by Amy Cook
“What were y’all doin’ in the secured areas?” The man’s tone was bored to the bone, and carried its own Texan twang.
“We were followin’ a Rat, sir.” Harley replied in just as bored a tone.
“A rat?” The General blinked slowly, waiting for the punch line. “Ya don’t expect me to buy that malarkey, do ya?”
“His name was Darvey, sir. He worked here.”
The General looked to one of his aides, who quickly moved forward and whispered. Which was pointless, because Harley could hear every word of it.
“He is one of the originals, sir. From Genetics: lower level,” the man whispered.
“Ah.” The General stood, pushing away from his chair. “And what were y’all doin’ followin’ a seasoned Foundation employee?”
“He tried to have me killed while on patrol, sir.”
The General’s brow rose as he waited for more details.
“If you please, sir, a guard by the name of R. Morris will be able to substantiate my statement. Darvey tricked the guard into thinkin’ his watch was destroyed in a garbage disposal.” Using the Rat’s real name so many times was giving Harley a sour stomach.
“In truth, he switched his own watch with the guard’s, and then handed the Foundation watch off to a Cutthroat on the street in order to kill me. Today we followed him to investigate, and he opened the doors wide for the Rabids in his effort to escape.”
“These are very serious allegations, Hybrid,” the General growled. Harley stood silently, offering no further explanation. “And where is this Cutthroat now?”
“Dead,” Harley stated firmly.
“By your hands, I suppose?”
“Rabids, actually.”
“And this Darvey, where is he?”
“Rabids, again,” Harley stated simply.
“Of course. And the watch?”
“Crushed.” Harley dumped what was left of the watch from his pockets onto the desk. He’d swung back by the alleyway to ensure loose ends were cleaned up: what was left of Duane and the watch. The General poked at the watch remains with the tip of his pen, entirely unimpressed with the whole situation.
“Rabids again, I suppose.”
“Rock, actually, sir.”
“Naturally.” The General sighed heavily, motioning to his aide again. “Fetch me the guard, R. Morris, so I can close this matter and get their filthy Halfer stink outta my office.” The aide quickly left the room, leaving the General alone with Harley and Cajun.
“Y’all are gonna kill me off with this shit.”
Cajun snorted out a chuckle at the General’s free-speaking statement. Cajun and Harley had a bit of an unorthodox relationship with the General.
He hated them. But it was all for show, as the man had a secret soft spot for them. They had Charleen to thank for that. Her mama, Sia, had been married to the General before the Hybrids came to be. And for much of her pregnancy, the General had thought the baby was his, a perfectly normal child. He was in for all sorts of rude awakenings down the road. Yet he’d still done what he could to protect Charleen as she grew, though it was under gruff and angry appearances. No one had known of his soft spot for her, Charleen included.
Inevitably, Cajun had worked his charm mojo on the General after their arrival, furthering the man’s soft spot for Hybrids; especially once Charleen showed interest in Cajun, and Cajun’s gentle nudging steered Charleen toward a soft spot for the General. Turned out like one big, happy, dysfunctional family. Of course, all of this remained undercover. On the outside, everyone still believed he hated them. It was safer for all of them that way. The man glanced at the door once more.
“Y’all know I’m still gonna have to punish ya. Whether ya killed off a rat in the system, tied up loose ends with that watch, and held off a buncha Rabes till the guards got there or not. People still gonna want a show. Are lashin’s still your preferred method?”
“Yes, sir.” Harley noticed Cajun flinch at his side, seconds before the door opened. The aide entered with a very nervous R. Morris in tow. The General promptly began his interrogation of the boy, and Morris stumbled through his explanation. Wisely, he avoided any mentioning of Harley’s own interrogation of him just a few hours earlier, his eyes nervously eyeing everyone as though he’d be able to tell who was trustable and who wasn’t. When he finally finished, the General sent him out with another order of silence so as not to incite unrest amongst the Hybrids or guards. That boy was going to be a nervous wreck if he had to keep any more secrets. Harley fought the grin from its appearance.
“Fifty lashings each in the courtyard, with immediate patrol to follow.”
Harley swallowed. The General must be feeling some heat, questions toward his leniency of Hybrids, because he’d never issued so many lashings at once before. Steeling himself, Harley spoke, invoking the rights of leadership progression.
“I claim the rights to my First’s punishment as well, sir.” In the hierarchy of Hybrids, there were rules naturally ingrained in their systems. This allowed those in leadership positions to take the brunt of a punishment for another they deemed highly in respect. As Cajun’s lesser, he could ask for the right to carry his brother’s punishment. Foundation had long since accepted this practice, knowing it was a matter of pride amongst Hybrids, and their agreement to allowing it kept the Hybrids from rocking the boat or pushing their boundaries.
Cajun stiffened, but didn’t argue Harley’s claim. They both knew he wouldn’t be able to control his other side under such an attack. He never had been. This wasn’t the first time Harley had taken his brother’s lashings. And it wouldn’t be the last. As much as it rankled, Cajun would have to let Harley take the right.
“Fine. Now get the hell outta my office.”
Harley and Cajun silently followed the guards from the room, neither speaking a word as they traversed the distance between the General’s office and the courtyard. The courtyard was in the center of Foundation, open upward through all six levels of the building to the sky. It allowed multiple levels from which people could watch the display below, like a small, pristine sort of gladiator arena. The ground was grassy, the walls made of thick, unbreakable glass. And in the center stood a massive, solitary pole so thick Harley couldn’t reach his arms more than halfway around it.
“Inside!” A guard shoved Harley’s shoulder, pushing him toward the only entrance in or out of the boxed punishment area. Harley fought the annoyance at the back of his mind, forcing it to stay clear, unfeeling. Reaching to his waist, he yanked the shirt over his head, tossing it at Cajun, who already held his jacket. Harley had learned his lesson long ago. If he didn’t take the shirt off, they had the tendency to cut it off. He’d lost a lot of good shirts that way.
Without further ado, Harley held his head high and marched into the punishment room. Word had already spread about his lashings, the levels above his head swiftly filling with gawkers. A good portion of them were Hybrids.
It was mandatory that they watch: a reminder of what they would suffer should they step out of line. For some of them, it was more of a reward than a punishment. They were those who enjoyed seeing their leaders beat down; it meant opportunity for their own rising in the levels of hierarchy. It offered them the perfect opportunity to attack while their leaders were injured. He was going to have to be extra mindful of his surroundings in the next few hours. He eyed the pole as they clamped his hands to the thick chains that wrapped his arms around the pole and raised them above his head. Make that “careful for the next few days”. Fifty lashings were rough enough; one hundred was unheard of. He’d be lucky to walk out of here under his own power by the end of this.
“Harley Coaver, Second to Hybrid leadership,” the guard loudly intoned, despite the fact that it was being broadcast over a sound system. Harley ignored the words, sinking deep into his consciousness, preparing for the battle ahead.
“You are sentenced to fifty lashings for reckless breaking of Foundation Law. Having invoked the right t
o leadership progression, you shall also take the First Hybrid’s punishment of another fifty lashings. Meet your fate.” Immediately, the second guard in the room pulled back his arm and sent the whip flying at Harley’s back. The crack was deafening in the small, enclosed room. He winced, locking down the shields on his feelings.
By lash thirty, it stung like a Rabid raking its razor sharp nails down his back over and over, the pain pushing past his best efforts to block it out. Times like this, it really, really sucked to have Hybrid skin. Hybrids might be fast at healing, but that skill lent to intense pain reception, as well. That meant lashings were Hell on earth.
By forty, Harley’s limbs shook, his heart raced, and he was grateful for the chains and pole that held him upright. All of his energy went into holding back the screams.
Lash sixty brought an involuntary shout of pain. His eyes drifted across the distance of the room, landing on Charleen as she stood at Cajun’s side. Harley steadfastly avoided his brother’s gaze, unable to meet his eyes. If he did, Cajun would lose it. Charleen’s deceptively comforting grip about his waist proved that. She wasn’t comforting him, she was restraining him.
Seventy brought a growl from his throat, as he battled with his Hybrid’s will to tear out the guards’ throats. Charleen’s face melted away, shifting into the face he longed to see most. Amiel. Amiel’s emerald eyes shone brightly, their depths encouraging him to stay strong. Her smile was like the rising sun within him, the warmth spreading slowly across his body. She gave him strength, she gave him will.
His muscles tensed, rhythmically pulling on the chains over his head in a primal drum beat of impending war. His Hybrid was at the surface, staring at the hallucination of Amiel’s face, its will joined wholly with Harley’s.
Amiel. Amiel. Amiel. Amiel.
Her name sounded in the recesses of his mind with each tug of the chain. It sounded every time the lash found his skin, ripping it, shredding it to the bone.
Lash eighty saw the hook, which held his chain, bending and snapping off the pole. The guards stopped, and he could feel their stares boring through his ravaged skin.
“Keep going,” the first guard hesitantly ordered the other. The lashes continued. Lash ninety brought a deafening roar of pain and anger from his throat. He arched backward, straining against the chains that still held him captive. The link, already weakened from its ill treatment on the hook, broke. It snapped in two, freeing him from the pole, the chains lashing outward under the pressure. The guards gasped, immediately clinging back against the wall, their fear so great they didn’t even think to press the buttons on their watches. Harley stayed exactly how he was, shoulders hunched, breathing labored and ragged.
“Finish it,” he growled, voice black, unrecognizable. When the guard didn’t move, Harley’s eyes shifted toward him, his teeth bared. The guard flinched back further, skin paling to ghostly levels. “I said, finish it!” He returned his gaze to the distance, no longer sure if it was Charleen he stared at, or another. Whoever it was, Amiel’s face stayed permanently etched before his vision, his constant, his tether to the mortal world.
“Ninety-one. Ninety-two. Ninety-three.” Harley counted each of the last ten lashes, as the first guard seemed to have lost his voice. When the final lash landed, Harley forced his stance to straighten. Slowly, he turned toward the first guard, wrists extended as he blankly awaited the removal of the broken shackles. The chains fell to the ground, and the guards quickly stepped away, as though afraid he would release the demons in his eyes. Instead, he patiently waited in front of the door.
It slid open, and he placed one foot in front of the other, stomping through the silent crowds toward his room. No one approached him; no one dared. They watched in mute fascination as he passed. He didn’t notice the blood that seeped down his pants, soaked the floor in a trail behind him. He didn’t notice the way each Hybrid he passed bowed to him in respect. He merely followed the floating image of Amiel before his gaze.
Entering the room designated as his, he set about the task of woodenly pushing every piece of furniture he owned in front of the door, creating a barricade of sorts. When that was finally complete, Harley collapsed on the bed, belly down.
“Amiel,” he breathed out, her gaze still floating in his vision, her smile still warming him. His hand extended, as though he could touch her skin. It fell limply across the bed as he slipped under the cloak of unconsciousness.
Chapter 32
Amiel
Amiel stared at the girl standing before her door.
“Charleen?”
The enigmatic blonde woman with pristine blue eyes gave a sharp nod.
“Oh, um, please come in.” Amiel stepped aside. The woman took a deep breath before pushing herself over the threshold. Her gaze wandered the room, eyes searching each detail, body stiff with a tense sort of apprehension. In that moment, she reminded Amiel an awful lot of Harley, and the way he’d first appeared in her apartment. It brought a smile to her face. It had been a long time since Harley was so nervous in here. Charleen suddenly leaned toward Amiel and took in a deep whiff.
“You smell of Harley.”
Amiel’s lips parted in an O of surprise. She’d forgotten just how brusque Charleen could be at times. The blush soon followed.
“I do?”
Charleen nodded, moving back around the room, looking as though she wanted to touch everything she came across, yet holding herself back. Again Amiel grinned, reminded of Harley and his tendency to do the same when he came over. Perhaps that was their way of marking territories? If that were the case, Charleen refraining from touching her things was surely a sign of respect.
“Everything in here smells of him,” the woman confirmed.
“I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning,” Amiel offered, her curiosity over this unexpected visit growing every second. Charleen nodded again.
“It is because you yearn for him. Your body holds onto his essence for as long as it can.”
Amiel’s eyes flew wide, cheeks flushing deeper at Charleen’s blunt assumption of her yearnings for Harley.
“Uh… I didn’t know that?” She wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to say or not, but Harley’s warnings of control echoed in her mind, and arguing anything with Charleen was the last thing she wanted to do.
“You were expecting him.”
“Yes. He usually comes over at this time and we train together at the gym before work.”
“He takes you patrolling after work,” Charleen stated, turning to face her.
“Yes.” Amiel dragged out the word, still entirely lost. Did Charleen just come over tonight to tell her her schedule?
“He will not come tonight, or after work.”
Amiel felt her heart falter. There could be so many reasons as to why he wasn’t coming, but something told her the reasons were not good ones.
“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately.
“He has Collapsed, I assume.”
“Collapsed? Oh, my gosh, what happened? I can help.” She reached for her coat, ready to rush to his side.
“He is in Foundation; you can’t help him there.”
Amiel bit her lip, feeling panic welling within. If Harley was Collapsed at Foundation, didn’t that mean he was in danger? As though sensing Amiel’s thoughts, Charleen answered.
“No one will harm him. Not this time, at least.”
“I don’t understand.” Tears burned in her eyes, the urgency within demanding she seek out Harley immediately.
“Harley…” Charleen paused, searching for the right words. “…proved himself to be a very dangerous man to cross today. No one will go against his strength, even in his currently weakened state: out of respect, if not fear.”
Amiel sank onto the foot of her bed, fingers gripping her legs to stop their shaking.
“What happened?”
“He saved his brother from dishonor and possibly death.”
“Is Cajun all right?” Amiel asked cautiou
sly. Charleen turned to regard her carefully, a curious gleam in her eyes.
“He is as well as can be expected. I thank you for your concern,” Charleen replied hesitantly. Cautiously, she sat on the lone chair in the room, fidgeting on it as though unsure how to sit. “Cajun is… not always in control of himself. They were dealt punishment of fifty lashings each. Harley stepped in and took his brother’s lashings on top of his own. Had he not, Cajun would have lost control and been put down. It is a tradition of action Harley has carried on behalf of his brother for many years.”
“Lashings?” Amiel gasped. “Are we talking lashings like the thing with the whip that they did in medieval days?”
Charleen’s head ticked to the side in thought. “I don’t know of the medieval days. Formal education has not been wasted on me.”
Amiel thought she saw a moment of sadness in Charleen’s gaze, but if it was there, it was gone in a split second.
“But yes, it does involve a whip. The pain can be… torturous for our kind.”
“Oh, gosh, with your sensitive skin! I can’t even imagine how painful…” Amiel felt her horror battling with the fury within. “Will Harley be okay?”
“He will survive. My Second always survives. He is strong.”
Amiel blinked at Charleen’s odd, somewhat formal, phrasing of everything she said tonight. “Are you okay?”
Charleen blinked at her in the closest thing to surprise Amiel had seen from her. “I apologize. I am struggling with myself at this moment. It is not an easy thing to watch your family endure such pain.”
Amiel’s fists clenched in her lap. “Why did this happen? What could they possibly have done to deserve this?”
“The man they call Darvey…”
“Darvey did this? I’ll kill him, the little snake!” Amiel was immediately on her feet, hands shaking at her sides with fury. Charleen watched her carefully, a calculating light entering her astute gaze. Amiel swallowed hard, remembering what Harley had told her. Control. Control. She whispered the word over and over in her mind. It wasn’t helping much. She forced herself to sit back on the bed, though she couldn’t do much about the stiffness in her body.
