Hundreds and thousands of people have made their way to the Central City from the outer towns to witness the first executions following the fall of the Unified States. So many had suffered and died under the policies and orders of these callous, greedy officials and officers. The survivors, the families of those who have been taken, tortured and perished, have all turned up to see justice being done. To find some sort of closure, and hope. With the deaths of these criminals, many hope to see the birth of a better tomorrow. With the blood of these monsters, they hope to bury the ghosts of the past and start to heal.
I push into the crowd and Lyndea follows me somewhat reluctantly. I don't stop until I am standing directly in front of the screen. I have to watch this. I have to know that I won't flinch from this.
Everything that I went through, everything I did, must have steeled me, not broken me. I have to know this.
The crowd grows more and more restless as the minutes tick by. The hour draws near, and murmurs grow and gather into shouts. I keep my eyes on the screen, standing my ground even when shoulders and fists jostle against me.
The screen flickers, and the shouts and unrest subside rapidly. Everyone watches the screen expectantly.
A hush descends on the crowd when a face comes into focus. It is a rebel leader. I recognize him as one of the rebel leaders that Jaxon had spoken to earlier. The speakers at the side of the screen whine to life as he begins to speak, his voice and expression solemn, “Today, we are here for peace, for law and order, for justice. Not violence. Not vengeance. Justice. There will be no more violence and riots and bloodshed. For all the lives that have been lost and sacrificed, let us respect them with our silence and our restraint. I know that many of you want to see these criminals tortured, but that is not the way to move forward. We are not barbarians, like them! They will be executed according to the law, not tortured. Let there be no violence on the streets, let us remember and respect our dead on this day.”
At his words, the crowd mutter their assent, with only an occasional yell and wail erupting.
The rebel leader begins to read out the names and crimes of the condemned criminals. Murder, conspiracy, torture, crimes against humanity, the grisly list rolls on and on.
Finally, he steps back and names the first criminal to be executed.
“Binison Lay, former Executive Minister of the Unified States.”
The former Executive Minister, responsible for the barbaric policies that have taken so many young men and women away from their towns and their homes to be forced into poisonous mines and the terrible Lantern brothels across the states.
I blink up at the screen and watch a chubby man with salt and pepper hair being forced to kneel at a marked spot by rebel soldiers. He is dressed in the bright orange prison garb of the Justice Prison. He puts up a fierce, formidable struggle as he is forced to his knees. His hands are shackled behind his back, but he twists wildly as he shrieks and screams his innocence.
“I am innocent! The soldiers, their Commanders, the Generals—they were the ones who took all those people! The soldiers dragged those people to the mines, to the Lantern brothels! Not me! I didn't do it! I am innocent!” he screams, his pale gray eyes widening into the camera.
As the former Executive Minister twists frantically in his shackles, murmurs and movement ripple through the ocean of sombre, sad faces in the city square.
“You killed my sons!” a woman shrieks suddenly from the crowd. “You took all the young men from our town, and you sent them to the mines, to their deaths! You can die a thousand deaths, but you can never, never...make up for what you have done! Go to hell!” She collapses into heaving sobs, and has to be held up by two young girls by her side, who are also crying quietly.
The crowd begins to chant, throwing fists into the air, and baying for his blood.
On the screen, Binison starts to cry. Big, fat tears roll down his ruddy cheeks, and he wails noisily, his pleas and words sounding increasingly desperate but meaningless. As a black hood is placed over his head, he squirms in his restraints, still feverishly pleading his innocence.
Three rebel soldiers take their positions behind him, and raise their rifles.
The former Minister continues shaking his hooded head, still denying his crimes, his involvement, his guilt. There will be no apology, no remorse from this man.
The soldiers behind him raise their rifles.
Binison Lay stiffens, as if sensing that his end is near.
“They deserve to die!” his muffled voice cries out. “Every one of you deserve to die!”
The soldiers start firing. Bullets tear through his hooded head, and he falls to the ground not three seconds later. His death has been instantaneous. The soldiers have aimed their rifles at the back of his head, shooting into his brain and killing him immediately.
Two medical officers check the body and pronounce him dead. No cheers and jeers greet the announcement. Someone tries to clap and call out a taunt and a joke, but gains no support. The silence is louder and more deafening than the gunshots that have just executed a remorseless criminal.
The silence stretches across the square. No one moves. Not a cough or sob or whisper can be heard.
Binison Lay's body is removed from the execution spot, and the rebel leader reads out the next name, the next condemned criminal to be executed.
“Faylen Day, former General of the Imperial Army.”
I stare at that hard, bitter face, and recognize him as one of the Generals who had been present at the Emperor's Midnight Feast in the Palace. With a gasp, I recognize General Day as the one who had chosen Owen. He had chosen Owen to fight the other Slave to the death. He chose Owen, and Owen chose me. And I was forced to the Empress's chambers that night, and injected with Dr. Rolin's vile serum in the morning.
I glare up at the screen, watching the fallen General walk up to the execution spot. You don't know what you've done, do you? You've ruined so many people! Ruined their lives, while you get to die.
My fists tremble at my side as I watch three soldiers step up behind Faylen Day. My eyes widen when I scan the soldiers' grim faces. One of them is Jaxon.
Jaxon will be executing General Day.
I blink slowly as I watch the players on the screen. General Day ruined Owen. Owen ruined me.
By executing Faylen Day, Jaxon is avenging both Owen and me.
“Do it, Jaxon,” I whisper.
Faylen Day conducts himself with more dignity than his Executive Minister. Without being shoved, he kneels on the marked spot with his head held high and his shoulders back.
Just before he is hooded, he shouts out, “Long live the Unified States!”
And then the first shot is fired into the back of his head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
After General Day's body is removed, the three former Commanders of the Imperial Army are executed in rapid succession. One by one, their bodies slump to the ground. The black hoods remain over their heads even after they have fallen. There is no need for the people to see the contorted expressions of their oppressors in death.
There is no perverse gloating or sadistic triumph in seeing these men executed. We are witnessing the just, humane execution of criminals. Not watching the mindless murder of innocents.
When the last body has been removed, the rebel leader steps forward and gives a silent salute, saluting all the people who have watched the execution in dignified silence.
The screen goes blank.
After a heartbeat of absolute stillness, voices and movement ripple through the crowd and gain momentum. People start to talk, weep, smile, reach out to comfort one another as they move off. I stand before the screen, squinting up against the glare of the late morning sun. I start when Lyndea puts a hand on my arm. “Let's go.”
I open my mouth and shut it again. This is not the end, I want to say. But I can't bring myself to say it to her. Spoken aloud, it's going to sound ridiculous to her ears, and mine. Somehow I can sense it. The feeling is
too strong to ignore. This has not ended. Not yet.
I glance back at the large screen, and at Lyndea. For the first time, I notice that her eyes are mismatched, and her irises extraordinarily large. Her right eye is sapphire blue, but her left eye is more green than blue. I stare into those large, brilliant eyes, my frown deepening as images swirl through my mind. Where have I seen eyes like these before? Wide, large irises of different colors.
Slowly, I stare down her body. Her brown rebel fatigues sit loosely on her bony frame. Physically, she is thin and small, but she holds herself with the poise and pride of a fighter, so she looks bigger and taller. Even though her arms are thin, the strength and power in them is unmistakable. Her veins bulge as she grips her gun at her side, and her whole body thrums with purpose and power.
I look up into her mismatched eyes to see them narrowing in concern and suspicion.
“I...I think...” I gulp. “I know you. I know who you are.”
She arches one thin eyebrow at me. “Do you now?”
“Y-yes. You're...”
Before I can complete my sentence, the speaker buzzes loudly, stopping the dispersing crowd in their tracks. Gasps and cries can be heard as a faint image starts to flash across the entire screen.
The image snaps into sharp focus, and everyone freezes.
I stare up at that wounded, scarred face on the screen. “Owen!”
Owen's green eyes stare down at the screen, the image jerking and moving. As I watch his movements, I realize that he is transmitting the video through his watch, and he is now trying to remove the watch from his wrist. He grimaces into the screen, either in pain or in frustration.
He holds his watch up away from himself, so that his face and his Commander's stripes on his black uniform are clearly projected onto the screen. I see dark stains on his uniform, blood stains. Is that his blood, or the blood of those he has just killed?
“I know that you're executing the former Minister, General and Commanders today. You've executed those war criminals, but you've let the biggest, baddest criminal of all escape,” Owen smirks into the screen. His voice is hoarse and rough, like he has been screaming for the longest time. The camera tilts sideways before he rights it and starts to back away from the screen. He has placed his watch somewhere in front of him, and is moving slowly backwards, keeping himself half in sight.
There is the sound of a violent scuffle as Owen grabs someone from the side. His dirty combat boots come into view, and as he steps forward, there is a glimpse of something, someone moving behind him. His fist is closed around a black-sleeved arm. Owen grunts and yanks the person towards the camera. I see the tumble of jet black hair, and a set of wide, dark eyes. The red lips are curled, not in a smile, but a sneer. “You—are still a Slave. You'll always be a Slave!” she screeches at Owen.
“Your Majesty, would you like to address your people?” Owen tells her calmly. “They are watching you right now.”
With that, he shoves her face right in front of the camera.
There is a collective gasp as the Empress's dark eyes blaze on the screen. Her face is pushed forward even closer to the camera so that only one evil eye stares down at us from the screen.
Owen drags her back, and we see him handcuff her to a rusty pole in front of the camera. “Would you like to say a few last words to your people, Your Majesty?” Owen asks, ignoring her shrieks and curses.
“Owen Vesparr, I made you a Commander! You are my Slave! I own you! You're my pet!” the Empress screams. She is dressed in the black uniform of the Imperial Army, disguised as a soldier. Her black hair is disheveled and matted with dirt and blood. But even on the run, in hiding, her face is garishly made up. Her eyes are lined, with blue and orange eyeshadow over her eyelids. Her crimson lipstick is smeared, with red lines spreading across her cheeks and chin. There is a silver chain around her neck, and Owen yanks the chain out of her collar.
A small diamond vial hangs at the end of the chain.
Gripping the vial in his hand, Owen laughs bitterly in the Empress's face. “You still have this with you. You've used this on dead men, to satisfy yourself.” He drops the vial in disgust, letting it hang ponderously on the front of her heaving bosom. “Keep it. You'll need it—since you'll be joining them soon.”
The Empress twists frenziedly, her white face contorting into a writhing mess of smeared colors. “You became a Commander through my favor! I made you!” she shrieks.
Owen draws his gun silently and steps away from her.
Raising his gun, he says in a tight voice, “You used me. And you destroyed me, Your Majesty.” The gun trembles slightly in his scarred, blood-stained hand. “If only...” His voice wavers and he closes his eyes briefly.
“If only?” The Empress lets out a high-pitched laugh. “If only what, Slave? What are you regretting? What are you coveting, Slave? Oh.” An ugly smile spreads across her face as her eyes glitter maliciously. “Oh, I see. You wish you could have that young Siren. The one you chose to take to my chambers with you, so you could use her, to satisfy me. You want her, don't you?”
Owen's eyes fly open, and his knuckles gleam white in the shadows. “You destroyed us,” he says at last. “I could have had her! She's mine! If only...”
She laughs long and loud, her harsh laughter blaring from the speakers to pierce the stunned silence in the city square. All eyes are on the screen, even as rebel leaders scramble to track the location of the transmission. Lyndea remains by my side, but she is furiously sending and receiving communications on her watch, hissing commands and questions into her watch.
I look up at the scene unfolding unstoppably on the screen. Can the rebel leaders reach them in time? Before...before—there is only one way it can end.
The Empress stops laughing and stares into the camera.
“Hunt this Slave down! He has killed your Emperor, and your Empress! Hunt him down, and torture him to death!” She turns to face him. “You can never escape, Owen.” She smiles, baring her bloodied teeth. “You are my Slave. You can never have her. You...”
Owen looks straight into the Empress's eyes, and squeezes the trigger.
Her body slides down the pole, with a hole in the middle of her white forehead. Her eyes remain open, still staring into the camera.
There are screams, followed by cheers and victorious chants at the Empress's death. Jostled by excited, disbelieving people from all sides, I stagger on my feet but my eyes refuse to leave the screen. I stare up at Owen, who has turned around stiffly to face the camera.
His lips move. His words are almost drowned out by the roars from the crowd. But I can hear every word clearly, as if he is speaking in my ear.
“Zoey, I know you are watching this,” Owen says, his piercing emerald eyes looking straight into mine. “You are not mine. I know. Only in my dreams you are mine. You are the love I could have had, the life I could have led—if only...if only I had not been me.”
He smiles into the camera and raises his gun. “Goodbye, Zoey.”
A scream tears from my throat.
I stare into the barrel of his gun, and he fires.
Static cracks across the entire screen before everything goes black.
The crowd erupts into chaos. Some hail Owen as a hero. Others demand that he be prosecuted and executed together with the monsters he served.
Lyndea grabs my arm and drags me through the volatile crowd. She keeps one small, powerful hand on my wrist, while shouting into her watch the entire time.
We scramble to the side gate of the Justice Prison, and a guard lets us through. The gate is hurriedly locked behind us, and Lyndea leads me into a small waiting room for visitors.
“Wait here. Jaxon will be with you in a minute. He has to witness the medical officers signing off the bodies. They'll be cremated,” she tells me as an afterthought. “There will be no graves to be defaced, or worse, honored as the resting place of martyrs.” She makes a face—and I see her gold-capped molars.
I suck in a b
reath. I have seen those gold molars before, in the Palace. I do know who she is.
“Wait!” I croak at last. “Lyndea! M...”
She is already at the door, but she turns to frown at me.
“I...I know who you are,” I stammer. “You...you're Mam Mallisa!”
Her mismatched eyes widen just a fraction.
I blink at her, staring at her bony frame, large eyes, and impassive face. This is Mam Mallisa, without all her outlandish make up, painted, curved nails and larger than life wigs and gowns. An image of Mam Mallisa dressed in all her garish glory flitting around the Grooming Room in the Palace wavers before my eyes. Like a psychedelic butterfly, the ghostly image sashays and shimmies around the room, dressed in a shimmering dress and neon cape, her conical green wig glimmering with countless pins and ribbons. The smiling image of Mam Mallisa struts right in front of me, her smile widening to reveal her gold-capped molars. Giving an imperious wave of her thin hand before dropping to a deep curtsey for a most convincing, compelling performance, the ghost of Mam Mallisa steps back and superimposes itself over Lyndea, blending seamlessly into the plain, stern figure of the rebel leader standing stiffly at the door.
There is no mistake.
She is who I think she is. I know I am right.
With the barest hint of a smile, she says at last, “Whoever you think you know I am—” She turns and walks out the door. “I'm not.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The nurse calls my name. “Zoey Whard.”
I stand up and Jaxon holds my hand. “You sure?” he asks quietly for the umpteenth time. “You don't have to, you know. But this is your decision...”
Release In The Dark (DARK erotic romance series) Page 16
