by Melissa Marr
When Jack turned and saw it, he immediately shoved her toward the weapons bag and grabbed the knife he’d left on the rock. “Gun. Now.”
Chloe withdrew a revolver, checked the chambers, and searched the bag for more rounds. “What is it?”
“Cynanthrope.” He came to stand at her side.
She lifted the gun and sighted down on the thing. “I can take it out.”
“Not it. Them.” He was scanning the area. “They’re pack hunters. If there’s one, there are others nearby. If you shoot one cyn and they weren’t intending to attack, they will.”
Chloe followed Jack’s lead, searching the landscape for the rest of the cynanthrope pack. She hoped he was wrong or that the solitary canine was just passing by, but her hopes were quickly dashed as she saw several more of the creatures come into view. “Jack?”
“I see them.” He sheathed the knife and withdrew his gun. “Hold steady.”
There were at least seven of the creatures, and now that they were closer, Chloe could see that they were decidedly larger than coyotes. They were even bigger than the German Rottweilers that one of her exes had owned. Like those dogs, though, these creatures were all muscle and intimidating teeth. Her ex’s dogs had been big sweeties, despite appearances, but she was pretty sure that the cynanthropes weren’t cuddly. They prowled closer in a sort of hive-mind behavior, and Chloe wasn’t so sure she agreed with Jack’s order to wait. With that many of them, the odds of avoiding injury weren’t looking good if they attacked.
One of the doglike creatures growled, and the others took up the sound, so it was like a growing roll of thunder that sounded far too much like an immense swarm of angry bees.
“Can I shoot yet?” she half begged. “I don’t want to be kibble here.”
“No.” Jack put his back to hers, both allaying the temptation to back up and intensifying her desire to do so. If she moved away from the cynanthropes, she could knock Jack off balance and interfere with his ability to defend himself—or she could enjoy that brief comfort of knowing that he truly was behind her without taking her eyes off of the monsters.
The cynanthropes continued to growl, but the ones she could see in front of her and to the sides were motionless. She wasn’t sure what they were waiting for or what to watch for, but before she could ask Jack, he yelled, “Dive left. Shoot.”
She did so, but all she caught was an arm of a cactus as the cynanthrope she’d targeted dodged to the side. She aimed and fired again, this time hitting the tip of one of the creature’s ears. “Damn it.”
The cynanthropes weren’t attacking. They’d moved to avoid her shots, but they weren’t all leaping at her. Chloe fired at them, and they backed away. All things considered, the situation was going much better than she’d expected. Then, behind her, she heard growling.
She tore her gaze off the three of the creatures she could still see in front of her and saw that Jack was rolling in the sand with one of them trying to bite his throat. His gun was nearby in the sand, but both of his hands were busy trying to keep the creature off of him.
There was no way she could shoot it without risking shooting him. After another look to ascertain that the rest of the pack wasn’t attacking, she walked over and grabbed the bag of weapons. With another glance at the unmoving cyns, she wished she understood the rules here better already. It would be handy if waking up in a strange world included a guide. Since it didn’t, she had to trust what she hoped were semireliable instincts. She looked in the bag and withdrew a weapon that looked like something between a hunting knife and a short sword, and another pistol.
Taking time to reload wasn’t something she was eager to do until she had to. Instead, she shot at the cyn that was closest. This time she hit it square in chest. It hissed in a very undoglike way, and another cyn raced closer. This was the one with the now-injured ear, and again it evaded her shot. It and the injured cyn both retreated, leaving only one of the cyns in front of her.
She turned toward Jack then, but before she could get close enough to help dislodge the cynanthrope that had him pinned to the ground, a loud whining of unmistakable fear came from all of the creatures at once. All of the creatures she could see, except for the one trying to eat Jack, fled in a rush.
As she looked up to see what had frightened the monsters away, she saw something even more horrific than the animals that had attacked them. One of the cyns, the one she’d shot, was being lifted into the air by a wrinkled, person-shaped thing. It ripped the throat out of the cynanthrope. Blood and flesh were clinging to its emaciated face as it turned to face her.
“Here, puppy, puppy,” she muttered as she swung open the barrel and shook out the casings. After wishing the doglike creatures would vanish, she suddenly wanted a surge of them to appear. Maybe that would buy her time to figure out what to do about the new threat.
“Any tips?” she called as she finished chambering several rounds, snapped the barrel shut, and raised the revolver. Her thumb was already on the hammer, pulling it back, and her finger was ready to squeeze the trigger.
“It’s on our side. Don’t shoot!” Jack yelled.
Chloe looked at him like he was a madman. When things that look like slavering nightmares arrive and run toward a person, shooting is a perfectly sound response. In fact, shooting such things repeatedly was an even more rational plan. I’m signed on to work with a lunatic. She forced herself to ease off the hammer and glanced at Jack, who was still pinned under the growling cynanthrope. “What is it?”
“Bloedzuiger.” He punched the cynanthrope in the snout.
With renewed horror, Chloe turned her attention to the thing. Red-tinged spittle bubbled on its lips. “That’s a bloedzuiger?”
The sight of it evoked the nausea she hadn’t felt when she’d learned she’d consumed blood. It was a disgusting, barely sentient-looking beast. Even the animals that had attacked them seemed more aware. This thing looked like it was frothing at the mouth.
“It’ll obey you within reason,” Jack yelled as he tried to keep the cynanthrope’s teeth away from his throat. The creature was stronger than its size would seem to indicate, but Jack was holding it off so far. “Help, please.”
She still wasn’t sure she could shoot the creature attacking Jack without hitting him too. They were moving too quickly for her to get a clean shot, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to turn away from the thing in front of her either. “I can’t—”
Her words died midsentence as the bloedzuiger responded to Jack’s request. It disposed of the remaining cynanthrope with a speed that was too quick to follow. Jack came to his feet as the monster that had rescued them stood with drool and blood dripping down its chest.
Despite the bloedzuiger’s actions, Chloe couldn’t force herself to lower the gun the whole way. She relaxed her arms slightly and lowered the barrel, but she still held it in both hands, ready to raise and fire. Jack came to her side, put a hand atop the barrel, and gently pushed it and her hands down until the gun was aiming into the sand.
“It won’t hurt you,” he assured her.
She wasn’t entirely convinced that he was trustworthy—really, that any of the people she’d met were trustworthy—but the drooling creature that stood watching them as Jack inspected their injuries was at the top of her increasingly long list of things to mistrust. It was more like the old black-and-white movie vampires than the romantic versions of later movies. It also wasn’t moving, so she turned her attention to the man who’d been fighting at her side.
Jack was cut in several places, but his wounds appeared to be healing as she stared at him. Her own cuts were likewise vanishing. She could feel the pain lessening by the moment, and she wondered why. Maybe it had to do with the Wasteland or the Verrot. If bloedzuigers were akin to vampires, did Verrot heal? Then a horrible thought followed that one: if I die, will I turn into that?
She glanced at the slavering bloedzuiger. This time, however, the eyes staring at her seemed to hold an eerie alertness. Its body
was still and somehow contemplative, like a predator going still before attacking.
“Jack!” She lifted the gun she still held. “It’s doing something.”
He pushed the gun down again. “No. It’s not doing anything. Its master is checking in on us.”
“She a wise woman,” the creature said. “A fair replacement for your dead packmate, I would say.”
Dead packmate? Chloe looked quickly at Jack, but didn’t pursue that line of questioning yet. She had no clear idea who or what to trust, but she had a primal mistrust of the bloedzuiger. Later, she would ask about the odd remark. For now, she simply watched it. First crisis first.
“Why is it . . .” Her gaze snapped back to the bloedzuiger as she realized that the “master” who was speaking was using this bloedzuiger’s body but was not actually present. “Can it do that to us? Possess us?”
The bloedzuiger smiled, a truly horrific sight with the blood covering its cadaverous face. “My name is Garuda, and no, I cannot possess you or Jackson even though you’ve had Verrot.”
Jack stepped between her and the possessed bloedzuiger. “Your aid is appreciated,” he said.
“Monks are in Gallows.” Garuda’s gaze stayed fixed on Chloe as the bloedzuiger spoke to Jack. “I sent the newborn to tell you. I’m glad it served another purpose as well. It’s almost light, though, so I need to call him home.”
Jack nodded, and the younger bloedzuiger resumed the mien of a drooling beast. Garuda had departed as quickly as he’d arrived, and they were left with an apparently younger version of a bloedzuiger.
The bloedzuiger stared at Jack for a moment, and then turned and ran. It wasn’t graceful, more like a charging bull than a gazelle, but the speed at which it moved was remarkable.
Chloe stared after it; in mere moments, she could see no sign of the bloedzuiger. All that she saw was the seemingly empty desert. She now knew that it wasn’t truly empty: monsters on two feet and on four roamed out there. She wasn’t sure what other secrets the desert held, but the world she was now apparently to call home was growing odder by the hour.
“I’m sure you have questions, and I’ll answer what I can after we gather the rest of the team to head into Gallows,” Jack promised.
“Gallows is a town? With monks?”
Jack nodded.
“So we’re going there now?”
“We are,” Jack said. The look in his eyes was steely enough that she had no doubt that he was a man she’d rather not cross, and she strongly suspected that he wasn’t on friendly terms with the monks—although he was on such terms with the bloedzuigers.
“Right,” she said quietly. “Let’s go to Gallows.”
She had no desire to remain in the desert, although, admittedly, she wasn’t entirely sure that going to Gallows was any more appealing. The world she’d found herself in wasn’t feeling like a very hospitable place. Only half jokingly, she asked, “I don’t suppose you have a guidebook about desert dwellers or Wasteland monsters back at camp?”
Jack paused in his packing. “No, but you’ll learn fast enough, Chloe. I give you my word. If you’re one of us, you’re my responsibility, and I do my level best to protect all of those in my care. Unless you mean me or mine harm, I’ll do whatever I can to keep you safe.”
“I don’t mean you harm,” she said. That much she knew; however, she didn’t know Jack well enough to determine if she was one of them. She wasn’t sure that a life in a crude desert outpost was what she wanted or if there was a way to go back home. All she could say for sure was that as Jack stared at her, she knew that she didn’t want to be against him because although he hadn’t articulated it, she was pretty sure that he’d do that same level best to strike down those who weren’t a part of his small group of killers.
Chapter 17
When Jack returned to camp that morning and announced that Chloe was a helluva shot, Kitty wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or alarmed. No one knew how the Arrivals were picked, but on occasion, people with no fighting skills whatsoever did arrive. No one was quite sure what to do with them, but the group worked together to train them up right. On the other hand, those who arrived with skills in violence were either trouble or the sort of assets Ajani would try even harder to lure away. Any fighting aptitude Chloe had would be useful, but it alarmed Kitty a little that she was adept enough with firearms to impress Jack.
“There are monks in Gallows. Gear up if you’re coming,” Jack announced. Before Kitty could answer, he added, “Drink first, Katherine. You and Edgar both, or stay here. I left some with him already.”
Then Jack walked away, calling for Francis, Hector, and Melody as he went. Chloe followed after him like everyone else in camp did, sheep following their shepherd blindly. Admittedly, the newest sheep looked a bit more bedraggled than she had earlier, but she was still trotting along behind Jack.
Kitty stared after them, briefly envisioning slapping her brother up alongside the head. She was perfectly capable of dealing with monks—or even Ajani—without drinking Verrot. She’d fought at Jack’s side for twenty-six goddamn years, and she’d done so with competence and determination. Sure, she’d died here and there, but she did so far less frequently these days.
Strong hands came down on her shoulders. “He’s serious, Kit.”
“I hate Verrot,” she told Edgar as she turned to face him. He stood in his shirtsleeves and trousers, a concession to the desert heat that she always appreciated. There was nothing wrong with his suit jackets, but she enjoyed the sight of his slightly more relaxed attire too.
“If it helps, I won’t drink it until you’re feeling clearheaded,” Edgar offered. “I can keep you from doing anything reckless, Kit, and Jack wouldn’t ask me to stay behind if you go. He knows better.”
Mutely, she turned away from him and walked to Edgar’s tent. She pushed the door flap aside and went into the dark enclosure. The scent of the slightly bitter soap he favored greeted her, and without thinking, she took a deep breath. It was foolishness, but being here, among his things and surrounded by the scent she associated with him, eased her nerves like few things could. Her glance darted over the wooden contraption that held his trousers so they wouldn’t wrinkle and the bed with the covers neatly straightened. Familiar longing filled her at the sight of that bed, and she turned her head away abruptly. It was dangerous being here.
She walked to the small table and two chairs near the door. On the table sat two clay mugs full of Verrot. “You drink it. I’m safe enough at camp.” Kitty picked up a mug of the Verrot. “Here.”
“Kit . . .” Edgar accepted the mug and promptly set it down untouched. “You can’t expect me to believe you’re going to stay behind instead of going after the monks who killed Mary.”
Kitty walked away from Edgar. Jack would insist that Edgar stay if she didn’t drink. That would leave the rest of the Arrivals vulnerable. Refusing to drink the Verrot meant depriving the team of two of the three best fighters, and both Jack and Edgar knew it.
“I won’t stay dead even if I get killed,” she grumbled. “You’re at far more risk than I am.”
For a moment Edgar stared at her with a small smile on his lips, and then he said what they both knew: “If you don’t drink, I’m not going into Gallows either. Jack won’t leave you here alone because you’d follow him.”
“My brother’s an ass.”
“Maybe.” Edgar carried the mug to her. “And he’s worse than the most vicious shooters I knew at home every time you get dead.” He held out the mug. “Come on, Kit.”
She took it, looked at the Verrot, and made a decision that she probably should have made years ago. She stared at the noxious stuff and said, “I trust you more than I’ve trusted anyone in my life. More than Jack.” She looked up to find Edgar staring at her. “It’s different for me. When I drink it, I don’t have the same . . . reactions.”
Edgar waited. His expression gave nothing away, but she knew him well enough to tell that he was caught between
hurt and angry.
“Every time I drink I can hear Garuda in my head, talking to me like we’re in the same room,” she continued. “He can see through me like he sees through the members of his pack. That’s why I stay away from everyone when I’ve had to drink it . . . or when I pretend I’ve drunk it.” She held the mug, neither drinking it nor setting it down. “Jack doesn’t know.”
“How long?”
Kitty didn’t pretend to misunderstand. She wished she could; she hadn’t told Edgar at first because she was embarrassed by her reaction to Verrot, hated the idea that she was wrong somehow. Later, she didn’t tell him because she had hidden it already. She forced herself to hold Edgar’s gaze as she admitted, “Always.”
“You lied to me.”
“Not really. I just didn’t t—”
“You lied, Kit.” Edgar pressed his lips together as if he were trying to keep from speaking.
When she said nothing, Edgar asked, “How long have I loved you?”
The rush of pleasure she felt at hearing the words from him again made her voice softer than she liked, but all she said was, “A while.”
“Half of your life,” he corrected. “If you can’t trust me—”
“I do trust you.” She paced away from him, not wanting to see his injured expression. She never wanted to hurt him, even though she often had. She sat on the edge of his bed. It was foolish, but being there made her relax a little. She lifted her gaze to look up at him. “I don’t want to be different from everyone else. The magic thing is already enough. Melody is scared of me; Francis acts like I’m a saint because of it.”
“Melody’s an imbecile. So’s Francis, for that matter.” Edgar pulled out one of the chairs at the table on which the other mug of Verrot was sitting, pointedly not coming to her. “Do I treat you special because of it?”
When she shook her head, he asked, “Then why would I this time?”
He stretched his legs out in front of him, folded his hands together, and watched her. “I killed back home, kill here. I die and wake back up. I’m going to drink this”—he tilted his head toward the Verrot—“because it’ll make me a better killer. At home, I’m not sure my bosses knew I could speak. They ordered; I did.” He fixed his attention on her. “Everyone who gets pulled into the Wasteland is just like me. Maybe they killed for money or a cause or something else, but at the core, they’re no different than you and me. You use magic. Hector throws his little knives. A monster or Wastelander is the same amount of dead either way.”
