Hell to Pay: Book Two of the Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  She maintained her weapons-grade glare and tried unsuccessfully to blow a strand of hair out of her eyes.

  Jarek, to his credit, didn’t say a thing about the failure. “Look, what do you want me to do? Tall, Dark, and Ugly’s gotta go, and someone has to do it. I took Stumpy, I can take Golga too.”

  What she wanted him to do was to drop the tough guy act for five seconds and tell her that he understood he wasn’t invincible. That he could die tomorrow. That just because Golga needed to go didn’t mean he was going to do it quietly—or at all.

  “You heard Drogan in there,” she said. “This isn’t just another fight. You can’t keep acting like this is some fucking game you can’t lose.”

  Jarek shrugged. “It’s my neck.”

  She ground her teeth. “Fine. You’re a grown man, you can do whatever the fuck you want—good for you. But you don’t get to make that call then expect us all to care.”

  His face furrowed into a dark frown, but she wasn’t done.

  “Is that what you want? You want me to plead for you to stay, to not throw your life away like a fucking crazy person?”

  He said nothing and held her stare with maddening calmness. Only it wasn’t calmness, was it? There was tension there in the line of his jaw. Tension that bled slowly into guilt in the dark depths of his eyes. Seconds ticked by, his mask wavering a millimeter at a time. She thought to look away, but her eyes didn’t move.

  Freefall. That’s what the stare felt like. Only gravity had reoriented, and …

  And when had he stepped so close? Or had it been her who’d stepped closer to him?

  She caught his hand midway to her cheek out of reflex more than anything. He moved closer, eyes darting across her face now, uncertain, vulnerable. They settled on her lips.

  Her voice came in a soft whisper. “What the fuck are you—”

  He kissed her.

  Her breath caught, and her chest jolted with alarm and shock and … warmth. It flooded in, starting at his lips and spreading through her like a roaring fire on a rainy day. She shuddered, and he pressed in closer. Her eyelids drifted closed, and she let him.

  It was a good kiss.

  He pressed against her, strong arms circling around her waist as his lips found the shape of hers, warm and soft beside the sharp, scratchy stubble of his chin. His scent surrounded her, not pleasant, necessarily, but unmistakably alluring. She flicked her tongue lightly at his, and—

  She sucked in a sharp breath and shoved him away. “What the fuck, dude?”

  Her head was spinning. She hadn’t consciously thought about it, but she must’ve added a few ounces of telekinetic oomph to the shove, because Jarek was on the other side of the hallway now, looking nearly as shocked as she felt.

  He opened his mouth to say something, then he caught himself and shrugged. “You gave me a look.”

  “Like hell.” Right? The words left her mouth before she had a chance to think about it, and they sounded much more certain than she felt.

  Jarek gave her a grin that did irritating things to her insides. “So you’re saying you didn’t like it, then?”

  “I …” She shook her head. “Can we just get back to the point here?”

  “If I knew what the point was.”

  She rolled her eyes. “The point is that you’re a dick. And that I’m coming with you tomorrow.”

  That sobered him right up.

  “Whoa, now. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s bad enough risking one of us on a gamble. And Michael might need you here. Hell, everyone might—especially if …”

  There it was—the crack in his bravado as he failed to finish the thought.

  Especially if Drogan was right and he’d made a life-ending mistake.

  “See how it feels when people go and make these decisions without thinking about their friends?”

  The fear and the doubt hung on his features a few moments longer. Then he swallowed and met her eyes again. “So you’re calling me your friend now, huh?”

  “Bite me.”

  He stepped closer. “Gladly.”

  She forced out a snort and pushed off the wall to shimmy toward medical before he could close her in. “This is a terrible idea, you know. There’s no way that scaly prick will play fair if he thinks there’s even a chance he could lose.”

  He shrugged, suddenly looking tired. “Of course it’s a terrible idea. But Golga’s the linchpin to this whole thing, and it’s still the best way to get a shot at him.”

  She gave a slow nod. “I think you’re right. But that doesn’t mean you should risk everything alone. I’m coming with you.”

  He took a deep breath and set his jaw. “Okay, Goldilocks.”

  She turned to leave before either of them could take it any further than that.

  She didn’t want to talk about the kiss, didn’t even want to think about it right now. This entire situation was already plenty fucked without adding another steaming pile of feelings on top of it.

  When she entered Michael’s room in medical, Pryce and the Enochians all looked up and then away too fast for them to have been talking about anything other than her. The guilt plastered on their faces didn’t help their case either.

  “All right, peanut gallery.” She waited until they all dropped the act and met her gaze. “We need to start talking about a plan B.”

  Twenty-Two

  “Oh, I do like her, sir,” Al said in Jarek’s earpiece as Rachel vanished around the corner.

  Jarek stood there for a long moment, mired in a curious mixture of gut-deep dread at the thought of tomorrow and light-headed excitement at the lingering taste of Rachel’s lips.

  “Yeah,” he said finally, setting off down the hallway. “Yeah, I think I do too, buddy.”

  Just one more itty-bitty reason he needed to make sure he didn’t get her killed. It was a hell of a lot easier pulling the trigger when it was only his neck.

  Which was exactly why he wasn’t planning on taking Rachel to the stadium tomorrow.

  His neck, his decision, right? Definitely.

  So then why did he feel so shitty about it right now?

  Maybe he really was an asshole.

  “An asshole who’s gonna save the damn day,” he mumbled.

  “You tell ’em, sir.”

  Jesus, he needed a drink.

  His talk with Al’Drogan had been less than productive. He’d wanted a weak point to attack, a flaw to exploit, but no. He was about to fight the freaking invincible Achilles of raknoth—except no, bad example, because Zar’Golga sure as hell wasn’t going to have a cranky heel to hold him back.

  Drogan had seemed sincere enough about wanting to save his own skin from the rakul. The fact that Drogan was agreeing Golga’s demise was a crucial step in that process and yet still warning Jarek off his current collision course with the warlord only made that warning all the more disheartening.

  But it wasn’t like Jarek had any great alternatives.

  Their chances at putting an end to the bombing runs with their measly two-and-a-half ships and the Resistance’s handful of heavy weapons weren’t stellar. And even if they managed to pull it off, it wouldn’t fix the root of the problem.

  As long as Zar’Golga was alive, the outlook on the whole raknoth-human alliance idea went from shitty and highly improbable all the way down to completely unimaginable.

  One way or another, the Overlord had to go, which meant someone had to do the deed. As confident as he’d felt in the moment he’d decided to issue the challenge, though, he couldn’t help but wonder now if he’d made a mistake.

  Maybe. Probably, even. But it wasn’t like they had a list of candidates standing by.

  Alton had only barely survived Golga’s attack back in Philly with constant help from Haldin. He wouldn’t last in a one-on-one. Haldin, on the other hand, was clearly faster and stronger than any human Jarek had ever encountered. He assumed the Enochian had his arcane abilities to thank for that, seeing as Johnny exhibited no such s
uperhuman talents. All things considered, Haldin might actually be a match for Jarek. Maybe more than a match.

  Hell, Rachel probably could be too if she really wanted to roll her sleeves up and get dirty.

  But he never could have stood aside and watched either of them step out to fight Zar’Golga on their own.

  Rachel was right. He’d acted selfishly, without forethought. He’d defaulted to habits gained from working, living, and fighting on his own. And at the end of the day, he didn’t feel badly about taking this fight for his own.

  But whether he liked it or not, he wasn’t alone in this fight anymore. He’d always had Pryce and Al, but now he had Alaric, Lea, the Enochians, maybe even the Resistance.

  And he had Rachel.

  Rachel, who’d stood beside him at every turn, who’d already saved his bacon more times in a week than anyone save for Al. Rachel, who was decidedly on his side and fierce and strong and increasingly sexy as all hell.

  He hadn’t meant to kiss her, really. Wanted to, sure, but the actual execution had unfolded seemingly of its own accord, like watching natural law in motion. The kiss itself—the way her surprised breath had tickled his lips, and the way her initially resistant lips had given way to hot, urgent need, if only for a moment …

  He shook his head clear as he passed by a pair of Resistance soldiers who were eyeing him distrustfully.

  Good thing he wasn’t wearing sweatpants right now. Then they really would’ve had something to stare down.

  Al cleared his throat at the development and snapped Jarek back to more appropriately doomy and gloomy thoughts, which he had in spades.

  He probably wouldn’t have admitted it out loud without several drinks and a damn good reason, but facing down Drogan at Pryce’s and then again at the ports easily ranked among his top five most pants-shitting moments, right near the top of the list.

  Fighting marauders and the rest of humanity’s most deplorable wasn’t a bucket of giggles, but at least Fela’s protection gave him a safety margin when tangling with humans. As long as he didn’t screw the pooch too hard, there was almost always a way out of any tricky situation he’d find himself in.

  On top of that, he understood humans. Intimately. Take the most depraved sicko you could find, and Jarek could at least marginally understand what made them tick—enough to anticipate how they would react in different scenarios.

  When it came to fighting raknoth, though, all of that flew out the window. On a basic level, he was coming to understand who the raknoth were and what drove them, but that didn’t really dull the shock of their ferocity in battle. They were vicious predators: brutally strong, uncannily quick, and damn tough to take down.

  He’d fought plenty over the years who’d fancied themselves hard men, savage men. Several of them had been. But none of them had held a candle to the savagery of a raknoth.

  Every fight he’d had with the raknoth had been quietly if not overtly terrifying, and now he’d consigned himself to fighting the worst of them.

  That drink was starting to sound more like an antidote than an indulgence.

  As far as he’d seen, HQ didn’t exactly have a bar on its premises, which was kind of surprising, given how hopeless their fight had been over the years, but someone had to have booze around here.

  Alaric.

  Alaric seemed like a guy who wouldn’t wander too far without knowing where to find some whiskey—especially after the day he’d just had.

  Jarek was about to turn for the council chamber where he figured Alaric might be when he spotted the grizzled old Resistance fighter through the open doors of the mess hall. Or at least what the Resistance members called a mess hall. It was fairly identical to every other room in HQ: low ceilings, bland, emotionally oppressing cinder block walls. The only things that set it apart were the couple dozen tiny tables spaced around the room and the serving counters over to the right.

  It was past common dinner hours already, and only a few people remained in the hall. Alaric sat in a far corner, dispassionately spooning some manner of stew into his mouth.

  Jarek paused at the door and contemplated retreating to the ship instead. He was pretty sure he had half a bottle squirreled away somewhere, and now that he was here, he wasn’t so sure he felt like talking.

  He was about to turn around when Alaric looked up. He caught sight of Jarek, seemed to have his own internal debate, and then settled with a look that suggested he had something to say and little interest in actually saying it.

  Ah, hell with it.

  Alaric went back to his stew and didn’t look up as Jarek approached, but he did raise a boot and push the plastic chair opposite him out from under the small table.

  Jarek considered the chair and gingerly settled his and Fela’s combined bulk down. “Word has it there’s a new sheriff in these here parts.”

  Alaric scowled at his stew. “Real funny.”

  “Almost as funny as that bit where you slugged Sloan in front of half the Resistance.”

  A faint smile touched Alaric’s mouth. “Best feeling I’ve had in years.”

  “I was hoping we could celebrate with a drink.”

  Alaric swallowed a bite and shook his head. “Don’t touch the stuff these days. Don’t know as there’s much to find around here anyway.”

  Well so much for that plan.

  Alaric finally looked up, his eyes measuring. “I heard what you did, by the way.”

  “I bet you did. If this outfit spent half as much time fighting the raknoth as it did gossiping, we’d probably be in the clear already.”

  “Can you take him?”

  Jarek tapped idly at the tabletop. “Theoretically, yes.”

  “And practically?”

  “He’s stronger, faster, and apparently a whole lot more badass than any of the raknoth I’ve faced.” He shook his head. “I dunno, when the freaking Red King acts like he might be concerned for your well-being, you have to wonder what it is you just signed up for.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to rattle you, keep you from giving his master the same treatment you gave him.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t really think so. I think he’s scared, Alaric. About what’s coming. Seems like Alton and our Enochian friends are too. And thinking about what would scare the monsters—not to mention Rachel … Well, that’s pretty damn scary, right?”

  Alaric shrugged, studying him closely. “About as scary as flying into what’s probably gonna be a trap to face what’s probably the most vicious bastard this planet’s ever seen in a one-on-one duel.”

  “Yeah, well … Someone had to do it.”

  “Did they?”

  Jarek didn’t say anything. It did feel an awful lot like he was preparing to fight an uphill battle just to buy the right to fight another bigger uphill battle, and another after that. Thinking about the entirety of the work ahead made him want to go find a dark, quiet corner to hide in.

  But people were dying out there, and a lot more were going to join them if someone didn’t find the stones to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Not that that was about to quell the stream of icy dread flowing through his guts or anything.

  “He’s broken inside,” Alaric said quietly after some time.

  It wasn’t hard to guess who he was talking about. Jarek just wasn’t sure what to say to that.

  “Seth was a good kid once, you know,” Alaric continued, not seeming to notice or mind Jarek’s lack of input. “Wanted to be a painter for Christ sake. ’Course the Catastrophe put a damper on all of that, but you never would have known it to look at him—not at first. It got harder in the first couple years, watching the world degrade and never rebound. You know how that felt. Hell, I can only imagine what you got up to back then.”

  “Yeah …” Jarek rubbed the back of his helmeted head. “Mistakes were made.”

  The ghost of a wan smile crossed Alaric’s face. “They most certainly were. Starting the Resistance, leaving Seth and his mother to fend at a homestead for month
s at a time … I thought I was doing a good thing for the world, but … Well, mistakes were made. I don’t think that bastard Golga ever meant to find Seth. His people were always sweeping through here and there back then, grabbing up fresh recruits—willing or no.” He shook his head. “They found my son by sheer shitty luck. Golga must’ve realized who Seth was when he got into his head to do whatever it was that …”

  Alaric ran a hand over his scraggly gray beard.

  “No use speculatin’ now. The point is that I’ve been moping in Deadwood all these years, thinking the reason that bastard was able to get Seth to … do what he did was that I’d opened the door. That I’d failed him as a father, failed to protect him and his future. Hell, everyone’s future. The future of the world. But I was wrong.” He fixed Jarek with a haunted look. “You know what he told me today?”

  Jarek shook his head, not entirely sure he wanted to know.

  Alaric clenched and unclenched his jaw several times before he managed to speak again. “He told me he wishes he’d had the chance to kill me too. Wishes he could have cut my throat while I slept.”

  “Jesus.”

  Alaric took a shaky breath and shook his head. “Not an easy thing to hear, you can imagine, but it did help me see something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The way he said it, that evil glow in his eyes … Golga didn’t just play with my son’s head. I’m sure of that now. He didn’t just twist his thoughts and fears around. He broke Seth’s mind completely, smashed it to bits, then he told him who he was gonna be and what he was allowed to think and believe. My boy could have hated me—probably would have after everything that happened. He might have even wished I was dead.” He shook his head. “But never like that.”

  Jarek had seen far too many people slide down the insidious slope from well-meaning to monstrous to think anyone was truly above the risk of going bad in terrible circumstances, but he wasn’t about to say that to Alaric right now.

  Besides, maybe there really was more to it than that. Golga had clearly done something to Mosen. Probably a lot of somethings, considering the eyes and the ridiculous strength and resilience. It wasn’t hard to imagine the transition from Seth Weston to Mosen the psychopath had involved a good deal of mental reprogramming, possibly of the creepy alien telepath variety.