The Deadly Nightshade

by Justine Ashford

  Connor, Sheppard, and I close ourselves into the house and crouch beneath the windows that face the iron gate. Sheppard pushes them open to give us an area to shoot through, and we each peer over the little ledge to survey the gang. There is a good distance between them and us—around a hundred feet’s worth—a decent buffer zone if they manage to get through the gate, which is locked thanks to the guards Roman murdered. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to shoot them all through the iron bars before they can kill any of our own.

  Roman approaches the gate while his gang hangs back, armed and waiting for his command. In fact, they stand a good distance farther from the entrance than they did yesterday which, although it isn’t exactly cause for alarm, strikes me as strange. Either way, they are much easier targets than we are, considering we’ve got every gun in Sweetbriar pointed at that gate, which they have no choice but to go through if they want to get in.

  The gang leader swaggers forward with his rifle in his hands, the beginnings of a smile on his weasel face. When he reaches the iron gate, he raps on it a few times with the barrel of his gun, then takes half a dozen large steps backwards. “Rise and shine, people! It’s mornin’!” he shouts. “So what’s it gonna be, Miss Reina? Are ya gonna give over those killers, or am I gonna have to send my friends here into your little camp?”

  “I have made my decision,” calls Reina. She exits her house and walks down the cobblestone path toward him, stopping about fifty feet from the gate. Though she holds her weapon at the ready, her position is anything but defensive. Nate, unable to stop her from going, runs out after her in a panic and takes his place at her side, unwilling to let her face these fearsome people alone.

  “What’s she doing?” Connor hisses.

  “Being a leader,” I whisper. Of course Reina would be the one to place herself directly in the line of fire. She loves these people more than life itself. If Roman wants to get to the rest of them, he will have to get through her first.

  “And what might that be, sweetheart?” coos Roman, fidgeting with impatience. “Come on, love, we’re all dyin’ with anticipation.” Then, with a wry smile he adds, “I see ya got yourselves some guns while you were gone. How naughty of ya.”

  “We are armed and we will kill anybody who trespasses on Sweetbriar territory or tries to harm one of our own,” she threatens. “That is my decision.”

  He stares at her for a moment, looking quite taken aback. “Oh,” he says in a voice drenched with surprise, a clear indication that he wasn’t expecting this outcome. “Alright. Very well then.” With that, he turns his back to her and begins to walk toward his people, who look just as puzzled as he does. He gestures to them to follow him and disappears into the crowd. Perplexed, I turn to look at Connor and Sheppard, whose knitted eyebrows indicate they are just as confused as I am. What is Roman doing? Surely he can’t be turning around, not just because of that, not after the threat he made. Is this a trick, or does he really have no plan for this? Could he really have been so sure that our friends would turn on us, that they wouldn’t stand up to him?

  I have just lost sight of Roman when I hear a quiet click followed closely by a deafening boom as the iron gate explodes in a burst of smoke and flame. The iron doors fly off their hinges, landing in the street only a few feet from Reina and Nate, who are blown back by the force of the blast. But our leader does not stay down for long. Forcing herself back to her feet, Reina releases a round of fire at Roman’s gang as they rush for the entrance and shouts at us to do the same.

  Connor, Sheppard, and I shoot at our enemies in short bursts, being sure to duck for cover after every few shots so as to decrease our chances of getting hit. Within a matter of seconds, I take down two unsuspecting women with clean shots to the head. Sheppard kills two men and another woman with one clip, taking cover just in time to avoid a round of fire from a man with a machine gun, who I manage to take out with a body shot. But just as I watch my victim flop to the ground, I become aware of an acute burning sensation in my shoulder unlike any I have ever felt before. As I sink to the floor, I press my shaky fingers against the area and examine them to find them covered in blood. Connor looks at me and, realizing I have been shot, turns with fury in his blue eyes and empties the clip of his submachine gun at the man who hit me. After coming to my senses, I pull myself up just in time to watch him shoot the man twice, killing him.

  As Connor ducks down to reload, he smiles at me and says, “That felt good. You okay?”

  “Not dead yet,” I say.

  “Can you still fight?”

  “What did I just say?”

  The three of us remain crouched beneath the window, waiting for a round of shots to pass as bullets whiz above our heads and sink themselves into the wall behind us. When it is over I raise my guns, ignoring the flaring pain in my shoulder, and attempt to find my next victim. As I survey the blood-soaked cobblestone battleground, I notice an array of bodies near the wall, some of which I recognize and most of which I don’t. Roman does not appear to be among them.

  Reina and Nate still remain in the street instead of the house they were supposed to take shelter in, although Nate tries desperately to guide our leader back inside. But Reina ignores him, firing in rapid succession at the encroaching invaders, her red lips curled back and her teeth bared in a vicious snarl. I watch as she hits man after man, not letting up for even a moment until her ammo is depleted. She shouts at Nate to cover her while she reloads, but their opponents have begun to swarm. Six or seven of them advance upon the duo at once, taking advantage of the fact that Reina is temporarily indisposed. Nate dutifully positions himself in front of his leader and releases a volley of gunfire, managing to take down two of the assailants before a burst of blood sprays from his back and he sinks to the ground. His arm twitches once, then his legs, and he is still. The sight makes my stomach turn over, and I feel the urge to vomit.

  Reina looks at her fallen lieutenant with wide brown eyes, her face spattered with his blood. Then, with tears streaming down her cheeks, she turns on her attackers with a fury unmatched by any I have ever seen before, shrieking as she rains fire upon them. I am unable to watch what becomes of her; at that moment, two men and a woman burst through the door of the house we are held up in, followed by Roman, whose dark eyes gleam upon seeing me. I fire four times at the man in front, missing the first two shots and shooting him dead with the second two. Realizing I am out of bullets, I eject the two empty magazines while Sheppard kills the other man, leaving only Roman and the woman. But Roman’s gun is already pointed at me before I have a chance to reload, and in that fraction of a second I realize there is nothing I can do but wait to die—no matter how fast I try to dodge the shot, no matter how quickly I reach for the two fresh mags on either side of my belt, it won’t be quick enough. He smiles with satisfaction just before the gun goes off.

  “Nightshade!” cries Sheppard, throwing himself in the line of fire just as Roman pulls the trigger. He remains standing after the first shot, but Roman fires again and again, and after the third bullet pierces his chest the preacher falls to the floor. I look at him lying at my feet, his hazel eyes growing cloudy and blood pouring from his abdomen, and suddenly I am watching my father die all over again, suddenly I am that frightened fifteen-year-old girl and my whole world is falling apart before me. But this time I am not helpless.

  Feeling a fire in my stomach I thought I had lost forever, I throw my empty guns to the ground, grab a throwing knife in each hand, and hurl them at Roman. Neither hits its mark; he manages to dodge them just in time to avoid being impaled. I rush at him before he can fire off another shot, and the two of us collide in a mass of swinging arms and legs. He struggles to aim his gun at me, but I grab his hand with mine and pound it against the floor until he is forced to release the weapon, which slides away before I can get hold of it. Just as I reach for another knife, I am knocked senseless by the force of Roman’s fist upon my face and I flop, dazed, onto the floor beside him. He pushes himself u
p and kneels over me before I am able to come to my senses, raining down punches again and again and grunting with each stinging blow he deals me. Soon all I can hear is the sound of his fists cutting through the air and making contact with my skin, the rush of blood pumping in my ears, and my own soft groaning. My nose begins to trickle blood as it cracks under the force of his blows, and then his fist produces a gushing gash under my right eyebrow which leaves me partially blinded.

  As I struggle to get Roman off of me, I become aware that Connor is on the other side of the room wrestling with the woman, but he isn’t winning. Through the corner of my good eye I can see her on top of him as they both vie for control of her gun, which goes off a couple of times, firing a spray of bullets into the wall beside them. I want nothing more than to knock that woman off of him, to sink my swords into her flesh, to paint these white walls with her blood—but with Roman to deal with there is nothing I can do to save him, at least not until I can get this brute of a man off of me and end his life.

  I kick and scratch and claw at Roman, but no matter what I do the punches keep coming, and soon it is all I can do to cover my face with my fists to protect it. I try to come up with some way to throw him, to stun him long enough to pull out a weapon and kill him, but all I can think about is Connor fighting for his life a few feet away. His wide blue eyes and pained grimace are all I can see as Roman quickly scrambles to his feet and lays a firm kick to my side, crushing the air out of my lungs. Kick after kick lands upon my ribs, and I can feel them on the verge of breaking inside of me. But the blue eyes never leave my mind, and it is then that I realize I am not completely conscious anymore.

  “This! Is for! My! Brother!” Roman yells between each rib-crushing kick.

  “Your brother was a fucking monster!” I cry just before he lands another blow, bloody spit dribbling from my mouth.

  “Ya don’t think I know that?” he shouts, his voice breaking. With my good eye, I am able to catch a glimpse of his reddened, crumpled face as tears begin to rain from his dark eyes. “Ya think I don’t know what kinda man he was? He was still my fuckin’ brother!” With that, he draws his foot as far back as it can go and lands the most excruciatingly painful blow I have ever felt. I hear something snap inside of me.

  The kicks stop for a moment and I realize this is my chance to react, but the pain in my side is too great and I cannot move. Instead, I lie there limply until Roman wraps his gigantic hands around my throat and effortlessly lifts me up so that my feet no longer touch the ground. I squirm and struggle as he crushes my windpipe, preventing any air from getting through to my lungs no matter how hard I gasp. I clutch his hands with my own, trying to pry his fingers open, but the more I scratch the harder he presses, and I feel his knuckles crack with the strain. He grins with sick satisfaction as he chokes me, pulling me closer and closer to his face so I am forced to meet his tear-brimmed black eyes. With each passing second I feel myself fading more and more.

  This is it, then. This is how I die—alongside Sheppard and Nate and Reina—and Connor. I focus on the spot behind Roman’s head where Connor and the woman are still fighting, but now he seems to be the one with the upper hand. He twists the gun between the two of them and manages to point the muzzle at her abdomen despite her effort to force it away. Then the gun goes off once, twice, and she finally stops struggling, falling dead on top of him. Connor’s head hits the floor as his body relaxes and he emits a loud sigh of relief.

  He hasn’t yet noticed my predicament, but I know there’s no way he can save me. In a few more seconds, I will be dead and that will be all. But at least I can die knowing Connor is alive, knowing he still has a chance, knowing he may really have a shot at a life with Savannah. At least he will live—my companion, my friend. At least he will survive.

  But as I look back into Roman’s black eyes, it hits me that Connor will not survive, not as long as this man is alive. No, once the gang leader is done with me he will turn on Connor, who will be powerless to stop him. And if Connor is dead then there is no way of telling if there will be anyone left to defend Sweetbriar—who knows how many Sweetbriarans have been killed at this point and how many of Roman’s gang still live. All those people in that bomb shelter . . . what will become of them? The image of Roman’s gang bursting through those doors and pouring fire upon all those unarmed men, women, and children in that bunker brings a hollow pain to my chest unmatched even by the bullet wound in my shoulder or the feeling of Roman’s hands squeezing the life out of me. But there is nothing I can do now. I am fading and my vision is dimming and soon I will be gone . . .

  You’re a survivor, Nightshade. Survive!

  The voice in my head rings so loud and clear that it almost sounds as if my father is in the room with me—so loud and clear, in fact, that in my dazed state I can’t be completely sure he isn’t. He was right—I am a survivor, I always have been, and I always will be. But maybe I was never meant to survive on my own. Maybe all those years of training, of suppressing, of learning how to stay alive at all costs were preparation for this very moment.

  I am a survivor. And I will survive.

  I look upon the man who seeks to destroy my life and the lives of everyone I have known, feeling an intense passion like none I have ever experienced rising inside of me—anger. No, not anger—rage, hatred. I hate him, with my mind, body, and soul I hate him. He is a beast, a monster, scum. And he has summoned four whole years’ worth of fury out of me. And he will feel their wrath.

  Whether it is adrenaline or the sheer power of my emotion that drives me, I summon the last bit of strength left in my body to swing back my leg and land it right between Roman’s thighs. Howling in pain, he drops me and clutches his groin with both hands, his expression a mixture of shock and agony. I collapse beside him, sucking air into my lungs for what feels like the first time in a lifetime—I have never valued anything more than that one breath. Knowing I must act fast, I force myself to my feet, ignoring the pain that flares in every part of my body, draw the black machete from my belt, and plunge it through Roman’s abdomen until I feel its hooked end exit through his back. He gasps as I thrust the weapon upward inside of him, and I smile at the warm sensation of his blood running through my fingers. His black eyes meet mine, full of fear and absent of life, and I know it is finally over. I pull the machete out of him and Roman falls to the floor, dead.

  And such is the way of the world.

  Chapter 49

  I drop the bloodied machete beside Roman’s corpse, gasping to catch my breath as it clatters to the floor. Connor, who has just pushed the dead woman’s body off of him, stares at me incredulously.

  “You did it,” he breathes. “You— You killed Roman. You did it, Nightshade! My God, are you alright?”

  But I ignore him. All of my attention is focused on the preacher who lies a few feet away, his chest rising and falling slowly. Still alive, still alive. I scramble toward him and kneel at his side, examining the gunshot wounds he took for me. I press down on them to stop the bleeding, but he tries to push my hands away.

  “Elijah, stop,” I insist, my voice hoarse from the strain of nearly being choked to death. I almost don’t recognize it as my own. “I need to keep pressure on it. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be fine, don’t you worry. We’ll get you some help and you’ll be just fine.”

  He smiles at me, shaking his head ever so slightly. “Don’t, Nightshade,” he murmurs. “It’s my time. I’m not scared.”

  “No. No, no, no,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “Please, Sheppard. Just hold on for a little while longer. Connor will go get Dr. Lam and she’ll take care of you. Please.” My eyes begin to fill with tears and my lip quivers uncontrollably, but I do not feel weak. No, there is no weakness in feeling. I know that much now.

  The preacher presses a bloodied hand to my cheek and strokes it gently, his fingers trembling with the effort. “Now don’t you dare cry for me, Nightshade,” he says with a smile, his eyes also brimming with tears.
“It is not a sad death. I’m going to see my girls again. God, it’s been so long, but I’m finally going to see them again.”

  His hand drops to his side and he leans his head back against the floor, his hazel eyes filling with a heavenly light. He grins gleefully as a tear travels down his cheek, emits a contented sigh, and ceases to breathe forever. And just like that, Elijah Sheppard is dead.

  I stare at the lifeless body of the preacher for a long time, feeling paralyzed. In my peripheral vision, I watch Connor walk across the room and kneel beside me, then wrap his arms around me in a hug. I collapse into him and he presses me against his warm chest, stroking my hair to soothe me. I cry without tears, my chest heaving against his and my face buried in his shirt. Suddenly everything hurts all at once, not just the physical pain of the gunshot and the wounds Roman left, but also the grief. I had forgotten emotions could do that, be more painful than a bullet wound or a broken rib. It is exhausting to feel.

  No more gunfire rings through the streets of Sweetbriar. All is quiet except for some unintelligible shouting, but it is impossible to tell who the voices belong to—Roman’s gang or the Sweetbriarans. When Connor and I break from our embrace, we crouch beneath the window and peek our heads over the ledge, unsure if we will see Roman’s men or ours. But the first people I lay eyes on are Claire and Sophia as they drag an injured woman down the cobblestone street, calling out for assistance. There are others too, each of them covered in blood and picking through the bodies to find anyone who is still alive.

  After casting one last glance at Elijah Sheppard, I exit the building with Connor as my support and we meet up with Claire, who allows Sophia to carry the wounded woman alone so she can speak to us. From what I can tell neither of them are badly hurt, although their clothes are spattered with blood that isn’t theirs. Even Claire’s pretty blond hair is stained crimson at the tips.