining speed as he ran. He felt that momentary dip in his gut as he leapt: the dip that came with a rush of adrenaline as he took a big risk. The sky had darkened significantly since they’d begun their search, and flying across the dark alley below was somewhat unsettling. He thudded into the wall, grimacing as the wind escaped his lungs, but his grip on the ledge remained sure. Pulling himself upward, he threw a leg over the ledge. Immediately his eyes found Amiel, heart stopping as he took in her appearance.
“I found her!” Harley shouted, rushing to her side. He flinched when his skin came into contact with hers, the flesh chilled beyond safe levels. “No, no, no,” he whispered, fingers swiftly lifting to find her pulse, ear lowering to listen for breath. He waited for what felt like an eternity before the faint puff of air stirred across his cheek, the barely-there pulse throbbed beneath his fingers. Releasing a sigh of relief, Harley turned toward his companions across the roof.
“Cajun, go get your car and meet us downstairs! We have to get her somewhere safe and warm, fast!”
Cajun nodded, turning to sprint down the stairs, Charleen on his heels. Harley crunched down on a nail, debating the best way to get her downstairs.
Her torso was covered in black and blue bruising from collarbone to navel. Her shirt had clearly been ripped to form the bandages around her fingers, ebbing the bleeding but leaving the rest of her more vulnerable to hypothermia. Yanking off his jacket, he laid it across her frozen body, trying to warm her up as best he could.
“Harley?” The sound was faint, like a whisper on the breeze. He looked down in surprise, Amiel’s eyes staring back up at him through slits. He leaned closer, trying to ignore the way those eyes looked right now; in the encroaching darkness, they appeared larger than usual, and overfilled with black rather than her usual emerald.
“Hey, kid.” He grinned softly, lightly running a thumb across her cheek.
“I’m so tired,” she replied shakily. Harley nodded, resolve solidifying.
“Hold tight, kid. I gotta carry ya down, and you’re hurt pretty bad. Ya gotta be tough and hold on for me, okay?”
Amiel blinked drowsily in what he took for her subtle agreement. Trying to be as gentle as possible, Harley slipped his hands beneath her, pulling her into his arms. Her body was surprisingly stiff, not immediately conforming to his hold.
She didn’t make a sound, not a cry of pain or even a moan of discomfort. And somehow, based on the amount of damage he saw, that silence scared him more than anything. When he finally managed to grip her in what he hoped was a comfortable position, he quickly moved toward the roof entry door. He had to kick it open, wincing as it jarred them both.
“I like the way you smell,” Amiel mumbled, her voice too drowsily content for his comfort.
“Hang tight, kid. Don’t ya dare ditch out on me now.”
“So serious,” she mumbled, head suddenly falling slack against his chest. Harley walked faster, heart in his throat.
Chapter 12
Harley
The SUV slid to a stop in front of the abandoned building just as Harley exited with Amiel in his arms. Charleen immediately jumped out and opened the door for him so he could slide in without jostling his precious cargo more than he already had on the trip down.
“Should we take her to the hospital?” Cajun asked, voice laced with disgust. Harley couldn’t help having the same instinctual feelings. Instinct for survival steered all Hybrids toward a hatred of hospitals.
“I don’t know what else to do for her,” he said helplessly. Cajun grimaced, but nodded. Charleen's hand suddenly shot out in front of Harley’s face, palm up.
“I’ll finish cleaning everything up here. Give me your keys, and I will ride your bike over.”
Without another thought, Harley dumped the keys in her hand. “Let’s go, Caj.”
Cajun stared at him in the mirror, mouth ajar like a trout’s.
“Caj, drive!”
Cajun shook his head, and finally they headed for the nearest hospital. The closer they came to the building, the more desperately Harley wanted to balk. His Hybrid had the disconcerting feeling of pacing back and forth in his mind, like a caged animal. Harley fought to push the sensations of preservation aside. No matter how his kind felt about hospitals, Amiel needed them now, and he’d do anything for her: even this.
They pulled up in front of the emergency area and Harley jumped out just as an attendant rushed toward them. The woman paused the moment her eyes fell on his tattoo, distrust and disgust immediately registering on once-friendly features.
“Leave,” she stated simply.
“She needs help,” Harley argued, Hybrid rankling at the command.
“We don’t take your kind, or any who sympathize.” She turned to point an imperious finger at the sliding doors behind her. Harley glanced at the sign there in the window, blood boiling. That narrow-minded stupidity was spreading around town like a disease. He got that they hated Hybrids — Hybrids hated them, too. But to turn away anyone under suspicion of sympathizing with them? Biting back his fury, Harley tried again.
“We just found her on the street; it looks like someone beat her up pretty bad. She doesn’t know us and we don’t know her.” The fib tore through him like a hurricane. The idea of leaving her here with strangers, to wake alone and scared, gutted him. Yet he wanted her to live, and right now her best chance of that was with medical experts attending her. The woman eyed him skeptically.
“We’re trying to help. That’s all,” he promised. Finally she snapped her fingers at another nearby nurse.
“You there, you’re new right?”
The man nodded nervously.
“Get over here and get some practical application in. Put her on a stretcher and strip her down. Toss everything in the incinerator, and I mean everything: shoes, clothes, jewelry, everything. ”
Harley froze. “What? Why?”
The woman sneered at him, before returning to jotting things on her clipboard. “Hospital policy. Anything within contact of a Rabid or Halfer goes directly in the fire.”
“But what if her jewelry’s a family heirloom or somethin’?” Harley argued.
“It doesn’t matter. Everything burns, or she doesn’t get treated. Hospital policy,” she repeated, eyes burning with hostility as she turned and shooed the male nurse into the hospital to fetch a stretcher. By the time she turned back, Harley was gone.
Cajun flew down the road, silent in his own anger as Harley stewed in the back. Amiel lay safely clutched in his arms still, and he held her close, praying he’d made the right decision.
The trip to the gym was quick, though it seemed to take hours as Harley stared down at Amiel’s blue lips and pale skin, doubting himself over and over. Should he have left her? He didn’t know what to do to treat her delicate body. But if he’d left her… his mind turned back to what had happened to her brother. The moment those tags were taken from his neck, his body succumbed to the poison eking through his system. He had no doubt that the tags were the only th
ing keeping her alive, with all of her extensive wounds and hypothermia.
Even if her body didn’t fail, Pell had warned of the possible mental damage that the removal of the tags could cause Amiel. Harley wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if he’d just dumped her and she’d died or snapped. He just prayed that the tags could pull their weight in helping to sustain her until she could heal.
The vehicle pulled to a stop in front of the gym, and Harley swiftly carried her up the steps, gently laying her across the couch and tucking his coat in around her to keep her warm.
“So… what now?” Cajun asked, at a loss. Harley had no idea. Neither one of them had been in a situation like Amiel’s in the past. With a Hybrid, you tossed a bunch of food and Gatorade in a room with them, enough to last a few days, and then you got the hell outta dodge. Even Char and Caj kept a good distance when one or the other Collapsed. Amiel had been a bit of a trend setter, being one of the first Cleans to ever stay in close contact with a Hybrid during the Collapse process. And now, Harley was being his own trend setter, though he had absolutely no guidance on the matter. How much would the tags do for the kid? Would they heal her? Would they just sustain her over a course of time? Or would they only prolong the inevitable, as her body gave way to the damage done?
“She’s been like us in a lotta ways so far,” Harley mumbled. “Maybe the tags have their own Collapse process.” Squaring his shoulders, he turned to his brother. “I need another surplus of food and Gatorade.”
Cajun nodded resolutely.
“Got it. I’ll be back.” He paused. “Do we need raw stuff?”
Harley considered that question for a long moment. “Get both. Like, get the rotisserie chicken and lunch meat and stuff like that, and then toss in raw stuff. Get hamburgers. She likes those and we can give them to her raw or cooked. If— ” His jaw clenched. “When she wakes, she’ll let us know which she prefers.”
