Avenger: Book Eight in the Enhanced Series

by T. C. Edge

  It’s several hours after Tess leaves that I hear another knock at the door.

  I’m in bed, hidden under my blanket, trying to hide away from the world. The knock is quiet, gentle, the right volume given the growing lateness of the hour.

  I don’t answer at first. I can’t stomach another showdown with Tess, even if it’s a conciliatory exchange. So I just lie there, under the covers, hoping to not hear a further rapping of knuckles on metal.

  My hope is denied. The gentle clanging sounds again, and this time it’s followed shortly after by a turning of the handle. I stay hidden as I hear the door open up and a couple of footsteps clip-clop inside.

  They’re not how I expect. More weighty, the shoes tapping on the floor with a heavier thud.

  It isn’t Tess.

  A voice whispers into the darkness, the light from the corridor now cutting a wide shard inside.

  “Are you awake?”

  The tone of Adryan’s voice is soft. It has an immediate impact on me as I roll over and discard the blanket that shields me. I look up and see his silver eyes lit by the luminance from the hallway, showing up against the darker shade of his silhouette.

  “Hey,” he says, white teeth glowing. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  I shake my head. Seeing him here, I feel suddenly emotional. The conversation with Tess has taken its toll. Everything has taken its toll.

  I blink away the first signs of tears and dip my chin to hide myself. Adryan steps forward and drops to his haunches in front of me in a quick motion.

  “Are you OK?”

  His tone is soft, his eyes sympathetic. It’s all I need to let a few tears slip away, cooling my hot cheeks as they meet with my skin.

  His thumb lifts and wipes them clear, his touch gentle and drawing a new feeling from within me. I reach out and take him into a hug. For a second, I don’t ever want to let go.

  He’s like the antidote to everything else I’ve done, to all I’ve become. He’s the one who shows me another path, a simpler path. A feeling that I want to explore burgeons inside me, and yet the constant shadows in my head keep it at bay. I hold him tight for a few long moments, before I force myself to let go.

  My eyes have dried by the time I do. I’ve purged the weakness from me and set myself back in order. I’ve learned now to manage such things quickly.

  “What are you doing here, Adryan?” I ask.

  “I wanted to see you,” he says.

  He offers no other explanation. Not immediately at least. He moves off his knee and slips beside me on the bed, letting his legs spread out and his back link up with the wall behind.

  He looks across the room, to the other bed against the opposite wall.

  “Was that Kira’s?” he asks.

  “Yeah…”

  “So you’re here alone now?”

  There’s some suggestion to his words. Or maybe there isn’t. Maybe I just excavate such things from what he says because it’s what I want to hear.

  “Tess comes and goes,” I say.

  “And tonight?”

  “She came…and went,” I say, my voice descending into shadow.

  A silence falls. Adryan takes a few breaths, as if building the courage to say something.

  “I could stay,” he says. “If you want me to?”

  His neck twists to his right, and we catch eyes. A little smile hops up on my lips, quickly withdrawn.

  “I don’t want you to stay there,” I say, turning my eyes to the bed opposite once more.

  He nods quickly a few times.

  “Ok, that’s fine…”

  I reach up and grasp his cheek. I turn his face to mine and plant my lips right down on his. I kiss him forcefully and then withdraw, my eyes taking on a new light.

  “I don’t want you to stay there,” I repeat. “I want you to stay right here, with me.”

  Now it’s his turn to subdue the smile that tries to arch on his lips. I lean in and kiss him again, this time with less urgency and more gentleness. We drift, slowly, down onto the makeshift bed, and I’m suddenly filled with a pressing force of nerves that rivals those I’ve felt in far less tender situations.

  His hands slip onto me, running along my side and teasing the skin beneath my loose-fitting shirt. The contact has me quivering, his hand cool against my hot flesh. The nerves within me grow suddenly violent, matched only by the desire that begins to fight for the same space inside my veins.

  With both hands, I take his face and my kiss once more turns forceful. Lips press hard and my head begins to whirl with a carousel of memories and thoughts and latent desires, now battling into the light.

  But, things don’t feel right. This isn’t how I saw this moment with Adryan. Here, on this pallet, in this building where the war is run, in this city ravaged by death and pain and terrible, interminable suffering.

  The thoughts that dominate my mind now claw their way back to the fore. Those of war and death, those of revenge and hate. As Adryan’s breathing begins to rise, and his hands start to grow more busy, I suddenly start to feel awkward.

  This isn’t right. This isn’t right…

  My hands fall from his face and hit his chest. I push, pressing myself back and moving his body away. His wandering hands quickly withdraw, and his eyebrows fall into a questioning frown.

  Then, a few confused mumblings fall off his lips.

  “I, er, sorry…I shouldn’t…I didn’t mean…I thought…”

  He shakes his head, and the mumblings end. But it’s not him who needs to explain.

  “It’s my fault,” I say. “I’m just…messed up right now. My head…”

  The motion of his head goes from horizontal to vertical.

  “I understand…totally understand,” he says. “I didn’t come here expecting, um…anything. I just came to see if you were OK.”

  “I’m glad you came,” I say quickly. “I’m really glad. And I want you to stay. But, just…”

  “I know, I know.” He begins to try to stand. “I can sleep across the room, if you want me to stay.”

  I take his arm and pull him down.

  “No. Stay here?”

  I look up at him with big eyes. They’ve lost their lust and passion. Now, they show a girl who just wants to be comforted.

  He smiles softly.

  “Of course.”

  I fall to the mattress again, and turn away. I feel his weight come down too, his arms coiled up behind me. Our bodies don’t touch, a space between us. I feel awkward, and guilty, and suddenly miles away from him.

  I reach back with my hand and feel for his. I take a grip of it and drag it over my body, pulling him closer until his chest is pressing firmly to my back. My fingers wind around his, and I hold his hand close to my chest as his warm breath begins to heat the back of my neck.

  My feelings of awkwardness flee, as we coil up together in that position. And other feelings rush away from me too, those of anger and fear and vengeance. His presence provides relief from it all, a way of balancing me out and setting me straight.

  No further words are needed, and none more come. Linked on that mattress, I drift away into a sleep less dominated by demons, the torment of the last few nights fading as Adryan battles them all away.

  In this city he may not be able to stand up like a soldier and fight against those more capable than him. He may not be able to put his bravery into direct service, and take up arms against the warriors born to do battle.

  But in my dreams, he stands tall like a knight of old, decked out in wondrous armour and watching the walls of my subconscious with a power to keep all foes at bay.

  He holds a giant sword aloft and calls out to my enemies: “You shall not take her tonight!”

  He is the protector of that silent realm, that private place where no one else treads. Where my memories take shape as monsters and try to tear down the walls I’ve set up. But not with him standing by, slaying all those who veer too close.

  He fights off all-comers that ni
ght until my body calls for me to wake, drawing me from my sleep a little before first light as if it’s all too aware of what lies ahead.

  I find myself still lying facing the wall, with Adryan’s arm wrapped around my body. Gently, I remove it, and turn to see his face, beautiful and peaceful, softly breath filtering from between his full lips.

  I smile at him and whisper: “Thank you, Adryan,” before leaning in and kissing my hero once more.

  And as quietly as possible, I move off the mattress, dress in my armour, and set back out to fight another day.

  19

  As agreed, I meet my brother that morning in the atrium, the main doors to the HQ open and allowing the cool morning breeze to spill into the hall.

  It’s busy, but less so than it has been over the past few days. With the ceasefire in effect, no hunting parties and death squads are being sent into Outer Haven, and the main remit of the military has turned from hunting to peacekeeping, a state known well to the City Guards who have joined our cause.

  Still, the streets of Outer Haven, while at peace temporarily, are still being held by a mixture of our forces, and those loyal to Cromwell. Most notable on that front are the vast expanses in the east, where thousands of Con-Cops still occupy the food warehouses and factories.

  It remains a trump card held by Cromwell, and one he’s unwilling to lay down quite yet. Keeping a tight grip on the food supplies for the entire city will naturally give him some further bargaining power should he need it, a fact that sets my teeth on edge for how manipulative the man is.

  Thinking back now to when they first began migrating there just after the High Tower fell, I wonder if this wasn’t his plan all along. He was clearly aware that, in a straight fight against more powerful foes, Con-Cops can hardly be relied on to offer more than minor resistance. In the factories and warehouses, however, they hold important resources, and are far harder to get at.

  Moreover, given their total and utter loyalty to their master, and their conditioned willingness to die should he order it, it’s quite possible that they’ve wired much of the eastern quarter to blow. Should we attack, they’d bury themselves, us, and all the food along with them. Now, rather than being mere canon-fodder, they are an important facet within the wider negotiations.

  Zander has begun to look increasingly unkempt over the last few days. That morning is no different, his blackened left eye now joined by the right as a display of his woeful lack of rest.

  “You should get more sleep,” I tell him, thankful that my own was so free from the usual assaults.

  He merely shrugs and grunts something about ‘resting when it’s over’, which I find to be a rather silly comment given we’ve got so far to go. Again, such comments are rare for Zander, so I take it to be another sign of his poor sleeping schedule.

  I expect him to warm up a bit soon. Otherwise this trip is going to be torture.

  Before leaving, we share a few words with Beckett – he also appears unwilling to rest – who gives us a quick update on the state of affairs through the northern quarter where we intend to travel.

  He informs us that there is no unrest at all save the odd gang of civilian looters and opportunists who continue to stake their claim on whatever that can get their hands on. The Voiceless, clearly, haven’t been completely wiped out with the loss of their so called leader, and have probably just elected a new one. Then, there are other independent gangs that have sprung up too, the most morally depraved among the population now creeping to the fore.

  We, of course, won’t worry about them. They are nothing but scavenging rats, scuttling in and out of the shadows whenever a person of real power passes by.

  With the light of dawn now hitting the tops of the buildings, we venture into the early morning fog and work our way past the rubble-strewn platform that lies ahead. Work has been efficient and steady on clearing it, and now much of what I first saw when I came here several says ago has been cleared away.

  We move around it, working west, before climbing into the car Zander seems to have taken for himself, and working our way quickly towards the northern gate into Outer Haven. The journey is short and filled mostly with silence. It’s that time of the morning when we’re both lost in our own thoughts and yet to warm up to the idea of entering into a conversation.

  What words are spoken are usually brief and related to the plan for the day. Mostly, it’s me asking and Zander answering, which he does so with a tetchiness that I’m beginning to associate with him.

  “We’re going to see Rhoth,” he tells me bluntly. “You know that already.”

  I choose not to further my interrogation. I’m still getting to know my twin brother, but one thing is eminently clear – he isn’t a morning person.

  Then again, given how he probably didn’t get much, or any, sleep at all, I suppose it’s hard to term the current hour as morning to him. Rather very, very late into the night, when the need for rest is most pressing and, consequently, ones tolerance for bullshit hanging by the thinnest of threads.

  By the time the sun has started to climb a little higher, and we’ve left the higher peaks of the buildings that occupy the centre of the city, he seems to be lightening up. Passing through the northern gate and venturing through the war-torn streets of the northern quarter, he glances at me a couple of times as if inviting me to now speak.

  I choose not to, rather afraid of getting my head bitten off once again, and merely stare forward through the front window.

  My silence and rigid posture bring an unwelcome awkwardness to the car. Neither of us want it, and Zander seems to realise that he’s created it. It’s up to him to sweep it away.

  “You excited to see Drum?” he asks me. The tone of his voice has changed and become more inviting.

  I finally look at him and see his eyes have changed too, growing a little brighter as if rising along with the sun.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to lift a smile but finding it strangely difficult.

  The truth is, while I’m looking forward to seeing Drum safe, it’s hard to look any further than that. It’s not like we’re going to be able to hang out and talk like we used to. It’s not like anything’s going to be like it used to be when we lived at the academy.

  As became so very clear last night, I’ve changed beyond all recovery. And I suspect Drum has too.

  “What about Sophie?” continues Zander, perhaps trying to work up a more lively response.

  I repeat the same answer and then add: “I just hope they get through safely.”

  “Well, apparently there are a unit of twenty Stalkers out there. So I suspect that they’ll be absolutely fine.”

  “Assuming Cromwell keeps to his word and doesn’t have them all slaughtered as soon as they step out of the mines,” I grumble.

  “That won’t happen. No one would gain anything from that.”

  It appears that I’ve adopted Zander’s surly mood, a reversal taking place. His face lights, and mine darkens, any talk of our grandfather serving only to dull all good feeling inside me.

  We drive on, working towards the external gate in the north where our own men have now been stationed. Along the way, we pass a cluster of about a hundred of those still loyal to Cromwell, lingering in their makeshift camps and glaring at our car as it passes by.

  To them, seeing the likes of Zander and me cruising past in a City Guard car must be a real kick in the teeth. To look upon the northern gate, one controlled by them, and see that it’s now under our jurisdiction is a further bitter pill to swallow.

  I look out and wonder how many are actually bad people, and come to the conclusion that those who willingly follow Cromwell, after seeing what they’ve seen, might just be the least savoury of all the denizens of this city.

  At least the Savants can hold up the ‘no emotion’ card as an explanation for their lack of empathy. But these men? These regular Hawks and Dashers and Brutes of the City Guard, still standing by Cromwell’s side after everything that’s been brought to
light?

  And then, my mind switches and Titus stamps into view. On another day, he might have remained with these men in this camp, bound by his duty and unable to break free of the many years of conditioning and propaganda sent through the ranks of the city’s soldiers.

  I know he isn’t a bad man, not by a long shot. The same is probably true of most here, just men who are misguided or loyal to a fault. Men who watched the High Tower fall and considered Cromwell the lesser of two evils. Who now look upon us, cruising past in one of their cars, and consider our presence here just as unpalatable as we do theirs.

  We pass them all by, and only minutes later come upon the gate, and find the faces of our own people greeting us instead. Only a mile or so separates the two groups, a clear indication that the truce is in effect and in fine order.

  Work is busy at the gate and along the wall, the place being fortified and fitted with gun placements, and the garrison here swelling in size to ensure that the extremity of the city is being well watched and well defended.

  At our arrival, the gates are opened, and we’re waved through and into the outerlands as the solid foundation beneath the wheels of the car turns to grit and dirt. The vehicle begins to dance, bouncing a little as Zander refuses to reduce his speed until forced to as we leave the old northwest track, and begin moving off the beaten path and towards the church.

  We drive off-road, a function not considered necessary when the car was built, working slower now as we cut through and around little thickets, past rocky outcrops, and over old fields and streams. It’s a route I haven’t yet taken to the church, and one that Zander won’t have either. Yet his sense of direction is sufficient to ease us on our way, eventually bringing us to our destination as the haze of the early morning lifts, and a glorious day looks set to blaze.

  The rumble of the engine draws Alfred from the church. Warned of our arrival, he looks to have been fretting all morning, twitching as he enters into the cool air, tinged lightly with green, and approaches the car before it even draws to a stop.

  The tyres crunch and Alfred waits. Zander steps out and immediately looks around.