You’re getting weak, Tilly. At first, you said you didn’t want to know anything about him. Now look at you. What about Sissy?
Maybe it’s a side effect of being lonely, or how much I enjoy needling him, but I can’t deny there’s something lurking beneath the surface that makes me want to scratch until I reveal those hidden layers he’s trying to hide. There’s something else, too, though I’d never admit it to him. Being around another person feels good. I love having Kodiak but conversing with another human reminds me of the whole point of my journey. I’m so tired of being on my own and afraid of what lies ahead.
He stretches his neck and swivels his body away from me, trying to hide the turmoil that causes his face to tighten and lips to compress.
It’s useless to try and get him to speak on an emotional level. If it makes him happy to act like an arrogant dick, so be it. I’m too tired to figure out his motives.
“I can reconnect at this—” Sparky goes silent for a moment— “camp?”
“I’m so done.” I wave a dismissive hand. Unwilling to deal with the other creep in the group, I walk away, trying to sort through my emotions.
Jareth glances at Sparky. “Uh, not yet. We won’t reach the”—he casts around as if he’s trying to think of the right term—“uh, the hub until we get to Florida.”
“What is the distance to Florida?”
Still feeling pissy, I stop and turn around. Words rip from my mouth. “How do you not know the distance or even where anything is at? You guys came down, destroyed our society, killed everyone we loved, and you don’t know how far it is to another state? Un-fucking-believable.”
The anger burns my throat and the bile rising adds to the discomfort.
Jareth shakes his head and rubs his temples.
“This is ridiculous. We should get rid of him right now. He’s nothing but a liability, and if you don’t see that then you’re just as ridiculous.”
“Whoa. Hold up.” Jareth tosses his arms in the air. “I’m playing this by ear. Think you can do better?”
“Fine.” Pushing my anger for Jareth to a back burner, I lower my voice. “Listen to him—he’s like a walking computer prompt, or a talking blender.” I point a finger at Sparky. “And it’s useless to try and get him to give up info. He only elaborates when he wants to, so this dumb plan of yours is”—my brain whirls, trying to find another word—“is dumb.”
Whew, Tilly, I bet you impressed him with that word choice. Next time you come across a library, you should look for a thesaurus. Shut up. He’s giving me a damn headache and I can’t think straight.
Jareth’s tight face relaxes, and a tiny spark of amusement lightens his face. “In case you haven’t noticed, there isn’t a manual on How to Train Your Hub-seeking Alien.”
His comment causes a laugh to sneak out, surprising me. “If it looks like a duck and quacks like a fuckin’ duck, you know.”
Puzzlement flashes on his face at the fowl analogy. “A duck? You think he’s a duck?”
Snorting, I reign in a chuckle and shake my head. “No. Haven’t you heard the whole ‘looks like a duck, quacks like a duck’ saying?”
He shakes his head.
Breathing in a deep breath, I wave in annoyance. “How have you never heard—never mind, it doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is he must be a robot because he acts like one. And if he’s a robot, how does he not have the geography of our planet in his stupid, artificial head? He should have a built-in tracking device, right?”
Jareth shrugs and narrows his eyes. “Remember he said he needed to repair, or something like that? If he’s a bot, his processing unit or motherboard could have taken damage when I gave him a good whack. Be cool. Remember the plan.”
“Oh, the plan of befriending the asshole and sitting down to sing kumbaya at night?”
Jareth reaches up to rub a shoulder. “Whatever.” Wonders will never cease, because he doesn’t seem to be in the mood for more smartass commentary. Did my earlier words hit a nerve?
Somehow, it makes it worse to know artificial intelligence is exterminating our race. How do I wrap my head around this knowledge? I can’t, because it’s easier to understand the motives for feeling, conscious, organic beings than those of a cold, uncaring race of machines. Though, I must admit, dealing with my emotions toward Jareth Grant makes me wish I could turn them off and not deal with the repercussions.
How do I know machines aren’t conscious, or they don’t have feelings? Who defines what consciousness is?
“Why am I even contemplating this shit?” I breathe the words under my breath. “It doesn’t change the truth that they’re a race of cold-hearted killers.”
Disgusted with everyone, including myself, I turn and jog to the house, hoping to burn some angry tension away.
His deep tenor rings out. “Hey, wait up. You don’t know—”
The crunch of my feet smashing the dried leaves on the gravel pathway drowns out his words.
The sound, similar to a crinkling plastic cereal bag, is oddly satisfying. I imagine each pebble either being the face of Sparky or Jareth while I grind my boots down beyond the material and into the sandy soil below.
Rust on the latch chips away when I grab the gate in the swinging wind. The metal clasp moves with ease, and I let its wooden frame slam closed behind my legs, preventing the gate from swaying any longer.
A small, wrap-around porch hugs the front of the house, complete with two wooden rockers set to the side. An old couple, rocking side-by-side comes to mind. In another place, another time, another world—perhaps, parallel to mine—we, Jareth and I, might occupy the chairs. Kodiak coiled on a nice, comfy bed with his black-clad robot brother close by.
“What the fuckity fuck?” I shake my head to clear the nightmare. The man is making me lose my goddamn mind.
Jareth yells something unintelligible, but I shoot him the finger and wave a dismissive gesture, not even bothering to glance over a shoulder.
Screw him. I want a quiet, private spot away from everyone—a place to be alone with my thoughts for a while. A place to get my head straight and not have to think about killer robots and tempting, evil men.
The tarnished handle of an old-fashioned doorknob juts out. I grasp the metal. Torn remnants of a screen poke my thumb. I pull it open to reveal the main, wooden door. Foreboding causes me to hesitate and brings an inevitable question— should I let everyone to catch up?
Why? You need a man to protect you now? Oh, hell no—especially not that one.
An inner doorknob gleams and turns with ease in the palm of my hand.
Tired of playing it safe and second-guessing every move I’ve made over the past couple of days, I fling the door open. The metal hinges creak, then groan a complaint. A pungent, musky aroma—with a bit of mold tossed into the mixture—hits me like a wall of stink. Ignoring the smell, I take in a living room, complete with an overstuffed sofa and matching recliner in the middle of the space.
My feet stop when I step over the threshold. The hairs on my arms prickle, and something inside me screams danger. I don’t know if it’s a specific scent, or the sound of death dusting debris off his bones, but something has triggered my sixth sense.
Instead of jumping back, though, I freeze in place. The adrenaline-tinged blood hammering at my heart and head pumps into the canals between my ears and sinuses. Finally, the terror breaks, and I reach for the pistol at my waist.
The grooves of the carved handle—as familiar as the lines on the palm of my hand—offer hope. One step followed by another, and I travel two more feet into the room.
From around the door, a massive, troll-like arm complete with thick, coarse hair grabs my neck. Its twin clamps a hand over my mouth. The arms pull me back past the door, out of sight of the entryway.
Fingers held tight at my neck press something cold into my skin. “Easy, now.”
Hot, foul breath blows over the side of my face. But it’s the sharp edge of a stinging blade that earns my
full attention.
Oh, no, what have I done? Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Stopping my hand’s grasp of the weapon, I still, forcing my heart to slow before it drums a hole between my ribs.
The person pulls me farther into the living room. I have no choice but to comply, or risk getting my throat slit.
Fetid breath croons into my ear. “What a pretty little thing you are.” The voice is hoarse and sounds like it belongs to a ten-pack-a-day smoker.
My limbs turn to lead, and my boots become cement.
Fight, Tilly, what the hell is wrong with you?
A hundred thoughts swarm through my head in the span of a few seconds. Why didn’t I wait for the others? Why didn’t I listen to Jareth? Why didn’t I check before barging in here like an imbecile? I’ve never been this careless before—I always scout buildings before deciding to enter. I didn’t even have my damn gun in hand before opening the door.
It’s like Jareth’s presence has cast a spell that’s turning my brain—and instincts—to mush. Every muscle in my body quivers. The time has come to pay for letting down my guard. An even worse thought comes to mind: I’ve put the whole group in danger with my carelessness.
A tough, calloused hand squeezes my waist and jerks me into a soft, fleshy belly.
I tremble from the unwanted contact.
Back flush with his chest, he lowers the hand from my mouth and lets it roam freely under my shirt, over my stomach, and across my chest. His fevered fingers rake over my skin, making every inch of my flesh crawl.
“Get your fucking hands off me.” Anger wars with fear, and I bite the inner corner of my lip.
A coppery taste coats the side of my tongue, setting my taste buds on heightened alert. I won’t give in to fright. I didn’t give up in Abilene, and I won’t now.
Be brave, be strong. The others will be here any moment. This thought sends more panic rushing through my blood. They’ll be hurt because I’m too damn stupid to reign in my emotions.
“Not another word”—cheek to cheek, a wet warmth leaves a trail from the corner of my eye to the crook of my neck—“or I’ll gut you like a fish.” The path he licks down my face makes me want to puke.
Fear causes my legs to shake. Unspoken words sit on the tip of my tongue, silenced.
His horrid breath assaults my nose with what smells like a four-day-old diaper filled with bacteria-infused shit. Even with my life in the balance, the scent makes my stomach heave and my gorge rise.
Jesus, he doesn’t need a knife because the smell of his breath and body is its own weapon. He might be doing me a favor if he slices my throat. At least I won’t have to breathe his stench.
Kodiak races into the living room and stops. Our eyes meet. His growls and snarls, menacing in the enclosed space, echo all around me.
I can’t move my head, but my eyes shift, following my canine companion’s approach. Jaws in a wide-open state of agitation, he flies toward the attacker and latches onto the man’s knee, shaking it back and forth in a ferocious swing.
As much as I want to crack jokes about my predicament to stall the crippling panic, my dog’s furious attack gives me strength. I hope his sharp teeth are tearing some humongous gashes in the man’s leg. If I get lucky, he’ll nick an artery.
The rancid man kicks out with his free foot, trying to dislodge his attacker.
“Get him off.” He pulls me tighter, constricting my air. Lips next to my ear, he speaks in a soft hush of a voice. “Make him stop, or I’ll slit your fucking throat. Then, I’ll kill the goddamn dog and roast him for supper.”
His voice and threat throw me back to the motel. The similarities make my head spin. I mentally kick myself again. Why did I not listen to Jareth’s warning before rushing in? Heart thumping in my chest, I clench my hands.
No, you’re not alone. You have Kodiak and Jareth. Clear your mind and think. What’s the most important thing right now, besides not dying? Keep Kodiak safe.
With my limited breath, I manage to squeak out a command. “Stop, Kodiak. Down, boy.”
My words heighten the frenzy of the full-blown attack. The stupid mutt’s intent on rescue.
Rot-mouth tries to kick Kodiak again and the knife slips, jostling and sliding on my throat. A warm trek of wetness trickles down my neck onto the collar of my shirt.
So, this is how it’ll end. My throat sliced because I was too hotheaded to think rationally—because I let another man screw with my emotions.
“Get off.” Realizing Kodiak’s not about to let go of his leg, the man tries to pull me backward into the room, keeping my body as a shield to the door. “I’m gonna cut you up, and roast you one piece at a time, you little bastard.”
I resist the urge to move for a moment, but the knife bites deeper into my skin and forces me to action. To my shame, a faint whimper escapes my lips.
The sound sends Kodiak into such an intense frenzy on the man’s leg that I worry he’ll hurt himself.
A commanding voice rings out from behind the door. “Stop.” At first, the tone is unrecognizable in its deepness, its intensity. Deadly authority rings in that one syllable, the kind of clout that demands an audience and causes a room to stand at attention.
Twisting my head up as far as I dare, Jareth’s ten or fifteen feet away, using the wooden door as cover. His head is visible when he leans out to assess the situation.
All signs of pretense, anger, and cockiness fall from his face. Naked fear flashes in those soulful eyes, in the set of his mouth, and in his unyielding stance. Our eyes meet across the expanse of the living room.
“Let her go.” Those three words drop with finality.
Stinky pulls me with a brutal jolt and shuffles backward, half dragging his injured leg.
With my gaze, I try to tell Jareth I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble. He’s right. I’m a stupid, naïve girl who’s had no business trying to survive on her own. But most of all, I try to convey how much I need him now, in this moment, because I loathe being alone as much as I hate asking for help.
My captor’s foot catches on a coffee table, and he stumbles. Almost falling, he turns toward the offending piece of furniture and tries to drag me with him.
The click of a gun, cocked and ready with a bullet in the chamber, rebounds in the room.
“Whoa, now.” The man releases the sharp blade from my neck, allowing it to hover inches away.
“You brought a knife to a gunfight.” Jareth steps out from the door, gun in line somewhere above my head, targeting the creep’s forehead I assume. His stance reminds me of a coiled cobra readying itself to strike. “Not good odds for the knife wielder.”
The coward behind me drops the blade straight to the floor with a thud. I see dirt in the lines of his palms when he holds his hands up on either side of my body. He’s still trying to shake Kodiak from his leg. Red pools of blood stain the knee of his pants.
Shit for brains is gonna need a lot of stitches by the time Kodiak’s finished chewin’.
“Good dog.” The words, faint but audible, flow from my lips.
It feels like I’m in a dream, or this is happening to someone else. A slight sting throbs on my neck, and I stand in a daze.
Should I kick the knife away, or kick him instead?
His threat to kill my dog angers me more than anything. “Guess you got a little more than you were counting on tonight, huh?”
“Tilly.” The tip of Jareth’s left brow arches, but his steeled gaze on the man persists.
“Please, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.” Hands now in the air, the coward steps back as far as Kodiak allows. “I thought you guys were comin’ to steal my stuff.”
His voice, bereft of its false bravado, is whiney and subservient, producing a sound far worse than metal grinding on metal. Fear causes beads of sweat to pop on his dirt-caked brow.
I shudder at the thought of his disgusting body touching mine. What I wouldn’t give for a bath right now, cold or not.
Kodiak snarls and growls, and more blood, foam, and saliva cover the jeans near the sharp canine teeth. He shakes the man’s leg like it’s a ragdoll, as if deeming every word the man says a lie.
Jareth’s face, void of emotion, conveys a seriousness unknown to me.
With the sleek gun, he motions to the man. “Move.”
When I started out on this trip this morning, I didn’t know Jareth owned a gun. I’d been sure he was using his charm as a weapon.
“Get away from her.” His gaze drifts to where the dog still has the man’s leg in his mouth. “Let him go, Kodiak.”
“Yeah.” I hope my dog doesn’t catch an infectious disease from biting this filthy animal. “Who knows where he’s been?”
Kodiak complies with a show of teeth, and a low growl of a warning at the man.
Oh, now Kodiak wants to listen, and to Jareth of all people.
“No sudden movements. Understand?” Jareth strides closer and wedges himself between the assailant and me. He reaches out a free hand to curl his fingers around my upper arm, pulling me to the side and out of reach of the groveling asshole.
He then grabs the man’s shoulder. The little black gun pokes into the small of his back.
Realizing I’m free, I take in a deep breath and sidle closer to Kodiak. Out of reflex, I touch my throat. The fingers come away with scant blood, and I exhale in silent gratitude.
The man clasps his hands in front of his chest, as if he’s about to assume prayer position. “Please. I was tryin’ to protect myself. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. A man’s gotta survive, right? Ole Jim has been barely gettin’ by, yes, sir.”
I fight the urge to kick a leg or stomp a toe to Jimbo.
Sparky stands back, making no move throughout the ordeal to lift a finger in assistance.
Immense help he’d been. Now if a hub were here, all hell would’ve—leave it. Don’t even go there. It’s not worth it.
The evening sun appears through the tiny square holes of the screen door. The threads from the robot’s clothes shine like twinkling jewels.
The Descendant: Baltin Trilogy (Book 1) Page 15
