The Last Sanctuary Omnibus

by Kyla Stone

  He glanced down at Amelia, his face growing serious, concern etching the skin around his eyes. “She’s still out.”

  She watched him for a moment, the way he cradled Amelia so carefully, like she was something fragile and precious. She hadn’t missed the way he’d looked at her during the seizure either, like he felt every excruciating second of her suffering, as if he were dying right along with her.

  Micah was falling in love with Amelia. She was too numb to feel envious or irritated or even pleased. She’d figure out what it all meant later. “She’s been through too much to quit now,” she said simply. “We all have.”

  They left the parking lot and made their way down a street lined with naked oak and maple trees, their branches white and bare, gleaming like bones. Shadows thickened all around them as they maneuvered between the hulking shapes of cars, vans, and transports looming out of the darkness.

  As they walked, the freezing rain turned to snow.

  14

  Gabriel

  The rats poured down the hallway toward Gabriel. Adrenaline shot through him. “Follow me out!”

  He spun, pried open the doors, and shoved his way through. Celeste and Horne were right behind him, trembling and terrified but moving fast. He slammed the doors closed. Several dozen bristling, hunch-backed rodents smashed against the glass.

  He sucked a single cold, oxygen-infused breath into his starving lungs and launched himself at Alvarado. There was no cover in the wide-open parking lot. The nearest vehicle was the van twenty yards away. The only cover he was going to get was human.

  The man started to turn, sensing movement, but Gabriel reached him first. He slammed the butt of the gun against the man’s skull, hard enough to stun him, not hard enough to knock him out. With one hand, he jammed his knife against the man’s throat, with his other, he pointed his gun at Mohawk.

  “Drop your gun and kick it away,” Gabriel croaked. His throat was seared. He needed air. He couldn’t gulp in enough oxygen.

  Alvarado obeyed. His voice was laced with hatred. “You’re dead, you hear me? You just don’t know it yet.”

  “Not today.” Gabriel had to bend his knees and partially squat to keep his head from becoming a target, keeping as much of Alvarado’s short, meaty body between himself and the female Pyro’s bullets as he could.

  The woman with the mohawk swore. She dropped into a crouch and aimed her rifle at him.

  “Run!” Gabriel shouted hoarsely. Horne and Celeste edged out from the mall’s entrance into the freezing rain. Mohawk’s gun swiveled toward them.

  “I’m the one who’s going to shoot you!” Gabriel unloaded a blast at Mohawk’s feet. Chunks of asphalt sprayed her legs. She leapt back, her weapon swinging back to him.

  “Come on!” Celeste yelled. Horne froze like a deer in the headlights. She shoved Horne, almost knocking him over, but it got him moving. Celeste and Horne sprinted into the darkness. Safe, at least for the moment.

  Gabriel turned his attention to the task at hand. He clenched his jaw. He should kill Mohawk. She had no cover, nowhere to hide.

  An image flashed through his mind, sudden and uninvited. Simeon instructing him in an old, graffiti-scarred gym, teaching him how to kill ruthlessly and efficiently. Training him to become a mindless, unthinking soldier, able to kill enemy combatants and innocent collateral alike.

  This woman wasn’t innocent. She was the enemy. She’d nearly burned them alive. Still, he hesitated.

  He thought of Micah. He thought of Nadira. He remembered the square of blue cloth in his pocket, remembered the dirt beneath his nails from burying the girl who’d given her life for his. He’d sworn to seek redemption, to earn her sacrifice.

  Was more blood on his hands the way to do it?

  “Drop the weapon!” he shouted. He offered her the same deal he’d given to the boy. “Leave now and we’ll let you go, unharmed.”

  “Do what he says, damn it!” Alvarado gasped.

  The Pyro shifted, and Gabriel dug the knife deeper into his throat, drawing blood. The blade was slick in his hands. He adjusted his grip, blinking water out of his eyes. “Put the gun down, and we can all walk away.”

  “Don’t!” Alvarado cried.

  Gabriel caught the shift in her eyes, the twitch of her finger. She fired a short, controlled burst. The bullets ripped into Alvarado’s thick body, tearing through flesh, muscles, organs, shattering bones. Gabriel felt the juddering vibration in his own body.

  Alvarado began to slump, his arms and legs useless.

  Time seemed to slow. Gabriel felt the throbbing of his own heart. The icy numbness of the rain and the cold. The searing burn in his lungs and throat. The roar of his blood in his ears.

  Kill or be killed. Sometimes it was that simple. He pulled the trigger.

  A streak of red, crackling energy struck the woman in the chest. Bulletproof vests did nothing to stop the firepower of a plasma pulse.

  Her eyes widened in shock. Her rifle clattered to the wet pavement. She clutched at her chest. “You—you—”

  But she had nothing more to say, not then or ever. She toppled to the ground, twitched, and lay still. The gaping wound in her chest sizzled in the freezing rain.

  Gabriel rubbed the wetness from his face with a trembling hand. His body was ice. His blood was fire. He’d given her a chance. He couldn’t feel an ounce of guilt for doing what he had to do to survive and keep his people alive.

  He turned to Jericho and Sykes. They were locked in battle, wrestling furiously for Alvarado’s dropped pulse gun. Gabriel leveled his own gun, looking for his opening, but it was too risky. He was just as likely to hit Jericho as the Pyro.

  Sykes struck a flurry of blows against Jericho. They exchanged feints and dodges and attacks. Sykes was clearly skilled. But so was Jericho. He just needed an opening.

  You could just run. He could leave Jericho to his fate and flee, saving his own skin. No one would ever know. Jericho was the one who’d captured him and locked him in handcuffs. The one who swore to turn him in to the Sanctuary to be executed for his crimes.

  Without Jericho, Gabriel would be free.

  Slowly, Gabriel lowered the gun. His free hand curled into a fist. He stood there for a long, torturous minute, doing battle in his own mind. He owed Jericho nothing. He had everything to gain—his freedom, his life. All he had to do was walk away.

  Nadira’s scrap of cloth burned in his pocket. There were people he answered to now. One was already dead, but that didn’t matter. His life was not his own. It was not his to destroy. It was not his to live as he pleased.

  He knew what he needed to do, what he had to do.

  The shadows grappled in the dark and the rain. Jericho’s shadow was darker than Sykes’. It was the only way he could tell their shifting, blurred shapes apart.

  Sykes punched his fist beneath Jericho’s ribs, right at the kidneys. Jericho grunted, doubling over. For a moment, their shadows separated.

  Gabriel aimed his gun. He adjusted his target and pulled the trigger. A coughing fit seized him. The plasma blast went wide.

  But Sykes reacted, ducking and flinging himself to the side.

  Jericho took his chance and threw an open palm strike to Sykes’s forehead, bouncing his head back and exposing his neck. Quick as lightning, Jericho’s left hand darted in and struck the man in his throat.

  Sykes staggered, clutching his neck and gagging, eyes bulging.

  “Jericho!” Gabriel grabbed the pulse rod and tossed it.

  Jericho seized it with one hand and spun back for his adversary. He swung it at the Pyro, who managed to dodge, but just barely. The pulse rod caught his billowing coat, slicing a two-foot rent in the fabric.

  Gabriel darted in, gun up, ready to pull the trigger, but Sykes whirled and landed a kick to his ribs. Pain exploded in his side. He recovered, spinning to attack, but Sykes was already on him.

  Sykes threw back his arm and aimed a vicious punch at Gabriel’s face. He couldn’t avoid it. He had a
fraction of a second to lower his head. The blow landed on his forehead, the hardest bone in the body.

  Gabriel staggered back, stunned, his vision blurring as stars exploded behind his eyes. But the move worked.

  Sykes cursed, clutching his bruised, possibly broken right hand to his chest. His gaze flitted from Jericho to Gabriel. They flanked him, Gabriel with the pulse gun aimed at Sykes’ head, Jericho’s pulse rod humming at his side as they closed in on either side.

  Sykes was outmatched, and he knew it. “This is only the beginning. You’re already dead. You just don’t know it yet, you hear me?”

  He turned and ran, fleeing into the shadows.

  Gabriel let off a volley of useless shots, none of them hitting his target. It was too dark. The freezing rain obscured his vision. He needed to get closer. “Should I go after him?”

  “No.” Jericho bent double, holding his ribs, coughing and gasping for breath. He spat blood on the puddled asphalt. “There’s been enough killing for one night.”

  “He’ll alert the rest of his people.”

  “Trust me, they’re alerted. They’re already looking for us. We’re the ones who need to run now.”

  The rain turned hard and dense. Gabriel held out his hand, watching the tiny balls of ice smack his palm. “Snow is coming.”

  Jericho rested his forearms on his thighs. He straightened, took steady, deep breaths, and faced Gabriel. “You saved my life. I won’t forget that.”

  Behind them, flames engulfed the department store. The fire surged through the shattered windows, hungrily licking the sides of the building, smoke pouring out. The air cracked like thunder, like the sky splitting open.

  Gabriel holstered the pulse gun. “It was the right thing to do.”

  15

  Willow

  The snow fell harder, a thick, white curtain. It stung Willow’s eyes and clung to her eyelashes. The icy wind bit at her exposed face.

  Even in the freezing cold, the smoke of the fire burned her throat. They were exposed and helpless, stumbling around in the dark and the snow.

  They passed cafes and storefronts and apartment buildings and businesses, all of them blank and featureless. They took a serpentine route, making sure they weren’t being followed, though there was no way to be sure, and no way to hide the footprints they left behind in the gathering whiteness.

  Soon, a blanket of snow covered everything. Drifts piled against stop signs, abandoned vehicles, electric poles, storefronts. The snow-covered hulks of cars, trucks, and transports reared out of the gauzy moonlight. The night was a dreamscape of snow and shadow.

  Every sound was both muffled and amplified. The stillness seemed to swallow them up. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to, their minds consumed with fearful, anxious thoughts for the people they loved most.

  Was Benjie okay? Was Finn still alive? Had they escaped? She needed to believe they were okay. It was the only way she could focus on staying alive herself.

  Once, there was movement several blocks ahead. They took shelter inside a convenience store, hiding for long, torturous minutes, waiting for the threat to move on.

  They lost their way several times in the cold and the dark. Finally, the moon peeked through the thick clouds. Micah caught sight of the cylindrical Westin skyscraper through the forest of buildings towering around them. They used it as their guide to find Peachtree Street, and from there, the smaller hotel tucked a block behind it.

  Three freezing, exhausting hours later, they made it to their rendezvous point, Peachtree Suites. The hotel atrium was filled with shadows. She glimpsed the glint of crystal chandeliers high above her head, dark hulking furniture, the gleam of wood floors.

  Gabriel was waiting for them. He took Amelia from Micah, lifting her easily into his arms. She groaned as she drifted in and out of consciousness.

  “What about Benjie and Finn?” Willow asked breathlessly.

  “They’re here,” Gabriel said. “Finn is fine. Benjie needs you.”

  They followed Gabriel to a suite on the second floor, where the others waited. They’d closed the drapes and used only the glow from a couple of SmartFlexes for light. Finn sat on a brocaded sofa, his shoulders hunched, rocking Benjie.

  Benjie was wheezing and coughing violently, his light brown face tinted an unhealthy shade of purplish gray, his eyes wild and terrified.

  Concern furrowed Finn’s brow. “He’s been like this since the fire.”

  “The smoke triggered his asthma.” She didn’t bother to kick the snow off her boots as she dashed across the small room and knelt beside them. She yanked the inhaler from her cargo pocket and thrust it to Benjie’s mouth.

  He sucked in the aerosolized spray, his rigid features softening. She thanked whatever god or angels or lucky stars that she’d kept the inhaler in her pocket instead of the backpack.

  She stroked Benjie’s splendidly messy hair. No sooner had she brushed it flat with her fingers then it stuck up all over again. She kissed his forehead tenderly.

  Benjie lowered the inhaler and took a deep breath. “I lost them,” he wheezed, his small face etched with sadness.

  “What did you lose, kiddo?”

  His mouth contorted as he struggled to hold back tears. “My backpack. All my magic stuff. The cards Daddy got me…Mom told me to keep them forever, but I lost them…”

  Except for Micah, they’d all lost their packs, forced to leave them behind in the chaos of the fire. No one missed anything that couldn’t be replaced. Except for Benjie. He’d just lost the ratty Star Wars backpack he’d been lugging his magic stuff around in since he was three years old. Since their father died.

  Memories flashed through her mind, tender as a bruise when she pressed on them: The night the cop-bot came to their door with a recorded holo solemnly reporting their father’s death—a car crash, automatically ruled an accident because the vehicle had been in manual drive mode. Zia screaming. Her mother collapsing to the floor, sobbing. Little Benjie whimpering in confusion, clutching the brand-new Star Wars backpack their father had bought for his birthday the day before, paying with the last of their savings.

  It was just a backpack. And yet she felt suddenly bereft, like someone had died. She hadn’t saved Zia or their mother. She hadn’t even managed to salvage that ratty old backpack, severing their last connection to their old life.

  She took a breath, steeling herself. She pressed her forehead against Benjie’s, cupped his head with both hands, and gazed into his eyes. “It’s going to be okay. I promise you. You did your best. You were brave as hell. If Dad were here, he would understand. So would Mom. They would both be so proud of you today.”

  Benjie nodded, tears still glimmering in his eyes.

  Finn leaned in and grinned conspiratorially. “Sir Benjie, this means we must embark on a quest! A very important quest to restore the sacred magical objects of this land. Do you accept?”

  The smallest smile quivered at the edges of Benjie’s lips. “I accept the quest, Mister Finn,” he said gravely. He unfurled his fingers, revealing the carved bird Raven had given him. “I still have this.”

  “A lucky charm!” Finn boomed in delight. “A good omen, my boy!”

  Benjie’s smile widened. He’d just escaped a blazing fire and a gang of murderous thugs, but heartened by Finn’s imagination and enthusiasm. He was okay again.

  She sank back on her heels. Deep gratitude filled her. “Thank you, Finn,” she rasped and cleared her throat. It was more than the lingering effects of the smoke making her eyes water. “If something happened to him…”

  Finn gave her a lopsided grin, revealing the adorable gap in his front teeth. He grabbed her hand and squeezed. “I was worried about you.”

  Her stomach did a weird flip-flop. Her cheeks heated. She pulled her hand away. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  He shrugged his huge shoulders. “I know you can take care of yourself. But I worried anyway.”

  “Yeah. Okay, thanks.” She scrubbed a
t her face, secretly cursing herself. She was terrible at this kind of thing, whatever this was. Emotions or feelings or whatever. She much preferred shooting rats and punching Silas. That, at least, she understood.

  She forced herself to get a grip and looked around the room again. Amelia laid on the bed in the master bedroom, still out of it. Micah sat with her, refusing to leave, Gabriel hovering anxiously over them both. Silas sulked in the corner with his arms crossed, his expression hard as stone. Jericho paced the opulent living room in tense circles.

  They were safe—coughing, cold and exhausted, but alive. She took in everyone’s scared, dirty, weary faces. They were the most beautiful faces she’d ever seen. Finn, Benjie, Jericho, Amelia. Gabriel and Micah.

  The group was incomplete. Something—someone—was missing.

  “Where’s Celeste?” she asked. “And Horne?”

  “They’re not here yet,” Jericho said in a strained voice.

  Anxiety twinged in her gut. Had they gotten caught in the fire? Bitten by the rats? Captured by the Pyros? Trapped or lost out in the freezing cold? There were too many possibilities—none of them good.

  “They’ve been missing for far too long.” Gabriel rubbed his throat with a wince. They were all still feeling the effects of smoke inhalation. “We need to look for them.”

  “We must find a safe place for the rest of us first, then we will,” Jericho said.

  “They could be in trouble, or hurt,” Micah said.

  “I volunteer.” Gabriel rose to his feet, his shoulders squared, his hands flexing into fists at his sides. “I’ll go right now.”

  “We’re not risking it,” Jericho said firmly. His dark eyes flashed, his jaw squared. “Especially now when we’ve lost most of our weapons. Gabriel and I managed to steal two of the Pyros’ guns. Micah has his handgun, and Silas his rifle. But that’s it. We have no additional ammo. We’re outmanned and outgunned.”

  She knew it was bad. She didn’t realize how bad. Willow exchanged worried glances with Finn. They were lucky to have survived unscathed this far. They’d barely escaped the Pyros and the fire. What were they going to do now?