by Kelly Meding
She spit in my face. Her saliva smelled like sea-water. I wiped it away, but the stink lingered. I reached back and placed the barrel of the gun against her foot. Her eyes widened. Lips parted in a fang-baring snarl.
Two goblin males slammed into me sideways. I tumbled over the roof of the Jeep and hit the blacktop on my back. The impact exploded oxygen from my lungs and left me dazed. A dark blur leapt from the Jeep. I rolled sideways, barely missing Kelsa’s landing —precisely where my head would have been.
I tucked and came up on my knees and fired a wild shot. It glanced off her right arm and took a chunk of flesh with it. She kept coming, too fast to shoot again. She kicked the gun out of my hand and followed through with a serious swipe with her left hand. Sharp nails furrowed across my ribs and belly. Agony flared hot and immediate. Blood flowed.
My high kick connected squarely with her nose. The crunch rang out, mingling with her scream. Her head snapped back, but she refused to go down. I dropped to one knee and thrust upward with my knife. She blocked it and her good elbow smashed into my ear and set my head spinning. She had my wrist in her hands and was trying to turn my knife against me. I fought, but I had lost leverage.
She hissed, baring her bloody incisors, and snapped at my face. I gave her a well-deserved head-butt that drove her broken nose a little deeper into her snarling face. She faltered; I wrestled the knife away and plunged it into her stomach. Putrid blood pumped over my hand. She slashed again with her claws, catching me across the left cheek. Pain ripped open with the soft flesh. I shoved against the knife handle, and she fell backward.
I was on top of her again, ignoring my own pain, operating on fury and adrenaline and a very selfish need for personal vengeance against this monster who’d held me captive for days. Who had tortured me mercilessly. Ordered me raped. Allowed me to die.
I yanked out the knife and ground down with my knee until her other elbow popped. She squealed—a sound unbecoming a leader. Blood coated her face, but wild, animal eyes still shone brightly through the mess. I pressed the tip of the knife against the underside of her chin.
The air shifted behind me. I slashed sideways with the knife and cut an approaching goblin male straight across the belly. It screamed and ran the opposite way, past where my gun lay, lonely on the pavement. Too far to reach. I wanted it so badly I thought the desire would rip me to pieces. I wanted to press the barrel against her foot, pull the trigger, and shatter it into blood and bone and muscle and goo. I wanted to do it with her other foot and with both hands. I wanted to take her a piece at a time, just as she’d taken me.
Only I didn’t have the time. Bloods and Halfies still battled in front of me. Humans and goblins battled behind me. At some point, the twin fights had mingled into a single war zone. And time was running out.
“You don’t deserve this,” I said. I gripped the knife with both hands and held it high above her throat. “You deserve a hell of a lot worse, you bloodsucking bitch.”
I plunged; she gurgled. Blood pooled from her mouth, down her cheeks and throat. I pulled the knife out and wiped it on her clothes.
I’d heard people say revenge is a dish best served cold. I had no idea what that meant, but I doubted it was meant to describe the chilly emptiness I felt at what I’d done. There was no satisfaction, no joy or sense of closure. It was just another kill. A notch on my belt.
“No!” Isleen ran toward me, easily dodging the few senseless goblins who tried to stop her. Rage painted her pale cheeks with orbs of crimson. Lavender eyes snapped and flashed.
I stood on shaky legs. My wounds ached and smarted. I didn’t back down from Isleen as she closed the distance between us.
“She was mine,” Isleen snarled. “She killed my sister.”
“And she killed me, so I killed her. Get over it.”
Bad move on my part. Covered in blood and trembling from head to toe, Isleen was so tightly wound from the battle raging around us that she was one pull from snapping. And it turned out my little retort was that final pull. She tried to punch me, but was sloppy about the windup. The blow glanced off my temple, more annoying than anything. I raised my knee and caught her square in the stomach. She doubled over. I jammed my elbow into the small of her back, and she dropped.
“Sorry about that, but I’m too busy to fight my allies,” I said.
I retrieved my gun and stuck it down the back of my pants. The second knife was lost. It didn’t matter; I still had one left.
The tide of the battle had shifted in our favor. With their leader dead, some of the fight had gone out of the goblins. They attacked with less fury. Small groups had pulled away toward the trees, wounded and bloody and lost. I spotted Wyatt on the edge of the fray, unharmed beyond the preexisting gunshot wound. His shirtsleeve was stained red, a severe contrast to his pale, sweaty complexion. He shouldn’t have been out there fighting, but he was on his feet. Tybalt stood close by, surveying the battlefield and speaking into a walkie-talkie.
The remaining Halfies, maybe a dozen, were in the process of retreating to the entrance of the Center. The Bloods followed at a distance, apparently not keen on chasing them into close quarters. The Halfies, however, stayed on the porch and made no move toward the door.
I had a bad view over the sea of bodies between me and the Center, some standing, most not. The Bloods surged forward. Something silver was lobbed into the air from the porch. The Bloods scattered—too late. It exploded on impact. A ball of fire billowed into the sky, consuming everyone within ten feet of it. Bloods shrieked in agony. Flames beat against a brand-new force shield that sparkled aqua blue.
The heat blasted across the paved lot. I raised my arms to shield my face. The actual fire dissipated quickly. Melted pavement and scorched bodies marked the blast zone. The handful of surviving Bloods retreated, joining the ranks of the Triad teams regrouping by the Jeeps.
I climbed atop the last Jeep, its roof a colorful palette of blood smears and skin bits. In the mess, I found the cross necklace, its delicate chain somehow unbroken—a small reminder of everything Alex had given up for me. I tucked it into my pocket, glad to have it back, and jumped to the ground.
Kismet appeared by my side. She was bleeding from a deep gash in her left leg. The rest of the blood on her clothes was fuchsia. She gave me a once-over and quirked an eyebrow at my impressive array of wounds.
“I’ve had worse,” I said.
Tybalt jogged over. “The rear teams report killing half a dozen goblins that tried to run,” he said, “but no other activity on that side of the building.”
“We’re picking them off as best we can, too,” Kismet said. “With their leader dead, they don’t know what to do. Goblin males don’t traditionally do much thinking for themselves.”
“And Tovin’s still got himself locked inside,” I said. “I don’t know if he’s just biding his time until my clock runs out, or if he’s daring us to come in. What time is it?”
“Quarter till three.”
An hour left. I looked around for Wyatt, keen on getting his advice. He wasn’t mingling among the battle-worn. My heart skipped a beat. Kismet was speaking, but I walked away. Pushed past people, worry planting its icy seed in the pit of my stomach.
I found him on the other side of the Jeeps, standing amid a grisly scene of dead bodies and noxious blood fumes. Back to me, I saw weariness in the slump of his shoulders and bend of his knees. He trembled—barely noticeable if I wasn’t looking for it. Above the hiss of his ragged breathing, a steady plopping sound stood out. I followed it to the red-stained tips of his fingers. Blood dripped in a steady stream from his wounded arm.
Fear and bald understanding almost knocked me to my knees. The bullet may have gone right through like a normal round, but it hadn’t been normal. Not even close. Triad teams heading into an unknown situation involving Halfies or Bloods always entered with anticoag bullets chambered and ready.
Wyatt had been bleeding to death for the last half hour.
Chapte
r Twenty-eight
00:58
As though my sudden understanding had robbed him of the last of his strength, Wyatt fell. He was too far away for me to catch him before he hit his knees. I caught him around the waist and eased him down onto his back. He looked like a ghost, pale skin stretched taut over his face. His lips were dry and colorless. Glassy eyes blinked up at me. Hard, shallow breaths dragged in and hissed back out.
My stomach twisted, tightened, and my heart nearly hammered right out of my chest. Fear blasted through me like a winter wind. I knelt beside him and cupped his cold cheeks in my trembling hands.
“Wyatt, look at me. Wyatt!”
He blinked twice, hard, and saw me. “Sorry.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“It’s better this way.”
I wanted to slap him, punch him hard until he took it back. Force him to stand up and dress me down for hitting a superior. Instead, I reached down and clasped his good hand. He squeezed back, so weak. Something thick clogged my throat. I swallowed hard, unable to dislodge it.
“Better for you, maybe, but I can’t do this alone.” My voice sounded strange—high-pitched and desperate. The din of the fight faded away until nothing existed but us.
His pale lips stretched into a tired smile. “You can, Evy. You have to.”
“This is my death, goddamnit, mine. Not yours.”
“You’ll be whole. Force his hand. You can win.”
I leaned over and pressed my forehead to his, as though I could keep him there by touch alone. His cool breath puffed against my lips, each exhale a struggle. I didn’t understand. Didn’t want to understand. I only wanted him to stay. Stay by my side and help me fight.
“Stay with me,” I whispered.
“I can’t. Evy, promise me.”
“Anything.”
The hand holding mine squeezed harder. “Live.”
My insides quaked. Everything in me screamed to get help, to fight and save him—even though I knew I couldn’t.
“Evy?”
“I promise.” I brushed my lips across his. When I pulled back, a single tear had marked a slick track down his cheek. My chest ached. Scorching tears pooled in my own eyes, stung my nose.
I held on until his hand loosened around mine. His eyelids drooped, forever hiding his glimmering black eyes. His chest rose once more and stopped. He lay so still I thought the world had frozen in place. Then an anguished scream broke the spell, and I realized it was me.
Until that moment, I’d never known the word “heartbroken” as anything other than a metaphor. Yet as I gathered Wyatt in my trembling arms and held him to my chest, I felt it happen. Something inside me shattered, releasing rage and anguish unlike anything I’d ever felt—whole and feral and never-ending. I pitched headlong into the despair of loss, with the last person I cared for in the world dead in my arms.
My descent into grief, however, was cut short rather rudely by a blinding gray light. Even with my eyes closed, it was all I could see. It blasted through me like a lightning bolt, electrifying every nerve ending. I was falling into consuming fire that did not burn. It invigorated me and, within the chaos of pain and ecstasy, a life played out in my mind’s eye.
A little girl so lonely she prefers playing with stuffed animals to other children, misunderstood by unknowing parents, misguided by well-meaning counselors. A misfit in high school who acts out and makes bad choices and ends up in trouble more times than her beleaguered parents can bail her out. Coping with the loss of everyone important to her and the desperate need for a fresh start.
They could have been my own memories, save the faces of the players and the point at which they diverged. For while my story ended in a fulfilling job with the Triads, this girl’s story ended in a tub of hot, bloody water. It was Chalice’s life that I experienced, all of her memories coming to the surface as the pact made between Wyatt and Tovin shattered.
Wyatt was dead. I got to live. Forever trapped in someone else’s body, with her life tucked into the back of my mind. Alive. Whole. And furious.
I see her walking across a college campus, balancing too many books and a coffee cup. A clumsy, harried young man knocks the books to the ground, getting coffee on his khakis. Alex. He gathers her books, smiling his sunny smile at her. I felt her love for him—genuine affection for a gentle soul who accepted her, warts and all. So undeserving of his violent fate.
How was I seeing these things? Chalice Frost was long dead, her soul at rest. Was memory more than just consciousness? Had some of her remained behind, her body as much a part of memory as her soul had been? I had enough trouble with my own memories and emotions; I didn’t need someone else’s crowding my head.
The gray light faded. Still holding Wyatt, I no longer felt the hard pavement beneath me. The cloying odor of earth and leaves clued me in before I got a good look. I had transported us both, quite by accident, into the woods. I could still hear the distant hum of voices, the occasional spatter of gunfire, the residual stink of the explosion.
Had my release from Tovin’s spell made me powerful enough to transport not just myself, but others? The evidence was in our new location, and the very faint ache between my eyes. My entire body thrummed with energy. It cycled up into me, like a lifeline to the earth itself. With full possession of Chalice’s body, I had tapped into the Break and was helpless to turn it off.
I eased Wyatt to the carpet of leaves. His head listed to the side and lay still. I touched his cheek, his forehead, memorizing his face. Revenge hadn’t felt so good when I enacted it for myself, but I had a feeling revenge was going to taste wonderful when I tore it out of Tovin’s ass.
Something poked my thigh as I rocked back on my heels, preparing to stand. I dug into my jeans pocket, the tips of my fingers sliding around something solid and hot. The crystal Horzt gave me. I pulled it out and held it between my forefinger and thumb. The clear crystal had turned cloudy white and was fiery to the touch. It seemed to pulse with life of its own.
When the time comes, you will know how to use it.
A tiny flare of hope burned bright in the back of my mind, but I refused to acknowledge it. It was too much to expect. I had lost everyone I loved. Wyatt was no different. So why did the crystal burn with life of its own?
I untied the blood-soaked bandanna from Wyatt’s arm and ripped a hole in the sleeve of the shirt. The wound was small, maybe the size of a dime. I poised the pointed tip of the crystal above the bullet hole. My stomach fluttered. I couldn’t dare to hope. I pushed the crystal in, down through torn flesh, until its length disappeared and blood oozed out to cover its presence completely. I kept my hand over it, uncertain what to do next.
“Please,” I said.
The skin beneath my hand warmed—from the crystal or my pressure, I didn’t know. The hard butt of the crystal softened until I no longer felt it. It seemed to melt into him. Hotter still, for only a moment, and then it cooled. I let go and brushed away the drying blood. The skin on his arm, once torn, was mended. I checked the other side—no exit wound.
My heart dared to hope, pounding hard, threatening to choke me, but Wyatt didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes or suck in a ragged breath. Hope shattered into despair.
I put my right hand on his chest, threaded the fingers of my left above it, and depressed. One, two, three, four, five. “Come on, Wyatt.” One, two, three, four, five. “Come on, damnit.”
Again, nothing. I pounded with a closed fist. Fury and tears blinded me, choked me. No reaction. The crystal had been too little, too late.
“Fuck!”
I collapsed against his chest, too exhausted to sob. No more energy for grief. I couldn’t make his heart beat. I couldn’t force him to breathe. I couldn’t do anything, except finish the task we’d started together. Tovin had lost his vessel for the Tainted, but I had no illusions that he’d just roll over and give up. Creatures that cunning always had a failsafe.
Force his hand. You can win.
&nbs
p; “I hope so.” I touched Wyatt’s lips with the tip of my finger, positive the warmth I felt was a figment of hope. “If I don’t, I’ll see you soon.”
I stood up, tapped into the Break with little effort, and thought about the line of Jeeps. Colors swirled. The world dissolved into a pale ache that lasted only until movement ceased, and I found myself face-to-face with a very stunned Kismet.
“Where the hell did you come from?” she asked. “Where’s Wyatt?”
“Dead,” I said, surprised at the even tone of my voice. “What’s our situation here?” She frowned, but I didn’t care how she interpreted my question. I had to finish this before I let myself fall to pieces.
“No movement inside the Center,” she said. “The Halfies aren’t attacking, but the Bloods are getting itchy, and we still can’t get past that barrier.”
“What about the thing they used the first time?”
“They only had the one, and getting another takes both time and money.”
“What if I can get us through? Well, me and maybe two others.”
“How?”
“A little trick I picked up along the way, but I don’t think I can carry more than two. Hell, I might not even get us across the barrier, so I’d pick two volunteers who don’t mind the distinct possibility of being smashed into putty when we try and spectacularly fail.”
“I’m in,” Tybalt said. He fell in next to Kismet, his mouth set in a grim line. “How about you, boss?”
She gave him a sideways look. Nodded. She pulled her walkie-talkie. “Baylor, come in.”
It crackled briefly. A male voice said, “Go ahead, Kis.”
“You’re point on ops outside. We may have a way in. I’m going in with Tybalt and Stone.”
“Acknowledged.”
She slipped the walkie-talkie back into her belt without a reply, checked the clip on her gun, then turned to me. “Ready when you are.”
