But being held accountable for the safety of the Bloodling females has brought Slade's pride and moral compass to an all-time low.
He finds he'll do much to ensure the femalesʼ safety. And Beth's.
Gunnar asks, “Are you ready, Slade?”
Slade has no reflective abilities. Few on One do, and hopping is strictly prohibited. But some rare individuals—genetic throwbacks—have a streak of profoundly powerful reflective talent.
Slade's fingertips caress the hilt of his knives, all ceramic. Metal would not make the jump.
He nods, a breath of pure adrenaline leaking out of him.
“Yes.”
Slade closes his eyes, tucking his arms tightly against his sides as he senses the guards behind him. His acute hearing can pick up each of their breaths.
Heat reaches for him like fingerless tendrils. Slade closes his eyes, hearing only the clanking of Gunnar's metal shackles.
Slade's eyes jerk open. Bloody diamonds litter his vision. The entire lake glitters as though rubies drench its surface.
An explosion of noise erupts behind him, but the sounds dim as the fine hairs on Slade's body rise in response to the heat and static of the jump.
Water splashes behind him, but Slade remains facing forward. Raised voices bellow.
Slade lifts his arm, which is opaque, like an image seen through dirty glass.
Blood roars in his ears, and ice pricks his exposed skin as fire laps behind the cold.
The silence is deafening, and the speed of transit spins his guts.
Slade is falling without landing. Then it’s over as soon as it began.
Gunnar's reflective magic spits him out of the womb of the horrible tunnel of what feels like hadesʼs passage.
Slade spins midair and lands hard. Because he is Bloodling and tree-bound for half his waking hours, he's accustomed to heights and dropping unexpectedly. Slade forces his body to loosen and rolls with the rough fall.
He somersaults a final time and bounds upright.
His vision triples. Slade gains his balance, but seconds tick by as he rights himself.
Finally, he's able to take stock of his immediate surroundings.
The air is drier than that of Ten, and the oppressive humidity of One is lacking here. Slade inhales deeply and coughs lightly, flexing his fingers. He turns at the waist, planting one hand at his lower back and swinging the other with the momentum of the motion. He reverses arms, swiveling away the aches and punishment of jumping.
How can the Reflectives stand to travel that way?
A stealthy movement captures his attention, and Slade spins, crouching low. Slade will always be instinctively violent—and defensive. He is a Bloodling.
His shock at the sight before him robs him of speech—and breath. Slade blinks, trying to clear his eyes, but his vision remains true.
Gunnar stumbles to gain his footing and falls on his rump. A great whoosh of breath escapes him, and he hisses in pain. His gaze lands on Slade, who finally sucks in much-needed oxygen.
“Come Slade, help me purge these wretched manacles from my body.”
Slade opens and closes his mouth like a beached fish. He suddenly realizes why metal is not allowed in the jump.
The wrist and ankle shackles are now embedded in Gunnar's skin. The more prudent question is why Gunnar is here at all.
Slade retreats a step, folding his arms. “What have you done?”
Gunnar smiles despite his obvious agony. “You didn't really think I believed that nonsense about doing the honorable thing, did you?”
Actually, Slade had not really believed such a thing was possible.
Dimitri assured Slade that Gunnar could do nothing while bound in metal, almost as though he had fey blood.
But fey do not exist on One. That is another sector. Jumping requires that no metal be involved in the transition. Any fool understands that.
Traveling with metal speaks to Gunnar's desperation as well as his proficiency for jumping.
“Are you with me?” Gunnar asks.
Not really. Slade shakes his head, restating the obvious, “You are not camouflaged, and have manacles embedded inside your body.”
Slade looks over the damage. The manacles present like partially manifested tumors at his wrists and ankles.
Gunnar grimaces. “You have knives. Don't be a weak kitten; slice them out.”
Slade draws his dagger slowly.
His heart says to kill this insane warrior who is so buried in his own grief over the death of his Lucinda that he is unable to live in Bloodling society. He’s been incarcerated for twenty years—what life does he have anyway?
Moving toward Gunnar, Slade casts a furtive glance around him. He sees nothing but the deepness of woods.
Satisfied with his superficial perusal, Slade carefully sets down his blade. Gunnar's deep eyes are shadowed pockets in his face, glittering darkly at his every move, and Slade knows to execute extreme caution.
He unhooks the belt from his weapons and hands it silently to Gunnar. He takes it, his chains rattling against the cuffs where they protrude from his flesh, and places the meaty part of the leather between his teeth. His fangs don't lengthen, probably due to anticipation of what's to come.
Slade marvels at Gunnar's bravery.
“Dimitri will seek your death upon our return,” Slade states, the blade standing between them.
His eyes slim to slits. “Let him try,” is Gunnar's garbled response.
Their gazes lock, and Gunnar nods in encouragement, sinking his teeth into the tooled leather belt.
Slade's weapon is as sharp as he remembers. Ceramic is somewhat lighter than metal, and he carries this with him always, never imagining it would be used for a hopping excursion or an impromptu surgery.
He excises the first manacle, a mess of sinew, blood, and muscle. Gunnar's forearm is left in ruins.
He groans, his eyes leaking tears of frustrated agony.
Slade moves to Gunnar’s left arm, where the metal has less cruelly adhered. Only a thin coat of flesh covers the metal. It slices away easily, and Slade tosses the cuffs aside. They land loudly in a gore-soaked pile on the spongy forest floor.
Gunnar passes out during the incision at his second ankle. His great body eases, and the belt falls from his slack mouth.
Slade presses his blade to Gunnar's neck as he lies in the sleep of the grievously wounded.
Murdering him would be simpler.
He could end Gunnar's agony over Lucinda's death at the hands of the nightlopers.
Gunnar would never face Dimitri’s punishment.
A thin red line appears beneath the serrated ceramic blade.
I cannot kill Beth's father.
Slade lifts the blade from Gunnar's throat, wiping blood and tissue from the smooth surface. He sheathes it on his weapons belt.
He takes a shaky inhale and attaches the belt to his body.
Gunnar's breathing comes even and deep. Slade watches as the Bloodling’s body fills in the deep gouges caused by the metal.
Slade waits.
After an hour passes, Gunnar's eyes slowly open. His flesh has filled and repaired, but horrible butchering scars remain.
Slade and Gunnar gaze at each other for a handful of seconds.
“Blood,” Gunnar croaks.
Slade nods. After that many wounds, it would take three nightlopers to set him to rights.
That was the number of Slade's victims after his battle with Ryan.
“We can't kill the papiliones. Our wounds are a signature to who we are.”
Gunnar stands slowly, stretching in the same way Slade did when he first arrived. He swings in Slade's direction. “Agreed.”
“We shall hunt, feed, and close their wounds as we put them in thrall,” Gunnar says indifferently.
“Thrall may not work in this sector.”
Gunnar smirks. “I've never met a Ten who could resist our gaze once captured in it.”
“I don't have tha
t benefit, Gunnar.” Slade sweeps a hand over his altered form. “I will have to consume food as they do.” Slade can't keep the abhorrent tone out of his voice.
Humanoid food tastes terrible. Only blood is truly satisfying. At least sunlight doesn't rule the Bloodlings. Slade can thank the ancient Blood Singers heritage for that at least. The inhabitants of the planet his long-ago ancestors called home would have called the Bloodlings a daywalking vampire.
But Slade has no desire to pay a visit to Seven. He is on Ten for one thing and one thing only.
Beth.
Unfortunately, his uninvited partner will see him dead if he discovers what Slade has planned for Beth.
Dimitri made good on his part of the bargain, having delivered half of the Bloodling females.
They were abused but technically alive.
Slade's body tenses, his hands closing into fists. A throbbing vein in his temple pulses with the memory of the females’ treatment.
Now he must return with Beth to fulfill a bargain he struck in desperation.
Slade finds no good ending to any of this, no matter how many different ways he turns it over inside his mind.
Only after the tiny frog's return, will the remaining female Bloodlings be restored.
If it's the right thing for so many, why do I feel bereft at the thought of giving Beth over to the slaver?
CHAPTER SIX
Beth
Beth lets out a fairly decent belch and covers her mouth belatedly.
“Excuse me,” she says delicately.
Jacky bursts out laughing, pointing the tines of his fork at her. “Nice.”
Beth smiles. It's good to have some levity for once.
She ate practically her own weight in food. Beth's made ten trips in all to the food re-hydrator.
The re-hydrator had been her only concession to truly modern living, and she was never more thankful that she’d made it.
They'd been starving and so filthy, she couldn't stand her own smell.
Fortunately, they all smell the same.
Beth jumps up, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of the ruined uniform they found for her on One. “Cleansing,” she announces decisively.
Maddie's face screws up. “I've been bathing at a nearby lake.”
“For five years?” Beth asks, resting her foot against the wall.
She gives a grim nod. “I avoid everyone. Because—” Fat tears begin to track down her face as she looks at her hands. “Because any female…” Her chin rises, and her voice grows quiet. “Especially a woman with supernatural talent would be confiscated by The Cause.”
Jeb walks toward her so fast, she flinches.
Beth tenses and steps away from the wall.
“That is not TC,” he seethes.
Maddie backs away from his palpable rage.
Jeb paces away, hands pegged to his hips, jaw like granite. “That is a faction of derelict Reflectives who commandeered our headquarters while scheming a way to corrupt what it means to be Reflective.”
Maddie recovers, seeming to understand that his anger is not directed at her. She gives a small shrug. “It is what it is, though. I came here, watched you and Beth jump, and then everything went to hell.”
Jacky jerks his thumb in Maddie's direction. “Yeah, dude—what she said.”
Jeb fumes silently, grinding his teeth.
“I think once we all get cleansed and get a few hours of rest,” Beth says slowly, attempting to diffuse the emotional volatility, “everything won't seem so insurmountable.”
Her eyes travel the group. “And if Maddie has somehow miraculously managed to survive in our absence, then we can take advantage of one more day of safety and much-needed recuperation.”
Jeb sighs, his head drooping. “You're right, of course.”
Jacky glares at him. “Show and tell can come later. The gut's full, I'm beat, and I need to grab a shower. Hell, even I can't stand myself.” He snorts. “And that's sayinʼ something.”
Jeb rolls his eyes. “Fine.” Sweeping a palm toward the corridor, he says, “Ladies first.”
Beth shoots a glance Maddie's way, and she stands from the couch. “We'll cleanse together—conserve water and heat.”
“Good idea,” Jeb remarks as Beth and Maddie move silently down the hall.
Maddie asks, “How are we going to even see?”
I've got that covered. A little smile hovers at Beth's lips, and Maddie offers a tentative one in return. “My old-fashioned ways are really going to save our butts.” Beth sighs with relief when she opens the door and is greeted by her dusty but functional cleanser.
Beth leaves the door ajar, allowing moonlight to seep into the bathroom. By feel and the vague bluish-white illumination, Beth locates and sets the stumps of fat candles across a short bench meant for storing towels.
She throws the musty pile of towels to the floor and picks out two from the bottom. After a sniff, she wrinkles her nose. At least the towels smell old rather than moldy.
Beth hands one to Maddie, and her nose scrunches, but she says nothing.
The acrid fragrance of sulfur fills the space as Beth lights all five candles with matches retrieved from a toiletry drawer.
She opens the cabinet underneath the sink. A small dried-up bar of soap lies in a wicker basket along with a half bottle of shampoo.
She had a full cabinet's worth of both. Before. Perfumed toiletries and the length of her hair were Beth's only concessions to femininity.
“You were a little bit of a hygiene slut,” Maddie admits with a giggle.
Beth smiles. “True.” She gives Maddie a sidelong glance. “Lucky for you.”
Maddie nods. “I actually stretched it as long as I could.”
Beth looks critically at the girl. Maddie’s hair falls to her mid-thigh, longer than the fashion of Papilio. After five years, Beth’s midback-length hair has become too long.
“I know. You did great. I'm surprised without the re-hydrator you didn't starve to death.”
The silence stretches like pulled taffy between them, so many things left unsaid.
Then Beth closes the door, and they strip. Beth dumps the clothes into a pile to throw away.
“I guess I look terrible,” Maddie says in an embarrassed voice.
Beth can count Maddie’s every rib, and the girl’s hipbones stick out like tent poles. She inhales deeply. “No. You look like a woman who survived the unsurvivable. I don't think it matters how you look—only that you're alive.”
Maddie begins to cry, covering her face with her hands.
Beth goes to her and takes her hands. “You're wasting water,” Beth says gently. “We can't help what has happened. All we can do is restore TCH and hope the chaos of the last five years hasn't ruined things beyond fixing.”
Beth dips her head, catching the taller woman’s gaze. “Okay?”
Maddie nods. “I'm not crying because I'm sad, Beth.”
Beth's brows draw together.
“I thought that I'd never see anyone else again, like I was surviving for nothing. I was on the last of my supplies here, worried about Ryan and his fucking goons coming by and nailing me—making me a whore like the others,” she finishes in a whisper.
“Then we appeared,” Beth interjects.
“Yeah,” she says, wiping snot and tears from her filthy face. “Then you guys—you and Jacky—Jeb, walk in like a mirage in the middle of a desert. At first, I thought I'd finally lost it.”
Maddie turns from Beth and walks into the cleanser, where she gives the faucet a hard jerk to the right.
The pipes groan in protest then finally splutter on.
“And then Jacky was there, looking older,” she shakes her head, still looking away. “It doesn't seem real yet. I still feel like I need to hide.” Her voice is soft, and Beth strains to hear her. “I'm still afraid,” she adds.
Maddie turns and faces Beth, eyes large and shining with unshed tears.
The water hisses as it hits the tiles, and s
team rises like mist between them.
The large cleanser is so big, both women fit inside easily. Beth holds up a wide-toothed comb of pure bone and makes a twirling motion with her finger. Maddie faces away, letting the spray from the cleanserhead rain down on the front of her.
Beth begins to comb the knots out of the other woman’s matted hair.
“I'm afraid, too,” Beth confesses. “But there's more of us than them.”
“They're like ticks on a dog, Beth. They liked the violence—the control. They had all of Papilio held captive.”
“Not Adlaine,” Beth says with conviction, referencing her own quadrant. There's no way the people she grew up around would listen to a Reflective. Beth grins, thinking about it. Finally, their attitude might have helped.
“Yeah,” Maddie says softly. “They held out until last year. Then Ryan’s men burnt the quadrant to the ground and kidnapped all the women past menstruation age.”
The comb clatters to the tile floor.
Maddie turns back to face Beth. Hot overspray soaks Beth's flesh. She can't swallow—or breathe.
Little girls that were barely women, taken to TCH to work as prostitutes…
“I'll kill them.” Magic seems to build and seethe with her words as though taking on a life of its own, her words holding both power and weight.
Maddie's hand moves through the thickness of Beth's spoken promise, and she touches Beth's shoulder lightly.
“I know.”
Whatever Beth's expression, it causes Maddie to drop her hand and retreat into the falling water.
“Every last one will die by my hand.”
Maddie doesn't look afraid; she looks glad. A wide smile sits perched on her full lips. “I knew if you came back, you'd take them apart limb by limb.”
Beth’s lips curl. “That might be too quick for my taste.”
They finish their shower in total silence. Beth counts it among the lengthiest showers of her life.
Beth assumes Maddie's thoughts are much the same as her own, though Maddie's are most likely mere dreams of vengeance.
However, Beth's does not dream; she plans.
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