by L. E. Horn
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Fang staring at her while talking to a tall older man with graying hair. Before she could pull back, the Fang commander signaled to the soldier in front of her—who reached out with a strong hand and grabbed her by the throat.
“Andrea, run!” Lianndra managed to gasp before the hand choked off all air.
The tall dark woman dodged a soldier’s grasp and unleashed her skrin, leaping for the trees. She must have run straight into Carla, who watched for an escape attempt. The older Healer hadn’t reckoned on Andrea’s strength as a fighter. With a short screech, Carla plummeted to the ground.
Thank God! Lianndra thought as she raked her claws across her captor’s face. Frightened as she was, a part of her held back. I don’t want to hurt him. This isn’t his fault!
The soldier howled and released her, but he delayed her escape just long enough for others to pounce. Terror took over. She screamed like a banshee, twisting and turning, becoming a spinning vortex of teeth and claws. Acting on instinct, Lianndra’s mind lashed out, but there were too many and her dwindling power failed her. A blow to her temple dropped her to the ground.
As she drifted into darkness, a single thought ran through her brain: Michael is going to be so pissed . . .
Chapter Twenty-Two
DRAKE KNEW MICHAEL WAS LIVID. He couldn’t blame him.
Michael galloped to the extraction group astride Karn, moving so much in sync with the big Gryph they were like one creature. Where the hell did he learn to ride? Drake thought. Considering his own efforts to adapt to riding Gryphon, he was envious.
From the moment the big man dismounted, the rebel captain had his hands full. Michael wanted to head straight into the jungle. Only his respect for Drake held him back.
That and the four blokes I’ve assigned to hold him down, Drake thought.
Later in the evening, a tall African-American Healer appeared out of nowhere with news of Lianndra’s capture. At that point there was no holding Michael back, not that Drake particularly wanted to wait. The decision to go after Lianndra was unanimous.
Drake and his twenty soldiers accompanied Michael into the jungle. They worked their way as covertly as possible through the dense vegetation, guided by Hannah and Andrea swinging through the canopy far above. The Gryphon shadowed the human’s movements, waiting for a strike command to bring them in with a vengeance.
Their mission went more slowly than Drake would have liked. They spent two days hacking their way through dense foliage while remaining alert for Fang units. The preponderance of the fighting units in the surrounding jungle slowed their progress.
Drake could understand Michael’s frustration, and his fear. Every passing minute meant more time that Lianndra suffered at the enemy’s hands. Thoughts of what she might be going through and fears she could already be dead tormented Drake. He could only imagine what it did to Michael.
When the new Healer, Andrea, brought them news of a Fang unit sitting directly in their path, Drake’s first impulse was to find a way around.
After delivering her news, Andrea remained in front of him, swaying from foot to foot.
“Sir,” Andrea said, her voice tentative, “this is a unit Lianndra and I worked on. We disabled all the slave collars. They’re free and just waiting for an opportunity to mutiny against the Fang.”
Andrea’s face reflected the conflict within her. Drake ground his teeth as he considered the options. Working their way around the unit was rife with the risk of detection.
If the slaves are free of their collars’ restraints, we might be better off attacking and taking out the commander, he thought. Of course, that means fighting those damned Bernaf bodyguards as well, never an easy prospect. But can we walk away from this opportunity, considering the bigger picture?
“Hannah and I will talk to the sentries,” Andrea continued. “If they don’t cooperate, we can knock them out. I’ve done it to help keep them quiet for healing. It just takes a moment of skin-to-skin contact.”
I didn’t know they could knock them out. Drake considered. I’m still learning what these Healers can do and I think they are too. Their ability to deal with the sentries helped to make his decision. As he gathered his men, he noticed Michael towering over everyone. Was he so tall before? I know Michael is an elite Tier-5 bloke, although others are as well. He’s so much taller than they are, Drake thought. Michael met the captain’s gaze with eyes rimmed in gold. I don’t remember the color in his eyes either. Maybe I just haven’t paid attention before now.
Drake watched the big man as Andrea described the situation for them. The Fang unit had stopped to eat. The commander and his two Bernaf bodyguards stood near a small camp stove. Fortunately, the trio positioned themselves on the side nearest to the rebels, so they wouldn’t have to pick their way around the entire unit to attack.
Drake took over the discussion. Michael’s eyes narrowed as the rebel captain outlined the plan. Drake saw the tension vibrating through the big man’s body. Showing great restraint, Michael remained silent as the captain picked two of his best marksmen, including Sean, and assigned them to distract the commander and bodyguards with laser fire. Next, Drake chose three strong hand-to-hand fighters to lead a follow-up attack on the commander, for it was not likely the old hand lasers could take the Fang out with a single salvo. The Bernaf were also formidable opponents. The captain assigned more men to take on the Bernaf and put Michael in charge of the remaining rebels.
“I want you to keep the unit’s slaves out of the battle,” he told Michael. “We need silence. Too much noise will alert other units in the area and will bring them down on us.” Drake counted on Michael’s height to act as a natural focal point for the freed slaves. He has a size and presence I don’t remember noticing before.
Michael looked ready to explode, but he nodded to Drake and turned to talk to the men assigned to him.
The attack went as planned for the first few moments. There was a delay while the Healers crept up on the sentries and talked them into joining their cause. The rebel marksmen moved into firing position while the remaining men watched and waited.
At first, they were lucky. The lasers killed one Bernaf bodyguard outright, winged the other, and knocked the Fang commander to the ground.
Drake’s chosen fighters descended on the Fang. The battle-hardened commander sprang back on his feet in the blink of an eye, armed with a laser that killed the first rebel fighter to leap at him. Bare handed, the wounded Bernaf broke the next man’s neck before the other rebels could back him up. When the Fang opened fire, all things turned to chaos.
Drake and another man engaged in pitched hand-to-hand combat with the reptilian alien who threw aside the drained laser and switched to a long knife. Drake heard a sound like a roar and saw the remaining Bernaf explode in a spray of blood. Something whistled over his head as a large form materialized from seemingly out of nowhere. Michael.
With the full weight of Michael’s body behind it, the old Gryphon sword sliced straight through the thick alien neck.
Michael stood above the twitching body. The clearing fell silent. All eyes were on him.
“Michael . . .” Drake trailed off as the big man met his eyes. Michael’s were flaring gold, like a big cat’s, and his entire body trembled with what seemed to be suppressed rage. His breath came in panting rasps of sucked air. He looked more like a wild beast than a man.
Nothing in Drake’s considerable experience gave him the tools to deal with this. I’ve heard of soldiers going berserk, but I’m not sure that is what is going on here. If I say or do the wrong thing, we could all end up like that lizard.
ANDREA NOTICED DRAKE’S HESITATION AND approached Michael. I don’t know what is wrong with the big guy but I think I can help him. She locked eyes with Michael and reached out to touch his arms. It was like touching granite.
“Michael.” Andrea kept her voice calm and soothing. It took everything she had not to flinch from the golden glare. “M
ichael. Do you remember my name? I’m Andrea, a friend of Lianndra’s.” She detected the response in the big man’s eyes at the mention of Lianndra. “It’s over, it’s okay.” She lightly squeezed his arms in rhythm with each word. Andrea recalled her life before the Fang. She called on her skills as a life coach, skills she’d almost forgotten—trying to reach past Michael’s rage to the rational part of him still existing, somewhere deep within.
Andrea sensed the slightest release of tension beneath her fingers. “Michael. We must find Lianndra.”
The big man’s eyes flared with golden fire, then blinked. This time when he opened his eyes, there seemed to be recognition.
“You’re Andrea?” he said, sounding confused. He blinked again and looked around, meeting Drake’s gaze for a moment before dropping his eyes to the dead Fang at his feet.
“Did I do that?” He looked at her, and she nodded.
Andrea released Michael’s arms as he backed away from her. Then he spun and walked into the jungle.
DRAKE SAW ANDREA APPROACH MICHAEL and gave the tall Healer a concerned glance. When Michael didn’t immediately slice her in two, he relaxed. Drake turned his mind to other things. He had more to worry about than Michael. The freed slaves were asking questions and his men turned to him for answers.
There were thirty-seven new soldiers to join the rebel cause. Drake decided to send the new recruits out of the jungle with two of his experienced soldiers. The rebel captain was uncomfortable with the hasty planning, but he couldn’t march more than fifty soldiers through the jungle in search of the unit holding Lianndra. He knew the departing group would have to rely on Kesar to keep the enemy busy along the front lines as they made their way to the extraction team.
With the new rebels dispatched to safety, Drake and his smaller group renewed their pursuit of Lianndra. The entire escapade with the Fang unit delayed them and meant the Healer spent more time in the enemy’s hands. For a while, Drake worried Michael had headed off on his own to find her. Hannah assured him the big man wouldn’t be able to track Lianndra because he would need her or Andrea to guide him.
It was with relief that Drake noticed Michael rejoin the rebels once they were on the march. He didn’t speak or meet anyone’s eyes, just fell into line behind Drake as they continued their progress through the jungle.
A RAGE FILLED MICHAEL, RAPIDLY spiraling out of control.
I’m angry at Drake because of the delays, at myself because I lost control while fighting to free those slaves, and at Fate because we’ve not yet found Lianndra. He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing the damp mass out of his eyes and off his face. The rain cascaded from the canopy and dripped from the surrounding foliage. Even his soaked clothing irritated him; his shirt clung and pulled across his shoulders. I’m also pissed at the damned jungle because the blasted rain is making everything miserable and tracking impossible.
Mostly, Michael admitted, I’m angry at myself for not being able to control the universe—for not being able to protect Lianndra. I should have been with her. Then things would not have played out like this.
His attempts to calm down were further sabotaged by the fact yet another Fang unit stalled their forward progress. Drake’s rebels watched the large fighting force from a rocky outcropping. The slave soldiers were taking their sweet time departing after eating their supper. For all we know, they’ll bloody camp here. The sun had dropped in the sky, and night came fast in the jungle.
Michael wiped sweat and water off his face. His skin itched and his entire body ached from his toes to the roots of his teeth. The pain fueled the anger, and he ground his teeth in an effort to keep it under control.
Lost in his revolving thoughts, he flinched when Andrea dropped out of the trees. That damned Vloxx cape makes her impossible to see until she’s right there. She and Hannah worked to track the Fang unit holding Lianndra. Andrea and Lianndra hadn’t worked on this unit lying smack dab on the path. They could not yet join the rebellion.
“Drake said to wait it out. To get around the perimeter sentries, will lose us more time and would be damned tricky in this weather.” Michael understood. It was a sound idea, but with the minutes ticking by—patience eluded him.
Now he stood in the pouring rain, staring at the sluggish Fang unit eating its meal. Yet another obstacle standing between us and rescuing Lianndra. Looking around, he decided Andrea appeared far too stoic with the rain running off her dark hair. He glared at her and was somewhat satisfied to see her flinch. Her skin remained dry while his wet clothes, stained with blood, stuck uncomfortably to his body.
He grimaced. I’m chafing in spots I’d rather not think about.
“We’ve picked up the trail,” the tall woman told him, her dark brow wrinkled. “It’s vanishing fast. We better get moving soon.”
Michael cursed under his breath. This was taking too long. He moved back into the dense brush, finding Drake and two of his men conferring under the branches.
DRAKE COMPARED NOTES WITH SEAN when he spotted Michael coming toward him through the rain.
“I’m going to see if I can get around them.” Michael towered over the rebel captain while Drake fought to keep his face calm.
“Michael, I’m with you, mate.” Drake impatiently raked damp hair back from his forehead. “We can’t get safely around these blokes without walking miles off the trail Andrea found. I know this is hard, but we just have to wait a little longer.”
Michael glowered at him from under his dripping hair, and a chill chased down Drake’s spine. The silver-gold eyes seemed almost feral. Michael’s brush with death had honed his body to bone and whipcord muscle. His broad shoulders appeared tight with tension and his clothing clung to his skin—you could see the vicious scar across his abdomen.
As Drake watched, the taller man seemed engaged in an internal battle. Finally, Michael nodded and stalked off into the brush. Drake’s relief was palpable and he noticed Sean smoothing the small hairs on the back of his neck. There was something not altogether human about Michael. Drake loosened his knife in its sheath for the thousandth time, his version of a nervous tic. Not that he blamed Michael for his point of view. Why was this unit still sitting there?
UNBEKNOWNST TO DRAKE, MICHAEL’S FIGHT with himself raged on. The surge he experienced at Drake’s words threatened to overwhelm him. His lips pulled back from his teeth in an inhuman snarl and he clenched his fists. With abrupt, angry movements, he reached to pull off his boots and ripped off his sodden shirt, foregoing undoing any fasteners. Then he tied the sheath of his sword over his shoulders to keep it out of the way.
Before he even formed a coherent decision, Michael took to the trees, climbing through the enormous branches until he stood high in the canopy. This is the only way past the unit and its sentries, he thought as he grabbed a vine. Without thinking it through, he swung to the neighboring tree, landing somewhat unsteadily on a branch. His toes spread out to grip the bark. This would be much easier if I had Lianndra’s claws.
A wide-eyed Andrea met him there, one hundred feet above the ground.
“Take me to them,” he growled.
Chapter Twenty-Three
LIANNDRA LOST COUNT OF THE number of times she screamed.
In the beginning, she refused, gritting her teeth instead. Over time, it became an involuntary thing. Now she settled for finishing each scream with a snarl, tapping into her anger and letting it out a bit at a time.
She had brief respites when the unit moved. They traveled a few hours a day, advancing farther into the jungle. Lianndra became convinced they were taking her to the war coordinator, although they weren’t in a hurry to get there. They kept her trussed up even while they walked. Once camped, they hung her from her forearms and strapped her legs to tree roots, even stretching her tail out behind her.
After days of such treatment, only her anger sustained her. She glared as the Fang commander loomed, his own pointed teeth bared. His current weapon of choice was a wicked curved knife with whi
ch he proved himself quite skilled.
The first night, the Fang let the FHR captain and his men have some fun to soften her up. Horror and pain combined in an instinct-driven burst of rage. Lianndra struck out with her healing skills, instantly shredding one man’s heart and forcing her captors to reassess the best way to proceed. Now they let inanimate objects do the damage and the only living things that touched her were those slaves forced to by the power of their collars. Lianndra held herself back with effort—they didn’t hurt her of their own volition. She knocked several unconscious before her torturers switched tactics yet again.
Then the questions started and Lianndra retreated into herself. Even when she could no longer stop her own screams, she told them nothing.
It was a marathon. As long as her anger sustained her, she could hold out. Each hit, every cut, she healed as much as necessary to sustain her body. After three days of torture, her reserves had worn thin. She couldn’t even stop the bleeding.
The Fang dipped the knife into the slice he made along her abdomen, working to make the hole deeper. Lianndra screamed in pain and ended up panting, her teeth bared in a snarl. She neared the end and suspected he knew it. He raised the blade to his lips and licked her blood, eyes gleaming with swirls of red.
“The Rebels. Where are they?” The Fang had recruited the FHR captain as the verbal inquisitor.
Lianndra said nothing as she glared at him through sweat and blood. The Fang commander stepped behind her, the knife raised. He stretched her tail tight with the rope and started sawing.
Excruciating pain lanced up her spine and down her limbs to her fingers and toes. She was sure her screams carried for miles. He cut through the tail about two feet from the base. Once he finished, she sagged in her bonds, barely conscious.
This time her snarl was a pure bluff. Blood poured from the wound and she could not stem it. She hoped she wouldn’t bleed out. Then again, if the torture were to continue, maybe bleeding out would be the best option. Still, Lianndra held onto the last of her reserves, bracing for the end. The Fang commander seemed to recognize her state, and his red eyes showed he didn’t care. The smell of her blood permeated the small clearing and threads of drool dripped from his jaws. He grabbed her hair and wrenched her head back, his hot breath against her neck. “Wait!” the FHR captain said. “She’ll break!”
