Master: Arrow's Flight #3

by Casey Hays

“Let’s move him out of this place, okay?”

  A breath like the sound of wind easing through a broken window escapes her. She shakes her head, drawing her knees up until they pin Michael’s body to her. She rocks.

  “Claudia, please.”

  She’s as still as stone for another minute, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulder to hide her face. I rise to my feet, take in the scene around me again. The soldier sprawls in death across the bed. The back of his head has been crushed inward, and bits of splintered bone protrude at odd, white angles. My stomach lurches, and I turn my face away.

  It takes only a few more minutes of coaxing before Claudia sighs with utter despair and drops her hands away from her brother. His inert body shifts as one mass. Her lip trembles. Ian reaches for her hand and eases her out from under Michael’s body.

  She stands on shaky legs, buckles once, before she gains her balance with Ian’s help.

  A thump across the room resounds in the quiet. I freeze, my hand against my throat, and Ian spins toward the noise, alert. His muscles tense, and his eyes sharpen as he converts to defensive stance. A moment later, a shadow appears in the hallway just outside the door. Ian, eyes narrowed, prepares to leap.

  “Aunt Claudia?”

  “No!” Claudia manages, her voice a raspy crackling from lack of use. Ian halts. “It’s Sophia.”

  The girl steps into the room, squints in the sudden light, covering her face with her forearm. She holds her place, her shoulders stiffened defensively until her wary eyes recognize Ian. She spots her aunt and lunges into Claudia’s arms, chancing a quick look at her uncle—and at the dead soldier—before she buries her face in Claudia’s embrace.

  “It’s okay,” Claudia tugs her close in the same manner she’d held Michael. “You’re okay.”

  Sophia releases a deep sob.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Ian slides around them to pick up Michael. His body, twisted at an awkward angle, is in the process of hardening. He lifts him, a hint of revulsion mingled with sympathy crossing his face. It’s a sorrowfully, gruesome task, but he does it. For Claudia. I shudder as we follow behind.

  He lays Michael out on his own bed, and with difficulty, folds the dead hands over his mid-section and presses the eyelids closed. He steps back, swallows, runs a bloodied hand through his hair.

  Claudia lowers herself gingerly into a chair near the bed. One of her eyes is hooded and puffy. Her arms fall limp in her lap, all her tears spent. She doesn’t move when Sophia sinks to the floor at her feet. Her face, her eyes, they’re all wrong—void of her usual optimism. Sophia presses herself against Claudia’s leg and clings to her, her cheeks wet, and she says nothing.

  Fatigue catches up to me. I stand weakly in the center of the room clutching my side, surveying them, and hoping my knees don’t give way. I don’t know what I should feel. My body is numb, my mind inundated with all sorts of ugliness, and my heart won’t stop its harried beating. A kind of muted terror permeates, mingling with the air around us. It convinces me that whatever this is—this horror—it isn’t over.

  Ian hovers next to the bed, a look of uncertainty embedded in his features. Claudia’s grieving oozes to life again, thick with anguish. She bows her head over her brother, presses her forehead to his. I measure myself against the weight of this atrocity, and I don’t know what to do. So I stand still, watching and doing nothing—feeling out of place. I have no comfort to lend, not to people I hardly know. And is it even my place to, as kind as they’ve been?

  I shift from one foot to the next, tug on my braid. An awkward silence invades, creeping into every corner of the room like an invisible intruder.

  My own fresh grief, flooding in with my sudden memories, is thick. It takes over my thoughts, and I bite my lip as Tabitha’s sweet face flashes before me. For a moment, this overshadows the raw pain that sits right here in the room with us. I study the floor, grateful no one can see into my head where my own troubles outweigh everyone else’s.

  Ian comes to me, takes me by the arm.

  “Come on. Let’s leave them alone.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t come back.” Claudia’s quiet voice breaks the silence and stops us in our tracks. “Those men . . . they decided to stay.”

  I exchange a glance with Ian. He purses his lips, and turns back toward her. I see the need in her eyes—the overwhelming compulsion to say something that might justify the revolting acts that still linger so fresh in her mind.

  “They had me make them dinner, and—”

  Her lip trembles. She sniffles once. Sophia takes her hand. My insides turn cold. Claudia’s eyes settle on Ian.

  “If you hadn’t come—” She breaks off, agony resonating from her so strongly I can feel it on the air. “I tried to stop them.” A hollow groan steals out of her lungs. “I did. I really did…”

  She covers her ears, rocking her body forward. Ian skirts the bed to kneel beside her. His gaze skitters toward me, defenseless, before refocusing.

  “You’re safe now,” he whispers.

  A trembling breath escapes her lips. She closes her eyes and two fat tears squeeze out to scurry down her cheeks. My heart despairs for her. The scenario of dread and fear and death is all too familiar, too close to my own pain. It sends a sickening ache through my chest, and I wrap my arms around myself protectively.

  “They’re monsters,” she replies, a cool precision lining her voice.

  Ian’s features harden, and his fingers ball into fists. If he’s in any pain, he doesn’t show it. An anger surfaces, quick and hot, and fades just as quickly. He seems lost in his own head for a split second—not himself again—and a flash of worry darts through me. But he shakes his head to clear whatever strangeness I saw in him, and when he speaks, his tone is low and steady.

  “They’re gone, Claudia. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

  She nods, sucking her lower lip between her teeth. She chews, the movement causing a rapid, intermittent clenching of her jaw.

  “We’ll need to do something with the bodies.” Ian sweeps his head toward the bed. “Michael, too.”

  Claudia runs the back of her shaking hand across her forehead. “I can’t think right . . . I just . . .” She buries her face in her hands.

  “It’s okay.” Ian taps his fingertips against her knee once, pulls back, afraid to touch her too much in her fragile state. “You don’t have to decide anything yet.”

  “No.” She straightens abruptly. “No, I need to pull it together.” She licks her lips, searches Sophia’s face, nods briskly. “Um . . . our back porch is concrete. It was built in pieces, and one of the slabs is broken loose.” She crinkles her brow, thinking. “It’s heavy, but if you can lift it, there’s space underneath.”

  “I can lift it.”

  “Oh, right. Of course you can. Um . . . put the soldiers’ bodies there.” She pauses, her eyes finding his. “I don’t think we have a choice.”

  Ian’s throat muscles contract as he swallows.

  “Michael—” Her voice cracks. “He’ll stay here. For just a little while.”

  Ian nods. “All right.” He pauses. “Do you know if the soldiers reported in?”

  Claudia wipes at her eyes, nods, her voice thick and wet. “There were three of them at first. They sent the youngest away to report that nothing suspicious was found here. He didn’t come back. We thought they’d all leave then, but . . .”

  Her voice squeaks. She presses shaking fingers against her lips, before she pulls in a nervous breath.

  “They’re still looking for you,” she says. Her voice drops to a whisper. “They kept talking about what they would do when they found the freak.” Her eyes rest on me briefly before returning to him. “They—they took bets. To see what it would take for you to come to ‘the girl’s rescue’... if they ever got their hands on her.”

  Her words jolt me to the core. Ian’s jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing. Claudia presses him.

  “You have to find Aaron,” she pleads. “H
e’ll know what to do.”

  Taken aback, Ian adamantly shakes his head, his voice gruff. “I’m not leaving you to go look for him. He should have been here. And if one soldier left, he’ll be back to look for these guys when they never show.”

  “You have to find Aaron,” Claudia insists again. “Please, Ian.”

  “No. Claudia, they—” He glances at Sophia before he finishes the sentence. “They raped you. They killed Michael. What I have to do is stay put. Here. Protecting all of you.”

  I swallow as the tension in the room rises. I want to cry with every word he utters. I’m scared and tired and in severe need of another dose of pain medication. And I suddenly can’t get the images of what those men must have done to Claudia out of my head. I lean against the wall to steady myself. Claudia staggers to her feet to stand over Ian. She takes the collar of his shirt in her fists, twisting the material frantically.

  “Aunt Claudia, no.” Sophia scrambles to her knees and tugs on Claudia’s pant leg, but she ignores this.

  “We have to make it stop,” she whispers, her mouth close to Ian’s face. She gives him a small shove without letting go of him. He remains a solid wall on one knee. “For Sophia. For Kate. For every other girl in my village and yours. People in this village have died because of Eden. Your people have died. We can’t let their deaths be in vain.” She shoves against him again, gritting her teeth. “Find my brother . . . or I’ll go myself.”

  Her desperation hisses through her in agonizing waves, and Ian grows rigid, his back tall and straight. His jaw flinches as he deflects her intense pleading with his hard eyes. Her searing pain lies fresh on her skin and in her soul, and we all feel it. I know what he’s thinking: Eden is to blame—again. The burden crushes him minute by excruciating minute, but one look at me, and he shakes his head and wrenches her hands free from his collar.

  “I’m not leaving.”

  Her eyes turn hard for only a minute before they glaze over with tears. She falls into her chair defeated. Sophia wrangles for her hand, clutches it.

  Ian is stoic, and his pupils pulse once, clear and deep— and intense. He glances at me, and I can’t help but notice once again how different they look, the flickering movement invades—without permission. I distinctly see a struggle in their depths, and for a moment, a stark fear stops my heart.

  I’m drawn in by them; they hold me captive in the strangest way, and it takes quite a bit of effort to pull away from them.

  What is this?

  I force myself to look at Claudia.

  “Where is Thomas?”

  Claudia doesn’t respond. Sophia tosses her a wary glance before she answers.

  “He got away last night.” Her voice is timid. “I tried to go with him, but I’m not fast. They caught me.” She lifts her shoulders. Her voice is small, but her bravery works its way to the surface as she speaks. “But nobody can catch my brother.”

  “Did they hurt you?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “My uncle wouldn’t let them.” She casts her eyes over his body. They falter, and she lowers her head. “That’s why he’s dead.”

  Claudia takes in a deep breath. “Thank God they never had a chance to touch her. When Michael interfered, distracting them, she was able to hide.” She pauses, chokes on another tearful breath, and meets Ian’s eyes. “They deserved what you did to them.”

  “Maybe,” he nods, and the muscle beneath his right eye flinches, barely noticeable.

  Claudia seems to recognize the venom in her words. With a shameful gasp, she wrings her hands again. Her eyes fall over her brother and then flit back to connect with Ian.

  “I shouldn’t talk like that. I’m sorry.” She clings to Sophia’s hand. “It was wrong to say it.”

  I stare at Claudia, dumbfounded. How can she chastise herself after what she’s suffered? Her brother was slaughtered. She was used—worse than a breeder. Worse than stock, and now she says this?

  “Where would Thomas hide?” Ian asks, and I focus on him.

  “He wouldn’t,” Claudia answers. “He would go to Gaza.”

  Ian raises his brows. “Why?”

  Claudia hesitates, and after a brief moment of silence, it is again Sophia who answers.

  “My mother is there.”

  Her voice is soft, and Ian peers at her in surprise.

  “Your mother is in Gaza?”

  Sophia nods. Claudia sighs with resignation. She closes her eyes.

  “My sister, Abigail, is an addict. She deserted Thomas and Sophia after their father died. She couldn’t take the pain, so she fled to Gaza, looking for an escape. And of course, she found it—with the hoppers.” Her face contorts with sadness. “That was five years ago.” She shakes her head. “I’ve only seen her once since then. She wanted to see her babies—just a small glimpse from afar.” She runs a motherly hand over Sophia’s head. “They never knew she came back.”

  “And he would go to her?” Ian can’t hide his mounting surprise. “Even after all that?”

  Claudia pulls at a strand of her blonde hair, dirty and matted against her shoulder.

  “She loves her children, despite herself.” She runs the back of her fingers gently down the side of Sophia’s tear-stained face. “She just loves herself more. But I know my sister; she would never turn them away. They both know to go to her if they have no other alternative.”

  “But—will he be able to get past the soldiers?”

  “Yes,” she concedes will full confidence. “He knows every angle of this village. He’ll be able to get in and out unseen. But will he be safe?” She sighs, blinks away tears. “Who is anymore? There are rumors that Gaza is just as overrun with soldiers as we are.” A pause. She wraps her arm around Sophia.

  Ian climbs to his feet.

  “Ian?”

  His eyes flit downward.

  “We need Aaron.”

  The desperation in this final plea clings to her every word, and it touches something in Ian. He purses his lips.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  It’s a half-hearted promise, but her shoulders sink in relief all the same, and before he’s had a chance to move away, she grabs his wrist.

  “Thank you. For everything.”

  He nods. She releases him and takes Sophia by the hand.

  “Let’s pray,” she says to the girl.

  She doesn’t wait for us to go; she simply begins talking. Aloud. Ian looks at me, and we both hold still, not sure if we should wait or leave. I watch, mesmerized as she speaks to this unseen entity—as if he were with us in the room. It is the strangest thing, and not at all as I imagined it. She prays for the safety of Thomas and Sophia, and that Yeshua might watch over Penelope at the clinic. She prays that Aaron returns soon. And even in the midst of her own grief, she finds a moment to mention me—asking for my quick healing and continued recovery. She speaks with confidence as if she knows her god listens, and even while Michael lies dead beside her, I sense a peace—swift and sure—settling over her and extending to Sophia. And somehow, I feel it reach for me, too. A sure presence that is alive and warm and envelops all of us with outstretched arms that ease back the frigid acts of horror until they dissolve into overwhelming love. And this love, it floods the room; it takes away my breath. And for a moment, I truly believe someone is here with us.

  I glance around, physically expecting to see someone.

  I wonder, too, if this Yeshua will answer her. I wonder most of all what it is like to hear from God. If I knew how to pray, would he spare a moment to listen to me?

  When she petitions for the soldiers—not that they leave, not for revenge, but that they might come face to face with their demons, repent, and turn to God—I raise my brows in shock. But I hear no more. Ian suddenly tugs on my fingers, bringing me back to him, and we finally leave them.

  Ian checks the locks on the front door, sliding every bolt into place. In the kitchen, the soldier—neck broken with one snap of Ian’s fingers—stares up at us from dead eye
s. Blood runs from his nose and his ears to pool below his head. The sleeve containing the golden V insignia is ripped away at the shoulder. Ian bites his lip as he returns the vacant gaze. He holds up one of his own blood red hands, flips it over to examine his palm. The blood is drying, staining every single crease that runs from finger to wrist. I take his other hand, squeeze it gently. He ended someone’s life. There is no coming back from it, and this is a hard thing to absorb.

  “You had to,” I whisper. My own blouse is covered in the same blood. “They might have killed all of us.”

  My words are weak, lacking any kind of confidence. His hand hangs loose in my grip.

  “Yeah,” he swallows. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I feel a change in him, accompanied by the strange flickering in his eyes. He pulls away from me.

  After this, Ian shuts down his mind and moves toward the body. Blood drips a dotted, crimson trail along the floor as Ian hoists the man over his shoulder, his movements stiff and mechanical, and takes him to the back porch. The sun is setting, and the skies darken into shadows, lending decent cover, as if nature conspires with us, protects us from discovery. Still, my eyes dart toward the horizon that stretches off into darkness, fearful that at any moment, the Vortex will emerge out of those very shadows.

  They will kill Ian for certain if they learn what he has done. Because that’s what enemies do.

  Ian locates the slab and deposits the body beneath it while I watch from the doorway. His muscles shift and strain under the effort. Dead silence reigns. I feel like I should do something—help him somehow, but I’m rooted to my spot. An unrelenting tightening invades my chest.

  When the other body rests with the first in the shallow grave, Ian sits back, his work done. His face is hard set with a lingering misery that seems to crawl over his cheek bones to invade his neck, his heaving chest, his clenched fists. He isn’t sad, not in the sense of losing someone. It’s another kind of grieving. The kind that promises he will have to live with himself, contemplating whether there may have been another choice. I know this all too well. It’s the kind of contemplation that can drive a person mad.