Master: Arrow's Flight #3

by Casey Hays

  In the living room, the front door creaks open.

  “Chip?”

  The voice echoes from the darkness. Ian stiffens, once again propelled into action by impending danger. His fingers jump to the trigger. The black shadow of another soldier steps through the doorway, spots Ian, and aims. I squeal, shrinking back, but Ian is too quick. One sweep of his hand, and he whisks me out of the way just as a flock of bullets sprays into the cabinet door behind us, splintering the wood and leaving a splattering of holes in a deformed rainbow arc. Angling his body protectively, one arm wrapped securely at my waist, he fires back. The dual tattering of gunfire fills my ears. I cover them, huddling behind Ian, heartbeat seemingly matching the rhythm of the flying bullets.

  A grunt is followed by the loud thud of a falling sound. I chance a look at the soldier. He’s on his knees, and blood gurgles from between his lips. His chest is riddled with bullet holes. He focuses on Ian as his last breath escapes his lungs. He slumps forward and lies still.

  Ian lowers the weapon, lets it slide from his fingers. It clatters to the floor, and he sinks to his knees, his arm falling from my waist.

  “Ian?”

  “That’s all of them.”

  He says it with confidence, as if he can sense it—detect it somehow—even as his body goes weak. My ears are fuzzy with the sound of leftover gunfire. It makes his voice a distant hazy sound. I take his face in my hands and make him look at me. His eyes focus, clearing, and for a brief moment, he’s back with me.

  “Kate?” His lips form my name. His eyes fill with tears. I bite back my own and nod rapidly.

  “Yes. I’m here.”

  “Did they hurt you?”

  I shake my head rapidly, a weak smile tipping my mouth. He lifts his brow, and the color drains from his face.

  “I think . . . I’m going to be sick.”

  He leans to the side and vomits. Some of it splatters over my bare feet, but I don’t care. And when he’s finished, I hug his head close to my chest until he wraps his arms around my waist. For the first time, his embrace feels weak, and I sense all of his vulnerability. The physical. The emotional. The mental—all of it in this one gesture.

  “Come on,” I step back and urge him to stand. “You’re sick, Ian. You need to rest.”

  Claudia climbs to her feet, and our eyes meet.

  “He’s worse,” I say.

  She nods. “Bring him.”

  She turns quickly and pushes open the hidden door, and Sophia barrels into her arms, a loud sob escaping her. The tears flow freely, Claudia hugs her close.

  “It’s all right. We’re all right.”

  Our eyes meet over the top of Sophia’s head.

  Behind the wall is a tiny room—the size of a large closet—with two beds standing barely a foot apart and one small chest.

  “My makeshift bedroom,” Claudia explains with a shrug. “Hurry.”

  I urge Ian forward. He stumbles, hitting the floor with his knees, and I wince under his weight, my own wounds aching with a new surge of pain as my adrenaline drains. Claudia moves to his other side, slipping up under his arm.

  “Ian, you have to make it to the bed,” she encourages. “Just a few more steps.”

  With a grunt of pain—he hoists himself heavily to his feet. He barely makes it to one of the beds before his knees give out again. He lies back with a groan and stares at me through half-open eyes.

  “I promise to keep you safe, Kate.” His voice is weak. “I promise...”

  He begins to fade out.

  “Shhh.... I know,” I whisper. I tuck the blankets around him.

  Oddly, he shivers even as he sweats. I step back to observe him, chewing on my lip nervously.

  “I don’t understand what’s happening to him. I was shot with the same kind of weapon. It didn’t do this to me.” I pause. “Did it?”

  “No,” Claudia whispers. She slides the paneling closed while Sophia lights a candle. “It seems whatever is in that ammo is reacting to the Serum, exactly as it was designed.” She looks at me “An Eden-killer indeed.”

  I swallow and run my palm down the length of Ian’s forearm.

  “Can we give him something for the pain?”

  “I’m afraid to do anything for him. People who’ve shifted don’t need doctors. Treating him might make him worse.” She frowns, runs a shaking hand across her forehead. “I can bandage his wounds, but we need Penelope. She might be able to figure this thing out.”

  I look at her pleadingly. She turns her eyes away.

  “I’m sorry, Kate.” Her voice is a rushing whisper. “I’m not an expert on Serum. Even if I could draw some of his blood, I wouldn’t know what I was looking for.”

  I shrink inside. So this is it.

  Sophia climbs into the other bed, and pulls her knees to her chest, her frightened eyes unblinking as she listens to our conversation. Ian mumbles in his sleep and shifts restlessly. His face squints with a hard grimace, his teeth chattering so loudly I can hear them knocking against each other. I ache for him, and the feeling of uselessness consumes me.

  I’m still clutching the flashlight, and Claudia takes it from me.

  “I need to check the front door.”

  Sophia buries herself beneath the blankets, disappearing completely as Claudia slides the panel an inch and peeks out. A long pause. When she’s convinced we’re alone, she pulls the panel wider and shines the light into the kitchen. Through the opening, I see the boot of one soldier. It lies eerily still in a dark puddle of blood. A shudder rumbles through me.

  “Stay here,” Claudia whispers, and she slips out, leaving the panel open.

  I wait only another minute before I take up the candle and follow her.

  The soldier Ian shot blocks the doorway, and I have to skirt around the pool of blood and step over his legs to get through. It’s horribly miserable, and I try my best to avoid looking at any of the men.

  The doorframe is splintered, the bolt bent at an unfixable angle. Claudia manages to close it, and she stands helplessly in front of it. It is not secure. I ease up beside her and raise the candle.

  “We could tie it closed.” I indicate another door—a closet—a few feet away. “Do you have rope? We could attach an end to each of these doorknobs.” I shrug. It’s a weak plan, but it’s better than doing nothing.

  With a nod, she disappears into the kitchen and returns with a loop of rope. We secure the two doors together; she pulls on the front door to test the rope’s tautness. It holds fairly well, but for extra measure, we drag a chair over and nudge it beneath the doorknob. We stand back to examine our work.

  In the momentary silence, I feel as if we should say something—as if we should talk about what happened in the kitchen. About what happened to her earlier . . . but the words stick in my throat, and ugly thoughts rumble too loudly to manage. I close my eyes, push them out. There will be time for talking. Sleep—that’s what we need now.

  In the kitchen, we stare at the dead, and they stare back in the shadowy orange glow of candle. I feel their accusatory glare, and it makes my stomach reel. I try to reason with myself, for my sake . . . and for Ian’s. They were bad men, bent on hurting us. But death is a hard lesson.

  The soldier Ian shot is in the worst mess. He bleeds all over the floor—a sticky, crimson smudge that puddles all around him.

  “What do we do with them?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Claudia admits. She looks at me. “We should cover them up for now. I’ll get some old blankets from the basement.”

  She goes, and I stand very still in the center of the room, afraid that in her absence, one of these men might rise up, half dead, and come for me. They don’t move, still as night, but I shudder at the thought, and I ease backwards until I’m standing just outside the hidden bedroom. I hold the candle up at eye level. It hisses in my shaking hand.

  Claudia returns with a pile of ragged blankets, and I set the candle aside to help her. We unfurl each blanket and let it float do
wn over the bodies. The flowing movement is so adverse to the evidence that it covers. When the last body is hidden beneath a fading, floral print, Claudia goes to her knees, and in the beam of the flashlight, I see the tears standing in her eyes.

  “Dear God,” she whispers, and it comes on a sigh. “Thank you for your protection today. I pray that this atrocity doesn’t have to happen again. Help us to reach other men like these with the Truth before it’s too late for them, too. Amen.”

  I’m silent, listening, watching. She places her hand on one blanket for a brief moment before she stands.

  “You should get some sleep,” she insists.

  I lift my eyes. “And you?”

  “Ian really needs help.”

  She looks at me knowingly. We neither one move. I study the blanket at my feet, and the lump that swells up in my throat threatens to suffocate me. I close my eyes, and the truth stares straight into my soul.

  Ian is right; this is war. I can feel it in the depths of my bones.

  Claudia examines Ian’s wounds and cleans them with warm water before bandaging them. The bandages do only a little good in hiding the stench. She changes my own dressing, too, which has been severely neglected. I stay with her in the kitchen as she loads a small pack with food from the basement to offer the officers at the clinic. It’s a small gesture, but she hopes it will buy her an audience with General Berg.

  “Will anybody recognize you?”

  “I’m not sure.” She casts her eyes toward our makeshift grave with a sad sigh. “I think anyone who’s seen me is dead.”

  “What about the boy they sent back? To report that Ian wasn’t here?”

  She nods toward the bodies. “The one called Beau? That was him.”

  I swallow and refuse to follow her eyes. Beau’s death haunts me. He seemed frightened, not like Chip.

  “You stay in the room, especially during the day,” she orders as she zips her pack closed and hoists it onto her back.

  I nod. “How long will you be?”

  “As quick as possible.”

  Her eyes droop heavily with her weariness. She attempts a smile, but I see the residue of trauma behind it. It cries for justice. I grab for her hand.

  “Are you okay, Claudia?”

  Suddenly, the foggy residue clears, and that peace that always seems to accompany her casts a low glow over her features.

  “I’m going to be fine,” she nods. “When God is for us, who can be against us?”

  My mouth parts slightly, unsure, but I squeeze her hand and nod in return.

  “What are you going to tell them?”

  She frowns. “I’m not quite sure yet. I’ll think of something on the way. Hopefully, I’ll run into my brother.” The words are skeptical, but she smiles again. “Take some more pain medication if you need it. You’re mending nicely.”

  I smile in return, even though everything in me tempts me to cry.

  “We’ll get through this, Kate. One way or the other.”

  Her hand still tightly clamped with mine, she bows her head, and the words flow out of her smooth and confident, as if she’s said them a thousand times before and truly believes them.

  “Yeshua, son of God, keep me strong, knowing that you always prevail in the end. Please protect my family. Be with Thomas, wherever he is. Protect Kate and Ian, too. Please give us the wisdom we need to suffer through this. And if it is your will is to save us, so be it.”

  After this she goes quickly, and I lock myself into the tiny, windowless room where one small candle burns low. Sophia sleeps on, exhausted. I put out the candle and stumble to Ian’s side. His arm is slick with sweat beneath my hand, but still he shivers uncontrollably. I slip into the bed and press myself against him, willing the fever—or whatever this is—to cease. He spasms once. I close my eyes and sink into the darkness.

  I try not to think of the dead bodies on the other side of the door. I’m so scared.

  I’m also very aware that something happened. Something caused Ian to wake at the exact time we needed him.

  Someone was with us.

  “Yeshua,” I whisper.

  Could it be?

  I drift off into sleep with this name lingering in my heart.

  Chapter 23

  A

  n enormous crash of thunder jolts me awake. I jerk upright, wincing as a stab of pain charges through my wounded body. My lungs grasp for air, and I press a palm against my chest and fling my legs over the edge of the bed. I straighten slowly and stiffly, breathing heavily.

  My pain has returned full force.

  Beside me, Ian groans, his body shaking beneath the blankets. I touch his skin, and I’m certain it’s cooling. Cooling isn’t good. A streak of fear presses me, causing my heart to race.

  He’s dying.

  As hard as I try, I can’t make myself believe anything else.

  My clothing is drenched—from his sweating. I wipe at it uselessly and shove up off the bed.

  The overwhelming darkness that defines the room sends the next ominous crash of thunder soaring through every inch of my body. I fumble for the flashlight. Sophia huddles in the other bed—her mass of golden curls hiding her face—and as the thunder rumbles over the roof again and slowly fades, I’m surprised she sleeps through it. My legs shake, unsure of my weight, and with difficulty, I weave around the end of her bed and slide open the hidden door. I wait a moment, listening, before I decide it’s safe to slip into the kitchen.

  Morning light camouflaged by the gray sky leaks in through the small window where raindrops squiggle downward in a constant race. The rain falls in thin, drizzling sheets. The streets already flood, filling the village with deep puddles. So . . . the torrential rain has followed us here. I shiver in the cool air.

  I take two pain pills, chasing them down with half a bottle of water. A crack of lightening brightens the kitchen, and thunder answers again. I jump, crushing the pill bottle against my chest. A small trickle of water spills out and slides over my fingers.

  I don’t dare turn to look at the piles of blankets behind me. In this way, I can pretend they aren’t there. I wish we could have moved them, and I know soon enough, they will begin to smell. The rusty stench of spilled blood is thick in my nostrils. I try not to breathe too heavily.

  “Please hurry, Claudia,” I whisper.

  Other than the noise of the beating rain, the house is silent. No more soldiers have come looking for their missing men, and I wonder, as I watch the rain assault the world outside if the weather is the reason.

  Just as this thought settles over my mind, a large shadow separates from a tree across the way. It hunkers over in the gray mistiness to ward off the pummeling rain, moving stealthily through the downpour. I lean closer to the pane, and my chest compresses with anxious fear. Perhaps I spoke too soon. Perhaps this army of men isn’t fearful of a vicious rainstorm.

  The thunder echoes, the figure moves closer, and my blood runs cold. The water bottle shakes in my hand. Then, for a brief moment, he stops, turns back as if leaving his shelter was a terrible mistake. A few more steps, and he squats next to the porch just to the right of the window. A slick rain jacket stretches across his broad shoulders, the hood hiding his face. Even in his crouched position, he’s tall. But what truly catches my eye is the large bow crossed diagonally over his back. Surprised, I squint, press my face up against the glass.

  After a minute, another figure emerges from the tree, smaller and fast. Before I have time to blink, it darts through the rain and huddles down next to the first, a long sword suddenly jutting out parallel to the ground. Under protection of the overhang, the first person adjusts the collar of his rain jacket and flips the hood backwards to reveal a jet-black head. His hair immediately sticks to his forehead, but even soaking wet, I recognize him.

  “Justin,” I whisper, and the thrill that logs through me is indescribable. I bang once on the window. “Justin!”

  They both turn at the muffled sound, fully alert, but neither of the
m have time to spot me before I scramble from the kitchen, completely indifferent to the soldier’s body as I leap over it and cross the living room. Light flashes again, brightening the room and turning everything ghastly white. Moving the chair from under the doorknob, I fumble with the rope. It doesn’t budge.

  “Come on. Come on!” I beg through gritted teeth. “Justin!”

  Finally, the knot turns loose, and I pull it free and fling open the door.

  “Justin!” I raise my voice above the battering rain that beats him where he crouches at the foot of the steps, knife in hand and ready for a fight. He rises, squints at me, and a hint of recognition transforms the cautious line of his lips into a relieved smile.

  I don’t wait for him to come up out of the rain. I launch from the porch and right into his arms, ignoring the pain that explodes on impact and the water that rides up well past my ankles. I bury my face against his wet chest.

  “Justin, Justin, Justin.” I say his name over and over, implanting him in my reality.

  “Kate.” He pulls me close, the sound of my name on his voice confirming his presence. “There you are.” The words are a sigh on his breath.

  I lean back to smile up at him, and his hands cup my face. I stare into his dark, familiar eyes as the rain runs over my skin, soaks my clothes. And I hug him again, more tightly. His arms encircle me, strong and safe.

  Behind him, Liza lifts her fingers in a salute. Her face is buried in the hood of her rain jacket, but her familiar sword hangs at her side.

  “Hey there, Kate.”

  “Hello, Liza.” My teeth chatter out her name. The thunder growls at us. “How did you find us?”

  “Thomas,” Justin says.

  “Thomas?”

  “Let’s get inside,” he orders. Liza sloshes through the puddle and up the steps ahead of us, jumping over the last one completely.

  Inside, Justin examines the flimsy bolt.

  “What happened here?”

  “Soldiers,” I manage through my shivering. “Twice they broke in.”

  He turns, his hand falling to his side. “Did they hurt you?”