by Naomi Martin
Most of the buildings are derelict, the boards covering the doorways ripped off, the glass in the windows long gone. There are holes in the sides of some of the buildings, and others seem to be collapsing in on themselves. The very air around us is heavy with the smell of decay.
We turn down another street and head for the hotel we’ve been calling home for the last couple of months—at least, it was a hotel in its former life. Now it’s a hollowed out, dilapidated shell of concrete and brick. But we’ve got our own room and, surprisingly, the place is fairly safe. The residents all look out for one another. Stealing and violence against other residents isn’t tolerated.
Every once in a while, somebody comes in who thinks they can take the place over and impose their own rules. Somebody who thinks they can rule with an iron fist and make us all bow to their will. But the residents rise up and get rid of these idiots, protecting each other. It’s really good to see. It honestly feels like a little community.
The street is long and ominously dark. I’m tempted to summon a ball of light to guide our way, but I know the risk involved and I hold back. The buildings press close to us on either side, and I feel my body tensing up. Cutting my eyes all around, I search the shadows, looking for the source of the uneasy feeling that’s gripping me tight.
“You okay?” Eric asks.
“Something just feels… off,” I say. “Can’t you feel it?”
“Kind of like the air right before a thunderstorm.”
I nod. “Yeah, that’s it exactly.”
“The last time I felt like this…”
I let my voice trail off. I don’t need to finish the sentence, because Eric knows. The knot in my stomach constricts painfully and the hair on my arms begins to stand as goosebumps crawl across my skin.
“Oh, shit,” I say. “Eric, run—”
My words are cut off when I let out a yelp of pain at the sudden stabbing in my shoulder. I look down and see the feathered end of a dart sticking out of me and feel my eyes grow wide. Eric’s eyes are riveted on the dart; a stricken expression crosses his face. I grab his hand and force him to look up at me.
“Run, Eric,” I hiss. “Get out of here. Now!”
When he hesitates, I push him as hard as I can. He takes a couple of stumbling steps backward but remains where he is.
“Run. Please,” I cry. “Get out of here, Eric!”
He’s reluctant, but finally turns and starts to run. He knows there’s nothing he can do and being anywhere near me is dangerous. They’re here. They’ve found me. He gets no more than a dozen steps away when men in black tactical gear flow out of the alleyways in front of us. I turn and see more men filling the street behind us.
“Get on the ground! Now!”
The amplified voice echoes down the street and Eric stops in his tracks. My vision begins to blur and I grow lightheaded—the drug they’ve shot into me is starting to take effect. Eric’s eyes are on me and there is a strange look on his face. It’s one of acceptance. Resignation. He knows the game is over. And I know what he’s about to do.
“Eric, no,” I say, my voice thick in my mouth. “Don’t…”
I sway on my feet for a moment, my dizziness only growing stronger. Eric turns to the men on the street, his posture stiff. Rigid.
“Leave her alone!” he shouts.
“Eric, no—”
“On the ground. Now!”
Instead of doing what they say, Eric starts to run directly at them. He cuts a glance over his shoulder at me.
“Run, Raven,” he screams. “Get out of here!”
Though I know he’s the one yelling at me, I hear my mother’s voice from that night one year ago. I see her face, her dull, lifeless eyes staring into nothing. The sound of chattering gunfire pulls me back to the present, the rush of adrenaline blunting the effects of the drugs coursing through my veins.
My shrill scream echoes louder than the gunfire as Eric’s body twitches and jerks in some horrific dance as the bullets punch through his body. He drops to the ground, a pool of blood spreading around him. When he rolls over, I can see his eyes—they have the same glazed lifelessness I saw in my parent’s eyes.
Tears spill down my cheeks and a cry of anguished rage fills the air around me. It’s so loud and so primal, I don’t immediately realize it’s coming from me. I look around wildly to see the men in black holding their positions, weapons at the ready. But then I see a man emerge from behind them, walking straight toward me.
My vision blurs and I see three of him before the mirror images coalesce into one form. And as I focus in on him, I realize it’s the same man—the same elemental—that was in my house the night my parents were murdered. The same man who helped these bastards murder my family.
He looks at me with a small, cruel grin as he nears. Seeing that triumphant smirk on his face fuels my rage, helping me to keep the effect of the drugs at bay for now. He raises his hands and the prickle on my neck tells me he’s channeling his power. I don’t know what he’s going to do to me, but as long as there is strength in my body, I’m going to fight. My parents and Eric deserve it.
I quickly draw in my power and thrust my hands toward the elemental, releasing the burst of energy. It surprises the man as it hits him square in the chest with the sound and smell of sizzling meat. He gasps and staggers backward, looking at the bloom of crimson and flame in the center of his body, confusion twisting his features. It’s like he can’t believe I just killed him. He falls to his knees and looks at me one more time before slumping forward, face down onto the cracked pavement below him. A grim smile touches my lips when I see the bloody, smoldering hole in his back—a perfect match to the one on his chest.
All of a sudden, chaos erupts around me as men start to shout and run. I draw in my power, letting it build to a fiery peak before I release it all. I send shockwaves of flame at the soldiers around me. The sound of their screams reverberates down the street, and it suddenly sounds like the gates of Hell have been opened and the demons have all been set loose.
Flame, smoke, and the stench of burning flesh fills the air as several dozen men die in the street, their bodies nothing more than a charred, smoking ruin. But then I feel another sharp stab of pain in my back and I stagger forward. I reach behind me, but I can’t get hold of the dart I know is there.
My vision blurs, images dancing in front of my eyes, and I suddenly feel weak. Exhausted. I fall to my knees and watch the light of the fires in front of me flicker and sway. Some men continue to crawl, others try to limp away from the flames. It’s too late for them all, though. They’re all dead. Their bodies just don’t know it yet.
Then, a man fills my entire field of vision. He’s tall and broad—thick through the shoulders and chest. He’s got dark hair and eyes blacker and more infinite than the sky above. They hold malice. Rage. And, yet, a hint of curiosity. Maybe even respect.
The man has dusky, olive-colored skin, and though he wears the same plain, black tactical gear as the others, he isn’t wearing a mask. He’s allowing me to see his face—allowing me to witness his smoldering anger. With my vision wavering and my mind growing clouded, making it more difficult to think, I focus on the nametag sewn onto his vest. It’s the only piece of decoration on his uniform. I read the name carefully—Villa.
“You killed my men,” he hisses. “A lot of my men.”
“Apparently not enough,” I respond.
He delivers a vicious backhand that rocks my head to the side. The coppery taste of blood fills my mouth and I see bursts of light behind my eyes.
“I should kill you now,” he spits. “Save me a lot of trouble.”
My mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton and my throat feels thick. I try to draw in my power, but it feels as distant as a blinking star in the endless sky overheard. I can’t reach it. I’m as helpless as a goddamn kitten.
“You killed my family,” I say, and it sounds exceedingly slow coming out of my mouth. “My friend.”
A smirk
touches Villa’s lips. “I wish I had it to do over again,” he growls. “I’d do it slower. Make it more painful.”
I raise my hand, trying to summon a fireball I can kill him with. But I’m fading so fast, I don’t have the strength it would require to light a simple match. Villa smirks and takes a silver collar off his belt. He reaches out, fastening it around my neck, and I hear the locks click into place.
And, suddenly, I feel cut off from my power. It’s like there’s this massive void inside of me where my power once resided, and I’m utterly hollowed out and empty. I look up at Villa with wide, pleading eyes.
“Please—”
My words are halted as his fist smashes into the middle of my face. I hear the meaty thud and feel the sharp crack. For a moment, I’m aware of an intensely blinding, white-hot burst of pain and my eyes water.
But then the entire world around me goes black.
Chapter Two
Raven
My eyelids flutter before they open and I groan. It tastes like my mouth is coated with paste, and it feels like somebody is inside of my skull, slamming it with a sledgehammer. My face pulses with pain. I’m lying prone on a hard surface, being bumped and jolted about, and when I raise my hands to my head, I find that I’m bound at the wrists.
Slowly, I realize that I’m in the back of a truck—an armored truck, judging by the windowless steel walls all around me. And we’re moving. Holding my head in my hands, I manage to sit up on the bench, trying to will away the pain that’s radiating from every corner of my body.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Princess.”
The sound of a man’s gruff laughter fills the back of the truck and I snap my head up. I hadn’t realized I wasn’t alone. Sitting at the front of the truck is a man in the same black tactical uniform as the men who took me—the men who murdered Eric and my parents. He’s big, hard looking, with a thick, dark beard, a malevolent look in his eyes, and a large, intimidating gun.
“Fuck you,” I snap.
He laughs again. “You got quite the mouth on you, Princess.”
The pain grips me so tightly, so intensely, it makes my eyes well with tears. I shut my eyes and remember that asshole Villa punching me in the face and the flash of scorching pain that followed.
That memory leads to other, darker memories. I remember watching Eric be gunned down in the street. I remember his dull, lifeless eyes staring into mine. I remember seeing the same vacant expression in the blank faces of my parents. And I remember Villa’s words to me: I wish I had it to do over again. I’d do it slower. Make it more painful.
The hate and the rage swell within me and I close my eyes, summoning my power and try to direct it at the man—then cry out in agony as my body is jolted by what feels like ten thousand volts of electricity. The guard laughs as I fall to the floor of the truck, my body twitching and jerking. It takes a few minutes for the spasms to subside but when they do, between the drugs they gave me and the electrocution, I’m left feeling wrung out. Spent.
“Collar’s warded,” he tells me. “Keeps freaks like you in line.”
I crawl back onto the bench I’d been laying on, my breathing ragged and my head spinning, feeling limper than a rag doll.
“What do you mean the collar’s warded?” I ask. My throat feels raw, and my voice is hoarse and quiet.
“What, you don’t know?”
I roll my eyes. “If I knew, would I have asked?”
“Touchy, touchy,” he chuckles. “Some of you freaks work for us. They help make toys for use to keep the rest of the freaks in check.”
I hang my head and gather myself as I try to order my thoughts. But nothing is making sense right now. And all I’m able to really think about is the man who put me in this fucking collar. The man who murdered my friend and my family. And as those thoughts swirl through my mind, the embers of my rage and hate continue to smolder.
“I’m going to kill him,” I mutter darkly. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”
“Yeah? Who are you gonna kill, Princess?”
“A prick named Villa.”
He laughs menacingly. “Yeah, good luck with that,” he says. “Colonel’s the toughest son of a bitch I’ve ever met. Taken out more of you freaks than I can count.”
“Fuck you,” I spit.
“You keep sayin’ that, I’m gonna take it as an invitation, Princess,” he warns. “And you are definitely a sweet piece.”
The man leers at me and as his eyes slide up and down my body, he licks his lips luridly. I shudder, suddenly feeling like I need a hot shower and some bleach to scrub myself down with.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask.
“You’re headed for internment site Kilo-Five-Five,” he says. “Otherwise known as the Devil’s Pit. It’s where we warehouse monsters like you.”
“I’m not a monster,” I say weakly.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that point, Princess.”
“Where are we now?”
“Should be just about there,” he replies. “You slept most of the way.”
“Yeah, I think I had some help with that.”
“You know how it is. Safety first, Princess.” He grins. “Didn’t want you to wake up and get a wild hair or anything.”
The truck comes to a rumbling stop and the engine shuts off. I feel my stomach clench and a nauseous feeling rises up within me. The Devil’s Pit doesn’t exactly sound like a five-star luxury spa and hotel. Nor does it sound like any place I want to be for any length of time.
The back doors open up and two men are standing there, scowling at me. They’re wearing black pants and blue, collared shirts with some sort of insignia on the breast. They look like prison guards more than anything.
“Let’s go,” says the guard in the truck with me.
I let out a squeal as he grabs me by the hair and pulls me to my feet. He pushes into the small of my back to get me moving, and the two men outside grab hold of me and haul me out of the truck.
“Welcome to Kilo-Five-Five,” says the man on my left. “Hope you enjoy your stay with us.”
The three men laugh together, like they’re sharing some private joke. The guard who rode up with me says a few quiet words to them before getting back into the truck. I watch as it motors away, up the ramp that leads out of the underground garage we’re standing in. A large steel door rumbles down, sealing us inside this concrete tomb.
The man on my right slings his weapon across his back and turns to me. He’s well over six-feet tall and doesn’t have much in the way of a neck. He is nothing but tough, corded muscle, and I wince as he grabs hold of my arm. He pushes me along while the other guard, shorter and thinner but with a meaner scowl, walks behind us, his weapon at the ready.
We pass through a series of steel doors, each one with its own security system and opening independently of the other. You might make it through one door but you sure as hell aren’t going to make it through them all.
They lead me into a small room and push me down into one of the chairs sitting against the wall. There’s a long counter separated in the middle by a half-door in front of me and a doorway behind that. It reminds me of the office at school—or the school I used to go to, anyway.
“Stay there,” orders the bigger man. “Captain Sherman will be in soon.”
They walk out of the room, locking the door on their way, and I glare after them. I lean back in the seat and pull against the shackles around my wrists, growling in frustration. I briefly consider summoning my power to see if I can break them, but then I remember the horrid jolt I got the last time I used my power and the guard telling me they’re warded. Whatever that means.
“You’re not going to be able to break ‘em.”
I look up to see a man standing there looking back at me. He’s shorter than the other guard but still seems to tower over me. He’s got blonde hair cut short—a military-style haircut—with green eyes and a goatee that’s slightly darker than the hair on his
head. He’s got a thick neck and a broad body. As he watches me take him in, he gives me a smirk and flexes his bicep for me.
“Like what you see?” he asks, his Southern drawl slow and smooth.
“I was actually just thinking you must work out a lot to compensate for your shortcomings in other areas,” I reply, waving my pinky finger at him.
His face darkens and his eyes narrow as he glares at me. “Think you’re funny, don’t ya?”
I shrug, remaining silent. I scored a point, but I don’t want to keep antagonizing him. Not without being able to use my power to defend myself.
“On your feet. Step to the counter,” he orders.
I do as he says. He opens the small half-door and motions me inside. I step through and he is looming over me—I feel dwarfed by him. I’m only five-foot-four and petite. He has about six or seven inches on me, and at least a hundred pounds. If he wants to, he can probably snap me in half and not even break a sweat. If I had my powers, it would be different. But I don’t, so it’s not.
“I’m Captain Sherman,” he hisses, getting in my face. “And I have the power to make your life a living hell.”
His breath washes over me and I recoil, trying to take shallow breaths to avoid inhaling it. It smells like a blend of cigarettes, something alcoholic, and something that smells rotten.
“There a problem, little girl?”
“Yeah. Your breath,” I gasp. “That’s a real problem.”
He leans closer to make a point of breathing on me and when I try to turn away, he grabs my chin roughly and forces me to endure the stench. Finally, when I feel like I’m on the verge of throwing up all over him, he steps back and gives me a vicious smirk.
“Like I said, I’ve got the power to make your life hell,” he says. “I’m the law, and what I say goes around here.”
