by Kyla Stone
He’d stayed as far away from them as he could. He’d taken out dozens of rats, but no hordes. In small numbers, he made short work of them with the pulse rod. He’d fended off three stray dogs, two infected, one not.
The uninfected stray was starving, its ribs showing through its matted brown fur. Gabriel opened several tins of prefab beef and scattered the meat on the snowy ground. The dog pounced on the food, devouring it within seconds.
He’d left that one alive, feeling a strange affinity with this fellow creature struggling to survive out here in the savage city, alone and hunted by enemies, but not defeated.
He’d found the carcasses of four more dogs by the dumpster in the alley as dusk fell, a bone-chilling cold descending with it. His breath steamed from the edges of his face mask. Blood was on the ground, blood in splatters and streaks and hundreds of tiny claw-prints.
He’d moved into the restaurant’s heavily shadowed industrial kitchen, dread seizing his gut, his jaw clenched, gripping the pulse rod in his fist.
He was so startled when Celeste pounced on him, dropping from the ceiling like some crazed, demon-creature of the night, he’d nearly killed her. He left that part out of the story.
She was trembling, terrified, and half out of her mind, but she’d been willing to fight to keep herself alive. Gabriel found himself revising his opinion of her during the hours they’d stumbled through the city in the darkness, trudging through the snow, shaking from the cold and pain, desperate to stay hidden from the deadly things hunting them.
“You’re both lucky to be alive,” Jericho said.
“Celeste survived, no thanks to Horne,” Gabriel growled, his fury returning in full force. “The only question now is what to do with him.”
Willow fisted her hands on her hips. “Didn’t he want Silas banished, turned out into the freezing cold to fend for himself?”
“It was an accident, I assure you,” Horne squeaked. His face was pale as bone, his expression stricken. “If you will just—”
“Shut the hell up!” Gabriel lost his temper. He strode forward and seized Horne by his scrawny neck, lifting him clear off the floor. Horne flailed, punching at him desperately. The whites of his eyes glimmered in the shadows.
Gabriel didn’t even feel the blows. Righteous anger pulsed through him. “You should die for this!”
“Gabriel!” Micah shouted. He jerked at his arms, pulling him back.
Something moved out of the corner of his eye. A streak of light in the darkness outside.
Glass shattered. Something exploded. Smoke filled the air.
Gabriel spun, dropping Horne like a sack of potatoes. He yanked out his gun, searching frantically for the threat.
But it was too late.
The first bullet whizzed by his ear. The second found its mark.
Gabriel watched in horror as Finn lurched. His huge body fell in jerky slow motion, tumbling to the floor with a crash.
21
Willow
Willow couldn’t see a thing. She could barely breathe. Her heart beat a frantic rhythm against her ribcage. Her wrists burned from the electric shackles roughly binding her hands. The fabric of the black hood covering her face sucked against her nostrils and opened mouth with every gasping breath.
She stumbled awkwardly, prodded forward like an animal with something sharp against her back. She didn’t know where she was or where she was going. She had only a dim awareness of open space, then claustrophobia as she was crammed into a cramped space. The sensation of movement jolted through her, her body jostling against the others. They were in the back of some kind of van or truck.
Her attempts at whispered communication were cut short after a few sharp blows against her shoulders. Based on the moans she heard, the others received the same treatment.
Someone’s shoulder bumped against hers. On her other side, she felt knees, someone’s thigh pressed against her own. But she didn’t know who it was. Benjie whimpered, but she couldn’t go to him, couldn’t comfort him or tell him to be strong.
She could barely comfort herself. Where was Finn? Was he with them? Was he alive? Was he okay? The smoke had obscured their vision, something like tear gas burning their eyes and lungs, incapacitating them. Seconds after Finn crashed to the floor like a felled tree, a dozen armed men had swarmed them, binding their wrists and shoving hoods over their faces.
The Pyros must have tracked Gabriel and Celeste through the snow. Everyone had been so focused on Celeste, they’d let their guard down, noticing nothing as the Pyros closed in like hyenas to a kill.
“This is all a terrible misunderstanding!” Horne shouted. “You can’t do this to me—”
“Shut the hell up,” a deep voice snarled.
She was jerked out of the vehicle. She staggered over uneven ground as someone pushed and shoved her through a large, echoing space. She stumbled up several sets of stairs. She fell once, bruising her knees and nearly pitching face-first to the floor, but she managed to regain her balance.
Panic galloped through her. Fear and dread clawed up her throat, but also a low, buzzing anger. They’d come too far to die like this, captured and killed by common street thugs. She yanked against her shackles. The electric cuffs sent a painful shock shooting up her arms.
“On your knees!” Someone shouted, shoving her down.
The black hood was lifted from her face.
She blinked rapidly, sucking in deep breaths. Everything snapped into focus.
She craned her neck, searching frantically for Benjie and Finn. They were all kneeling in a line. Everyone was there. Micah on one side of her, Benjie next to him. Amelia knelt stiffly on Willow’s other side. Then Jericho, then Finn.
His huge shoulders were slumped, his brown skin ashen. Over his right chest and arm, blood stained his shirt. How badly was he hurt? She couldn’t tell. But he was upright. His eyes were open. He was alive. She could have cried in relief.
The others were battered and bruised—Benjie had a large yellowish lump on his forehead, making her want to punch someone’s teeth out—but they were otherwise unhurt. For the time being.
Her gaze swept the room, or rather, the theater. They were kneeling on a large stage in an enormous auditorium. There had to be close to five thousand seats ringing the stage on several levels.
The auditorium was magnificent, a sumptuous re-imagining of a Middle Eastern mosque blended with an ancient castle. She craned her neck to stare up at the soaring turreted ceiling, painted a stunning cobalt blue and shimmering with thousands of twinkling holo stars. Sweeping archways were ornamented with ornate, gold leaf carvings. Elaborate lanterns like elongated globes hung from the ceiling, spilling circles of soft, golden light.
She blinked against the glare of a bank of spotlight directed onto the stage. The Pyros had electricity. They weren’t afraid to use it, didn’t care who might see it. And why would they? They ruled the city. Who did they have to fear?
A large, furred shape loomed out of the corner of her vision. She gasped, startled.
A lion leapt from the orchestra pit and paced the perimeter of the stage. He was enormous, with a tawny mane and amber eyes that gazed at her from a great, regal head. A second lion lay beside one of the guards, long tail twitching.
They were mods. It was in their eyes—they watched her blankly, with little interest and zero hunger. Yet they both wore shock collars around their shaggy necks. A mod shouldn’t need a shock collar.
But she didn’t have time to worry about modded lions. Someone cleared his throat.
A half-dozen people stood in front of her. They were dressed in tactical gear and armed to the teeth with guns and knives. They all had the flaming skull tattoos on their necks. Four more guards watched them from a metal catwalk high above the stage.
“Well, well, well. Look what we have here.” The familiar lilting, sing-song voice sent a shiver of dread through every cell in her body. Sykes, the man with the black trench coat, stood glaring at them, his arms cross
ed, his right hand wrapped in bandages, a wicked-looking pulse gun gripped in his left. “We caught the little piggies after all. Every. Single. One.”
“That’s enough, Sykes.” Another man stepped forward, flanked by two enforcers. He was as tall as Finn but scarily gaunt, his cheeks hollowed like a skull, his lips thin and bloodless, his black eyes dark wells that sucked in all the available light.
“My name is Tobias Voya Moruga.” He turned his sharp gaze on them, eyes darting from face to face. His body hummed with some invisible current, his feet constantly shuffling, his hands flexing and unflexing.
He held a silver lighter in his long, thin fingers. As he walked the line of hostages, he flicked it on and off, on and off. “Which one of you assholes killed my wounded, defenseless son?”
Willow sucked in her breath. Fear plunged into her belly like an icepick. For half a second, she’d allowed herself to believe that this was just a mistake, a misunderstanding, that they’d still be able to walk away from this. But somehow these people knew who they were, what they’d done.
“Oh, hell,” she whispered.
One of Moruga’s enforcers thrust the butt of her gun beneath Willow’s chin and forced her head up. “You have something to say?”
The Pyro was young, maybe only a few years older than Willow. She was Indian, with rich, velvet-brown skin. Her hair was shaved to her skull on either side, with a knot of purple braids on top that tumbled thick and ropy down her back.
She was slim but muscular and dressed in black, tight-fitting clothing, a knife strapped to her thigh and another longer knife sheath at her hip, along with a gun holster. She clenched a cigar between her teeth. A tendril of sweet-smelling white smoke drifted toward the cathedral ceiling. “Cat got your tongue, is that it?”
“No,” Willow said, willing the tremble out of her voice. She wouldn’t give these people anything. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of her fear.
“So that’s how it’s going to be.” Moruga tutted. He bounced on his heels, grinning fiendishly. “How unfortunate. How can we better encourage your cooperation?”
“Let me gut one,” Sykes snapped. “That should get them talking.”
Moruga held up a hand. “Not quite yet. Any ideas, Cleo?”
The girl smiled at Willow, the skin on the left side of her face crinkling. She turned her head, fully revealing the burn that blossomed from below her left eye across her cheek and jawline to the side of her neck—a shiny, jumbled topography of scar tissue.
Willow bit back a gasp.
Cleo’s smile widened. Her teeth looked like they were filed into fangs. But, no, that was just her terrified, overactive imagination. “See something interesting?”
She wanted to curse at her, claw her eyes out, and then strangle her for what they’d done to Finn, for the terror that raced up her spine and iced her insides. She licked her lips and glanced at Micah, who knelt next to her. He gave the smallest shake of his head. Don’t antagonize them, his look warned. Be smart.
She gritted her teeth. He was right. They had to be smart. She had to be smart and in control. For Benjie. For Finn. For all of them. “No, nothing. I’m sorry. Please just let us go. We’re good people. We won’t hurt anyone.”
Cleo’s eyes glinted fiercely. “Oh, is this the part where you think because I’m a girl that there’s some tiny little soft spot deep inside me that maybe you can reach, some pearl of empathy or pinprick of compassion?”
She had no idea how to answer. There were traps and tripwires tangled everywhere in that question. “Uh. Well, I—”
“Do you think that I should show you mercy, is that it? Girl to girl?”
Willow’s gaze darted frantically from Cleo to Sykes to Moruga, who fidgeted with the lighter as he watched, a sinister smile curving his lips. Like Cleo was putting on a show for his pleasure, and he was enjoying every second of it.
It was all scripted. They didn’t give a steaming bucketload of crap what she said, but she spoke the words anyway, a desperate futility settling over her. “Yes…we would be very grateful.”
Cleo cocked her brows, her features approximating a look of concerned sympathy. One arched higher than the other due to the burn scar. But it was her empty eyes that gave her away.
“We just want safe passage through the city,” Willow said.
She took a puff of her cigar and blew it out slowly, straight into Willow’s face. “Really? Why?”
Willow coughed and leaned back, turning her face to the side. “We aren’t looking for trouble.”
“You may not have been looking, but you found plenty.”
“We don’t have all night,” Sykes said in his disturbingly musical voice. He massaged his bandaged hand and stared daggers at Gabriel. “We’re wasting time talking when we could be killing.”
Cleo’s expression turned cold, savage. Without warning, she slammed the butt of the gun into Willow’s stomach.
Spasms of pain shot through her body. Her eyes streamed. Blinding whiteness burst inside her head. Everything went blurry and dim, like she was underwater.
“Don’t hurt her!” Finn cried.
Willow watched through blurry eyes as Cleo sauntered down the line. She stopped in front of Finn, raised the gun, and smashed it across the side of his head. He fell sideways with a groan.
Willow cried out. He was already wounded. How much more could he take? Acid burned her throat, roiled in her stomach. She fought not to puke all over the stage.
“I can do this all day,” Cleo said. “Who’s next?”
Willow managed to raise her head, fighting down the pain and dizziness. If psycho girl was gonna go after someone, let it be her. Not Finn. Not Benjie. “Leave us alone, you crazy bitch.”
Cleo tapped ash from her cigar as she strode across the stage back to Willow. She bent close, only inches from Willow’s face. “This one has a smart mouth. You need to know When. To. Stop. Talking.”
She seized a hunk of Willow’s hair with one hand and slowly brought the burning cigar end to within an inch of her right eye. Her already blurred vision filled with a burning circle of ash and smoke. She tried to jerk her head back, but Cleo’s grip was like iron.
“You want to know what it feels like to burn?” Cleo hissed. “Curiosity killed the cat. What’s it gonna do to you?”
“Don’t hurt her, please,” Benjie whimpered.
“You don’t have to do this!” Panic filled Micah’s voice.
“I’m sure we can have a civilized discussion—” Horne started.
“Shut up!” Moruga said. “I’m enjoying this.”
Heat from the cigar singed her eyeball, her eyelashes. Panic fluttered in her chest. She wanted nothing more than to close her eyes, to block it all out, but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t let Benjie see her cower. “Go to hell,” she spat.
Moruga smiled in mild amusement, as if he were humoring a small child. “Oh, I think we’re already there, sweetheart.”
A white-hot riot of anger, panic, and hatred exploded in her chest. So much for diplomacy. Willow reared back and spit in Cleo’s face. “That’s for hitting Finn.”
Cleo gave a hard laugh. She wiped the spittle from her cheek with the back of her hand. “You’re gonna regret that.”
She traced the cigar down the side of Willow’s cheek, so close she could feel the heat. Ash sprinkled her shoulder. She stiffened. The tension stretched unbearably. Just do it already.
Cleo yanked Willow’s head to the right, exposing her throat, and thrust the lit end of the cigar against the side of her neck.
Pain seared her flesh. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out. She couldn’t help it. A low moan escaped her lips. Blackness flickered at the edges of her vision. She refused to pass out.
Cleo released her head and stood up, taking a slow drag from the cigar.
Willow glared at her, hot traitorous tears streaming down her cheeks, her teeth clenched against the pain. It felt like Cleo had burned a hole through her
skin, scorching through muscles, tendons, and veins, searing the very center of her.
“Undo these handcuffs and fight me,” she growled. “Let’s see how strong and brave you really are. Only a coward strikes people who can’t defend themselves.”
Cleo’s eyes flashed, but she said nothing.
“Tobias,” Sykes said in a low voice. His left arm hung loosely at his side, his gun tapping impatiently against his thigh. “I can take care of this. Let me—”
“Anyone else wish to speak before we continue?” Moruga said, almost giddy. His gaunt body shivered like he was filled with some internal tension, a spring about to be released.
On the other side of Micah, Horne straightened. His lip was split, a yellowish bruise pooling beneath his left eye. “I wish to speak.”
“Ahh, you again,” Moruga said, coming to stand in front of him, his thin hands twitching at his sides.
Her thoughts came slow and groggy. The pain made everything disconnected and confusing. What did he mean by you again?
“Release this man,” Moruga ordered.
Cleo unshackled Horne’s cuffs and jerked him to his feet. Horne huffed and rubbed his wrists. “I have never been treated in so undignified a manner in my life.”
One of the lions yawned. Moruga flicked his lighter on and off, on and off. His lip twitched. “My apologies. Once the hoods were on, we didn’t know who was who.”
Dread and confusion roiled in Willow’s gut, a sickening sensation that made her nearly gag. A fresh wave of dizziness washed over her. What was happening? What was Horne doing?
“Is this all of them?” Moruga asked.
“Yes, of course.” Horne bobbed his head, his blonde hair flopping into his eyes. “It’s just as I told you. I’ve kept my end of the bargain.”
Silas let out a string of curses.
Willow jerked her head up. A blaze of anger burned the fog away. “What did you do, you asshole?”
Horne’s gaze flicked to hers then darted away. “You would do the same in my shoes, I’m sure.”
