She knew she needed off this plane.
“Listen to me Meg Winter, what would Creed want? If he were sitting right here, what would he say to you?” Alik grabbed Meg by the shoulders and locked eyes with her.
“He would tell me to move on. He would tell me to finish what we started.” She took a deep breath before finishing, “He would tell me to cut the head off the snake.”
Chapter 18 Bonded
“What did you say?” Williams snarled. He was angry his thoughts were being disturbed, yet again, by this weasel.
“Creed, sir. His injuries are too severe. He’s lost too much blood, his blood pressure has fallen dramatically, lips are turning blue—”
“Are you telling me he’s dying?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, revive him! I have a lot more pain I’m looking forward to gifting that traitor.”
“Yes, sir. I understand. However, I regret to say I can only do so much with my limited resources on this aircraft. If you were to order the plane to land, we could get him to a proper facility— ”
“Let me put it to you this way, Dr. Chaunders; if that meta dies before I allow it, you die, too. Are we clear?” Williams enunciated the last sentence slowly, and though missing teeth caused his speech to slur slightly, his meaning was crisp. Chaunders began to shake, visibly.
“Yes, sir.” The sniveling sell-out of a scientist was trying not to urinate in his pants from abject fear.
Williams smiled, the movement causing fresh cracks on his ruined facial skin to break open, and begin to ooze. “On your way, then,” he shooed the terrified doctor as though he were a cat on a countertop.
Moments later, Williams resumed his thoughts; this time with a distinct feeling: his daughter, strawberries and lilies, was near him again. If only she were the real thing. He could feel some peace if he knew his daughter was still with him. Greedily, he tried to snag the haunting memory of her, willing it to stay, to nourish him with its innocence. Everything about the child was beauty, perfection—he craved her.
Chapter 19 I’ll Make You A Deal
Dr. Chaunders was muttering nervously to himself, trying desperately to devise a plan to save Creed, and by proxy, himself. His hands shook as he worked to put on latex gloves.
“Okay, well, let’s play this by the book. I’ll set up an I.V. and start his blood transfusion immediately,” he shuffled through the packages in one of the drawers of his cart looking for the right syringe while he mumbled to himself. Hurriedly, he secured a tourniquet on the right arm of the male, located an engorged vein, cleansed the area with rubbing alcohol wipes and held the needle, poised and ready to puncture the vein.
“Come on, Chaunders—just play this by the book,” he reminded himself, trying to calm his shaking hands.
Just as he was about to pierce the male’s skin, a knife flew passed his ear. The doctor whipped his head around to find Gavil Young snickering with the remaining six mutant soldiers.
“Heads-up,” Gavil sneered.
“Please, let me be.” Chaunders’ hands were shaking violently. He tried to wipe the foggy steam forming inside his glasses, leaving only smudges. He yanked the useless specs off his greasy face and tried to glare menacingly at the metahumans.
“I’ll make you a deal, Mr. Young,” Chaunders offered. “You let me work uninterrupted, when we return to the Facility I will provide you with your choice of medicinal entertainment.”
Gavil raised an eyebrow and licked his lips.
“Any medicinal entertainment?”
“You just name it.”
“How much?” he squinted.
Chaunders sighed heavily. “As much as I can order without raising flags.”
Gavil exchanged glances with his snickering cohorts. “It’s a deal, asshole. You better not try to back out—I know where to find you.” Gavil’s eyes lingered on his dying brother, and though the real reason he came to bother the doctor was to see Creed’s condition with his own eyes, he didn’t mind the promise of drugs once they’d arrived back at the compound.
Lately, Gavil was desperate to get his mind off the shit hole he found himself in living as a pawn in Williams’ games. And if he were honest with himself, he didn’t know how to feel about seeing his brother so close to dying. He hadn’t been lying to Creed back at the St. Paul house. A lot of things had changed since their Retribution Match last October.
“Fine. Now if you’ll excuse me?” Chaunders knew every minute counted. Creed was already on death’s door. Gavil led his surviving soldiers away from them, deep in thought but trying exude confidence.
It was sloppy, but Chaunders punctured the vein and positioned the angio catheter, released the tourniquet and collapsed the vein before slipping the stylet out. He attached the I.V. tubing to the catheter and grabbed the syringe of saline he previously laid nearby to check for a smooth I.V. flush. Satisfied he had a good connection, he carefully laid tape strips over the tubing, gauze over the puncture site, then more tape to secure everything from being jostled.
He reached into his shirt and pulled out a bag of metahuman whole blood. He had been trying to warm it with his own body heat over the last fifteen minutes, but it still felt cool. Chaunders shook his head to himself, “Sorry, young man. This is the best I can do. Just stay with me, okay? For both our sakes?”
With deft hands that seemed to remember how to perform such normal medical tasks, he spiked the blood bag with tubing and hung it from an I.V. pole attached to his medical cart. He primed the tubing, forcing the blood down to the tip of the port and adjusted the flow before attaching the end to one of the two I.V. ports. He set the transfusion drip at a rapid pace. Next, he hung a bag of saline to provide hydration. Into the saline’s tubing, he injected a full spectrum antibiotic.
The doctor monitored the flow of both bags, adjusting periodically as he hovered. “That’s all I have to give you, young man. I don’t have a sonogram or x-ray so I can only guess about the extent of your internal injuries. I know there are many. Even if I did know what was happening inside you, I can’t perform surgery until we’re back at the Facility. I have two more units of metahuman blood I’ll give you, and the antibiotic should help you fight off infection,” he said, glancing up at the first bag of blood already half empty.
“The fluids should help, too.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes before locating his previously discarded glasses. He used his tie to wipe the lenses and replaced them onto his squat face. “You’re going to have to fight to stay alive, Creed Young. Something tells me you’ve a lot of unfinished business to attend to.”
The shady doctor leaned down and spoke directly in Creed’s ear. “I’ll make you a deal, too. You survive, and I’ll help you kill the director.” He sat back in his chair and smiled at the prospect of coming out of this not just alive, but free of Williams.
Part 2
Seven weeks after the Winter Clan’s escape from the Big Island
Location
A sprawling Texas ranch two hours south of Dallas
Chapter 20 Meg’s Malaise
The gravel crunched under her feet rhythmically. Meg was drenched with sweat. Though it was only May, the Texas heat and humidity were already stifling. Trying to take advantage of the coolest part of the day, she had begun running in the predawn darkness.
In all honesty, Meg ran in the middle of the night because it was better than lying in her nightmare sweat-soaked bed shuddering against the violent echoes compliments of Williams’ macabre memories. After talking with her family at length about the effects of her evolved gift, she agreed not to use it until they could better control its effects on her. Whatever the heck that meant.
Seven weeks passed and they were no closer to figuring out her skill than they were back on the plane. Meg knew in her heart the only way to learn the gift was to use it, but her brothers made her promise not to. They were all worried about Meg.
The family basically adopted Farrow, too. She had settled into domestic life as well
as could be expected of a trained assassin who grew up in a military compound. Sometimes, Meg would pick up some strange emotions from her, but Farrow wasn’t dangerous. Like Creed, the only danger she posed was to herself in her efforts to assimilate—to earn her way into their hearts. If Meg was in a better place, she would work with her some more on healing her hidden traumas.
But that’s just the problem, isn’t it? I can’t help her or anyone now. I can’t help pull them out of the mire because I’m drowning in it myself.
No one’s coming to help me, Meg thought—hating the self-pity working around her broken heart.
She can help others…she can heal other broken hearts, but there’s nothing anyone can do to mend her own.
She shook her head angrily.
Stupid self-pity, Meg. It’s not going to get you anywhere, she berated herself.
Maze was keeping perfect pace beside her. Sometimes he would dart into the brush to chase something furry and unsuspecting, but he’d only be gone for a few minutes before running up beside her with an innocent look in his clever eyes.
Running in the darkness blanketing the flat land around her gave Meg a sense of peace. With no one around, she had no empath readings to filter through or shut out. Her gift had always been a part of her, even before the double-edged sword of its evolution. She had grown pretty adept at protecting herself from the unintended onslaught of emotions bombarding her. However, it did take some of Meg’s energy and her concentration got blow into heck if she happened to feel any pain.
Even if she was walking along and suddenly whacked her elbow on door frame, as the shooting pain traveled up her arm she would also suddenly get a blast of emotions from everyone around her. For now, she was just trying not to be too clumsy
She liked to think that her runs kept her sane, kept her in control.
The moments of solitude when it was just her and the wind, made her feel normal. Most people didn’t have to worry about picking up on the innermost emotions of those around them. Most people didn’t have to worry about what it felt like to let down their guard accidentally and feel everyone’s emotions crash over them like a tsunami.
Stupid empathy.
She didn’t let herself do it very often anymore, but sometimes she couldn’t help but think what life would have been like if she’d grown up without the Infinite serum. Evan had told them, after his research at their new in-home lab, that they were probably already gifted humans before the serum.
Each of their bodies reacted differently to the serum by enhancing their natural predispositions. Evan was always going to be a problem solver, Alik was always going to have had an excellent memory and Meg was always destined to be hypersensitive.
That doesn’t seem like a very useful natural “gift,” does it? As metas, Meg’s brothers had these cool nearly superpowers. However, she had always just been a “stupid emotional superconductor.”
Watch out bad guys, or else I’ll cry you into submission! Give up your wicked ways before I subject you to my tears of torture! Surrender before I psychobabble you into a blubbering fool!
Meg shook her head angrily as she sprinted the last mile back to the ranch’s barn that she and Alik retrofitted into a gym. Without missing a step, Maze panted into the room at her heels and headed to the faucet and the water dish beneath.
So accustomed to their routine, she didn’t even bother with the light switch as she slapped the spigot on for him. His thirsty slurps echoed through the wide room. Meg paced, hands on her hips until his bowl was full of fresh water and his slobbering face nudged her sweaty leg reminding her to turn off the water. Still wallowing in her dark thoughts, Meg yanked the handle off and ran to the huge, thick punching bag hanging from a beam in the center of the room.
Dust from the dirt floor plumed at her feet as she moved, delivering strike after powerful strike to the inanimate bag. Meg’s fists begged to feel the beating, her legs screamed to deliver throat cracking strikes. Without thought, her body responded to the years of conditioning.
Margo taught them from as far back as they could remember how to hold their bodies in perfect form, to use every movement efficiently, powerfully. Her fists flew into the bag, pounding again and again.
Meg’s thoughts were slipping further into the darkness with every hit.
You want some more truth? The truth is I’m barely keeping my head above water. The blackness she was exposed to in Williams felt like it latched on to her and wouldn’t let go. She sometimes felt caught in an undertow, being pulled further and further away from the safety of shore.
Since this seems to be a morning of confessions, here’s the mother of them all: Creed haunts me.
Her heart screamed in pain at the loss of the blue-eyed avenging angel. The look on his face as they drove away two months ago, his hand rubbing his chest like his heart was shattering in slow motion with every rotation of the tires pulling her further away from him. He knew she was leaving him to die alone.
Anguish at the thought yanked a scream from her throat.
Meg flew into a whirl of round house kicks, elbow strikes, palm thrusts and another battery of full-body fist flurries. Her emotions were sheer anguish oscillating between images of Creed and the macabre visions from Williams. Wherever she looked, she was tormented. She opted to focus on her memories of Creed.
A crisp image of his crooked smile flashed in front of her. Her skin ached at the memory of the way he held her in his strong arms, though he had never been held himself. She remembered the look in his eyes when he shared his fears of being soulless. She could hear his voice crack with emotion when he shared how tormented he felt to have a brother hate him, beat him religiously and try to kill him. Creed’s masculine, gruff voice echoed in her mind. The sound of his heart beating in her ear the few times she got to hold him. That strong whoosh-whooshing rhythm she would do anything to hear again. The large, calloused hands holding hers made them look like a child’s in comparison. Meg only wanted a chance to love him, but all she got were brief moments in time. All she got was enough memories to know how close she was to her soul mate. She never even got to touch those beautiful lips she stared at as he spoke—sharing things with her she knew he had never expressed with anyone before, ever.
Meg ran up to the pole Alik installed just last week and flipped her body up, flung back, hooking her knees. She hung for a moment, her tearing eyes only seeing a blurry Maze watching her with worry from the other side of the room. She felt the blood rush to her head as her long, dark curls fell loose from the pony that finally gave up holding her mane at some point during her fight with the punching bag. Meg’s hair was so long, it lightly dusted the floor as she hung.
She didn’t care.
She was surrounded by predawn darkness. She never did turn on the lights, instead allowing the moonlight to cast shadows in the room to match those in her heart. Slowly, Meg tightened her abdominal muscles and pulled herself up—exhaling as she moved perpendicular with the ground five feet below.
Images of her blood-filled, recurring nightmares forced themselves into her mental picture of Creed—now his face was drenched in the remnants of Williams’ victims. This time she didn’t even hear herself scream in the outrage she felt boiling in her heart.
Just as slowly, Meg lowered herself until she hung again, and repeated the process, focusing on pulling up and twisting, first to the left then right. Up and down she pulled, willing the burn in her abdominal muscles to divert some pain from her aching heart.
Nothing helped.
Her tears mingled with the sweat pouring down her face. Her black latex running shorts and two black sports bras were drenched, but she didn’t stop.
She didn’t even stop when the lights flipped on and her little brother walked in, hands on his hips.
“How long have you been up?” Alik asked.
“Pass me the ten-pound weight,” she responded, hanging upside down again.
Alik frowned, but walked to the weights, neatly organized
on the rack beside the bench press. As easily as a human carries a paper plate, Alik fingered the iron and handed it to her. She clutched to her chest, crossed her arms over it and continued her slow crunches.
Realizing she was in one of her moods, Alik smartly walked to the shelves and chose a jump rope from the assortment of equipment there. He began at a moderate pace, watching her out of the corner of his eye. Then his pace quickened and he kept it up for at least ten minutes before he stopped.
“You’ve done enough of these, Meg,” he said simply as he walked up to her, reaching his hand out to take the weight.
She scowled at him through her sweat-soaked face, but relinquished the iron and stiffly jumped down from the pole. The backs of her knees were beet red from where they chaffed on the steel bar, but she refused to soothe them with the rubs for which they begged. She didn’t even meet her brother’s eyes. Meg felt she deserved no comfort.
Instead, she walked to the equipment shelf and found her jump rope. She fell into the rhythm easily, mixing up the pace with one foot, then two feet hops, double whips and knees up.
Alik moved on to the bench press. He made sure he had his nine-hundred pounds then called to Meg as he lay back and locked his hands on the bar, “Meg, spot me?”
She clenched her teeth, angry that he knew she wouldn’t let him work with that much weight without a spotter and would have to stop her self-inflicted punishment to stand behind him, ready to help him if he needed it.
With a huff, Meg stopped jumping, wrapped the rope around the wooden handles and walked to him. His thick shoulders tightened with the weight as he pushed the bar up and off the supports, lowering it slowly toward his massive chest, before pushing it up—extending his arms. As she stood ready to help, her brain wouldn’t stop its self-inflicted punishment just because her body did. Alik’s physique had been changing more over the last two months so he really was looking even more like his half brother, Creed. Seeing echoes of Creed in Alik was very unsettling.
Winter's Wrath: Sacrifice (Winter's Saga #3) Page 11
