by Kim Faulks
Nerves that once flayed could never be healed—I lifted my hands and stared at the drying mess—not even with the blood of my enemies.
The heavy thud echoed as the Guardian was heaved into the back.
Parry stumbled away from the tailgate and turned to me, the kind smile looked more like a grimace. He took one last look at the mayhem behind me and turned away.
He’d once sworn loyalty to my Heron, but now he swore loyalty to me—without his guidance, without his counsel, I was nothing more than a bomb with no coordinates ready to explode. With him I had focus, with him I could fight.
“Time to go, Amaris,” he murmured. “They’ll already be on their way.”
I followed him as the other four-wheel drives started and the hungry growl of engines filled the night. Parry opened the back door, waiting for me as I headed toward them. All of a sudden I felt tired…bone goddamn weary.
I was so tired of this war…so tired of this place.
I was tired of this loneliness and this despair.
I was tired of hate.
“Take me home, Parry,” I murmured as I neared the car. “I’m done tonight.”
He gave a hard nod, and his gaze softened. There was a second where our eyes met, and the truth of this night filled us both.
A tremble raced, my knees shook. The world moved in slow motion as he lunged forward to reach me.
His hands…hard, cruel hands were careful now, closing in around my waist, leading me to the open door.
“I got you girl,” he growled against my ear. “It’s okay, I got you. Hold on to me.”
I clawed his arm as he guided me down to the seat—my hold slipped as he lifted my feet and closed the door.
There was no taunting sniggers, no torment from the others in the car.
There was only silence as Parry climbed into the passenger’s seat and slammed the door behind him. The four-wheel drive shot forward, driving me into the seat. I closed my eyes to the stench of the blood on my hands, and saw his face…and heard his words.
They’ll come for you, he whimpered, there’s nowhere you can hide.
The name, Heron. Give me the goddamn name. Even now, my hands still shook with rage. I felt the air against my fist as I swung, saw his head snap backward—saw the blood trickle from his mouth. And I saw the fire of corruption, and how deep the flames reached. There was no turning back in that moment—not for him, and not for me.
The name…this is your last chance.
Or what? What’ll you do to me…you’ll kill me? Is that what you’ll do?
The sigil flared in the hilt of the blade, tethered to my own heartsblood, curving in and out like a backwards S. My thumb slipped against the marking as I gripped the handle tight.
Or you’ll what?
The question resounded as I leaned my head against the rear seat.
You’ll kill me?
In that moment, the name didn’t matter, not compared to the corruption of this man. It needed to end—once and for all it needed to be over.
I clutched that desire with all the strength I had left and drove the honed edge through the air and into his chest.
His eyes widened, the whites shone bright. Surprise stole the last of his words as I lunged, driving the point harder…deeper…all the way to his spine.
I wanted everything about this vile filth of a man gone—his body, his memory, his soul. Desire consumed me, and hate drove me. He was nothing in that moment…nothing more than an end waiting to find release.
Slaven… The hiss tore free.
I pulled away, and stared into his eyes. I remembered my breath—hard, fast, sawing in and out of my chest.
What…what did you say?
The blade had hacked through his sternum to slice through the fire inside. His lips moved. The word came again only this time with a shudder before he crumpled to the ground.
Slaven.
The word resounded. I could taste it on the tip of my tongue. I opened my eyes as faces and words filled me. I scanned through them all searching…searching…and came away empty. “Do you know Slaven? Is it a word, or a name?”
Parry cocked his head, thinking. “Been trying to place it, but it’s not familiar.”
“You’ll send out the scouts?”
A nod was given, and that was all that was needed. The children would scamper through the streets whispering a call to action.
I wanted that name…I wanted it in my grasp. I wanted it under my blade. I wanted it bleeding and left in the street, just like the one who conjured it.
And then I wanted a new name or a new word—and another and another, until there were no new names and no new words—until the bodies left behind led to the one I truly wanted—the one I’d kill anything to get.
A moan cut through the cab from the back. I swallowed the acid in the back of my throat and turned my head. A Guardian? A nerve twitched in the corner of my eye as we plunged into the city outskirts and headed for the center.
A Guardian in the middle of Hell’s Gate.
If he survived the trip it’d be a miracle.
We turned left and slipped along the city streets winding our way lower and lower toward the pit. Sleek buildings towered behind us, high up on the ridge where the humans and the half-bloods lived. Only the poor and the needy were cast out to live in these scalding streets…and those like us…those who rose up against the bastard that called himself King.
Heat radiated through the underbelly of the car, soon enough we’d be on foot. It hadn’t always been like this, never so hot…never so cruel. But a thousand years had a way of tainting the memories before them, and now my people could barely remember a time when the Guardians ruled.
I was told about them once and beauty filled me, from the whisperings of my mother as she held me tight as she recounted the stories of this city…one thriving with good, honest people.
And when the blood of my line meant something…something more than to be used and wielded like a knife. But those stories were long gone. Now we hid. Now we hungered—now we fought in secret, waiting for our moment to come. They called me the leader of the rebellion—but in truth I was no leader…I ran my own mission, hunted my own hounds—and I killed those who betrayed me.
The Guardian cried out as we turned again and a clear line of sight opened up through the streets to the sprawling mansion above.
A mansion cloaked in darkness…one untouched by the light. Shimmering obsidian glass and muted black steel. One carved into the face of a stony wave poised over the city, as though any moment, the occupants of that house would click their fingers, and the wave would come crashing down.
The blackness held me, cloaked in secrets and lies. I stared at the windows until my eyes burned. He was up there…I could feel him up there staring down and finding me amongst the crisscrossed streets.
My nails pierced the cloth as a snarl tore free. The sickening brutal sound was raw and savage. It came like thunder, like a tempest storm rolling and building inside me, and I was helpless to stop it—I didn’t want to stop it. I wanted it to consume me—I wanted it to be me. I was ready—I was more ready than ever before.
I had blood on my hands now, and not just any blood, pure blood.
His blood.
Stitching popped underneath my grip as nails turned into claws and sank deep, and a tiny whimper tore free—soft, mewling, and pathetic—tearing me away from the sight.
The hunter in me was ready for the chase, ready for the kill, ready to be what I was born to be.
The bitter tang of fear flooded the car, hot and fresh, stained with piss.
No…not here…not yet.
I tore my gaze from the mountain as the driver dimmed the lights, and we coasted in the dark.
Flames reached for me in the gloom. Need danced on the ceiling, and shone in the glass. I lifted my gaze to the rearview mirror and found where the Hellish fires burned.
The inferno was alive inside me.
But these weren�
�t the amber fires of hate and rage—these fires burned blood red.
Embers sparked from a lava pit beside us to spear up into the sky, and I felt the call.
In this moment, I was one with this city. I was abandoned. I was betrayed.
But I wasn’t the one paying the price, was I?
I turned my head desperate to find that infernal prison cell in the mountain once more. No. I was the one made to watch.
The car swerved wide, and speared between two towering buildings. The driver tapped the brakes, slowing us to a crawl as a door rolled upward, glistening in the night.
I sucked in the cooler air as we rolled inside and reached for the handle as we stopped. “Parry.”
He turned his head answering unspoken words. “You go, love. We’re right behind you.”
Home was still a long way to go, and this was the last reprieve, the last moment where I could stand in the shadows for just a moment—where I could collect myself—where I could breath.
I yanked the handle and eased out. My legs were good, knees fine. Strength was a little weak…but I could get it together. I shoved the car door behind me and the heavy thud filled the space. A motor whirred, squealing as the door descended.
“Got your favorite in the back, love.”
I lifted my gaze as Motor sauntered toward me. “Cold?”
His eyes glinted with excitement. “Fucking icy, just how you like it.”
My lips twitched with a smile as he passed me, heading for the men. The door to the small office was open, the light illuminating the mess inside. Paper covered the desk and every inch of the damn floor. Boot marks marred printouts stamped Invoice, and that twitch of my lips took hold. “Hey, Motor! You get broken into?”
“Fuck you, Amaris,” he called. “It’s the receptionist’s day off.”
“Fucking month off more like it,” I murmured and headed for the door on the right, the one marked Private.
Motor was more than a businessman, more than one of the rebellion—he was a friend and someone I trusted, and in Hell’s Gate, those were in short supply.
I twisted the handle and shoved the door. The TV flickered from across the room, some damn infomercial…but the reception was fuzzy. Too much damn heat and too much sulphur—the shit was corrosive.
This close to the pit was damn hot, but it wasn’t unbearable. Sometimes this was as close to the real feeling of home that men like Motor had.
We all had that calling inside. The more pure the blood, the stronger the call, only for some it wasn’t a call, but a destination. I stared at the blood on my hands. I was going to Hell—there was no two ways about it, the only thing left now, was making the damn trip count.
I stepped into the murky gloom and crossed the room. A beaten down sofa sat lonely in one corner. One very used armchair that had stains on top of stains. A flat green cushion was driven into the seat. I was betting if someone had the damn nerve to lift it they’d find more than busted ass springs.
Motor was our runner, getting the basics—weapons, ammunition. He’d had more than his share of encounters with the enemy, and the last one followed him home. I turned away from the chair with busted springs and loaded handguns under the cushions to the kitchen.
The decor was hideous—lime green curved counters marred with scratches—but right in the middle was a clean tumbler, waiting for me. The smile stretched wider, as I turned and yanked open the freezer.
True to his damn word, a bottle of vodka waited for me. I grabbed the neck, dragged it free, and then twisted the cap, breaking the seal. These men knew me better than my own damn father.
My hand shook as I poured. Clear liquid hit the bottom with a splash, and then I was lifting, finding the rim of the glass with my lips, and swallowed.
Fire and ice carved along my throat, both burned all the way. I closed my eyes and swallowed again as the liquid hit my gut. There was a second, one perfect moment where all I felt was the heat and the cold, and that feeling, that pure emptiness seeped into my veins, warming and chilling me.
It’s done.
The words were a lie. I knew they were a lie. Shadows and glass, and a house carved in stone came back to me. The head of the snake still walked the earth, and while he did, this fight was never done. But today—today was a cruel blow, a killing blow.
I hope it hurt…I hope it fucking hurt.
My hand didn’t shake this time as I poured, and then swallowed—didn’t shake at all.
“You okay?”
I closed my eyes to the words. Please don’t hug me…please don’t tell me everything’s okay. My head inched down, only enough for my lips to find the edge of the glass.
“It had to be done,” Motor murmured. “It was a shitty fucking thing, but it had to be done.”
I opened my eyes and stared at mint-fucking-green. “Yeah, it had to be done.”
“And now what? This Slaven, you know this guy?”
I shook my head and poured again. “No, but we have the word on the streets. We’ll find him, whoever he is.”
“Good, 'cause I feel it kid. I can feel this war coming to an end.”
A glass hit the counter. I dipped the bottle and half-filled the glass. “I hope so, Motor. I really fucking hope so.”
“And when this is done, I want a damn vacation, somewhere tropical with palm trees and shit.”
The smile came once more as I met his tired, old eyes. “You’d get sand in your ass.”
“Probably.” He tipped his head. “Better than fucking lava.”
I didn’t want a vacation when this was done. My needs were very fucking simple; to be alive was the first thing, and to see my family—all my family—was the second.
“Now,” Motor growled. “You need to finish that damn bottle and decide what the fuck you’re going to do with that out there.” He cocked his head, motioning to the garage. “You’re the only one I know who’d go out for a kill and come back with a damn Guardian.”
I followed the motion to the open door. If I ignored him, would he go away? A damn Guardian. I didn’t need more shit, not right now…this was just one more fucking problem. A big problem.
Heal him and dump him at the border. The urge rose inside me. There was no other choice.
“He looks bad, Amaris…real bad. Even if he made it—”
I upended the bottle and spilled the remnants into the glass. The damn stuff didn’t last as long as it used to, and this damn blood in my veins was more of a curse.
I gave Motor a smile and gripped his shoulder. “Thanks for the drink.”
He held my gaze, biting down on all the damn things he wanted to say. I didn’t need to hear the words, didn’t need to see remorse. Didn’t need a damn thing but another bottle in my hands.
Wouldn’t help though. The two-thousand-year old pure blood in my veins saw to that. I may as well be drinking ice for all the good it’d do. The fire burned it all away…just like everything else in my life.
Even if he made it…
The words rolled and rolled like a damn wave as I cut through the lounge and made for the door. Faint voices reached me in the dark as I headed for the crew.
“You let your emotions get the best of you, and you let them get the best of her.”
I slowed my steps as Parry’s smothered growl reached my ears. I stilled at the edge of the truck, hidden by the cabin as his words found me.
“Find some damn spine, soldier. The woman shouldn’t need to hold herself in check because you can’t handle what she is.”
“I can…I can handle it,” Renold’s soft voice cut through. “I can…I just—”
“She’s a pure blood Hellhound son, and she’s a damn fine warrior. We need her to be on the edge…we need her to be what she was born to be. Without her we’ll die, without her we are nothing. Remember that the next time you whimper and soil your damn pants.”
They were afraid of me…the thought stilled me cold. My own men. Men who were like family were afraid of me….now more than
ever.
The Guardian gave a growl, and then a whimper, and Motor’s words resounded.
Even if he made it…he’d be bound to me, one way or another for fucking eternity.
Just his luck that death was already coming, so he wouldn’t be bound for long…
Just long enough for one last kill.
3
Amaris
“Goddamn bastard is heavy,” Parry muttered.
The hard thud of boots rang out in the night. I turned my head catching the flecks of silver in his hair under the moon. “You said that already.”
“Couldn’t have made it a little farther…nooo…had to eat the damn bitumen on the outskirts of town.”
Their boots scuffed as they carried the Guardian on their shoulders, shuffling him along as if he was a damn sacrifice ready for the pit.
Heat hissed and rose through the cracks in the road, soft white plumes followed to fill the quiet streets with the smog to cover our tracks.
I stared at the dark windows of our destination and lifted my hand. The sigil came to life on the blade at my waist and I felt the burn in my veins.
My gut clenched as the lock on the door snapped open. I gripped the handle and pushed, and we stepped into the darkness of The Gate Bar.
The rest of the squad spilled into the bar behind me. We weren’t here for the drinks, or the damn company. We were just passing through.
Glass bottles glistened against the rear of the bar. I had the urge to grab another as I passed, but there was no point in wasting damn vodka—not on something like me. The alcohol didn’t matter, not really. There were conversations to be had, and tears would follow…always damn tears with Oryn—always damn tears.
I carved through the dance floor to the door at the rear. There was no escaping, not from the eight-foot brick wall that ran from one side of the boundary to the other or from the long ass morning to come.
I reached for the handle and held the door open as Parry grunted and groaned. “Thought they were starving themselves into oblivion? Maybe this one missed the damn text?”
I smothered a smirk and bit the side of my cheeks as they filed through. The lock engaged at the front of the bar, like we’d never been here at all. One last look and then I yanked the rear door closed behind me. The heavy thud shuddered the wooden frame. I turned, shuffling to the side in the crowded courtyard.
