Darr

by Theresa Beachman

  Darr didn’t waste time. He ran his finger along the shelves, checking for familiar alphabetical labels and silently reciting names to make sure he didn’t miss anything. He tapped the counter and suppressed the urge to whoop as he spotted two large, opaque brown glass bottles. The mother lode today. Perfect. He picked them up and stashed them in his backpack, then stuffed the remaining space with antibiotics. What else could he use?

  “What are you doing?”

  Violet’s voice shattered his concentration. He grabbed his flashlight from the counter and spun, directing the beam at her.

  She recoiled, jerking her hands up to protect her eyes from the bright light. She’d removed her thick scarf and unzipped the shapeless jacket she wore, revealing a fitted black T-shirt cut low across the freckled swell of her breasts.

  “I told you to wait,” he snapped, irritation edging his voice with sharpness. He upended a cardboard display case of condoms into the top of his backpack.

  “I know.” She looked him straight in the eye. “You were taking too long.” Her eyebrows rose at his stash of condoms. “Now I can see why.”

  “For storing tinder and water,” he grunted, zipping the backpack closed.

  Violet clamped her lips together and looked the other way, studying the stripped room, then looking back at him.

  Hairs shifted on the back of his neck as he tried not to stare at the dark curves of her body.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  Darr picked up his backpack, studying the plastic ties to avoid meeting her gaze. Several long seconds ticked by as pressure thrummed through his skull in sickening pulses.

  “Because if you’re hurt,” she continued, “you can’t help me get home.”

  Darr forced a smile, shouldering past her to the door. “Good to know I’m high on your list of priorities.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head. If anyone’s going to kill you, I want first dibs.”

  Darr dipped his head as he remembered their scuffle at the Command Base, him restraining her on the floor before she’d kicked his feet out from under him. He’d then rewarded her distrust of him by disappearing during the attack on the Chittrix nest. Her feelings were understandable.

  He stepped close and gripped her elbow, firmly guiding her out of the room before she worked out what else he’d taken. “We’re done here.”

  5

  Violet tracked Darr for what felt like an eternity, though when she rubbed the grime and blood from her cracked watch face it had been only twenty minutes. Her left leg throbbed in time with her steps, and pain ricocheted through her ribcage.

  Exhaustion gnawed the edges of her resolve as she followed his broad shoulders that exuded an attitude of not-giving-a-fuck even from behind. To prevent herself from slipping on the treacherous ice underfoot, she ran through a mental checklist of tasks to get herself home.

  Darr stopped without warning, and she bumped into his back, bouncing off him only to be met by a bemused grin turning up the corners of his mouth. “We’re here,” he said in a low voice.

  They stood in front of what had once been a majestic stone building. Below paired pillars and a stone cupola, wide double doors marked its grand entrance. Decomposing blackened paper, sodden and rotten, was wedged against the foot of the doors in a mishmash of neglect and dereliction.

  “Where’s here?”

  He turned and gestured for her to follow him down the side of the building into a narrow alleyway. Red brick walls loomed up on both sides for at least six floors, making the space dark and claustrophobic. A fire escape wound skyward on her left in a dirty spiral of red enamel and steel.

  Darr abruptly halted at an unassuming red fire-door where the step was clean and free of debris. He bent and pulled a crowbar from under an industrial garbage bin. Hefting it against his hand, he wedged it in a small groove cut neatly into the doorframe. He leaned into it, and with an easy jerk, popped the door open before carefully returning the crowbar to its hiding place. He gestured for her to follow then slipped inside, his tall form disappearing.

  Violet hesitated, rubbing the back of her neck as she weighed her options. As darkness descended, they were becoming increasingly limited. She was injured, and the snow was coming down thick and fast, deceitfully covering the world in a pristine layer that hid the death and destruction.

  She huffed a breath of frustration. Her day really had gone off the rails. But at least here she’d be warm and dry for the night, and then in the morning, she’d make her way back to the Command Base. If Darr tried anything, she was more than capable of dealing with him. With that thought, she let the door swing shut behind her and followed him into the building.

  She limped up the gloomy corridor, cursing him every step of the way as the only illumination was weak and gray filtering down from a series of grimy skylights. “Darr,” she grumbled, “don’t you have any bloody lights? What the hell is this place anyway?”

  The passageway was narrow. Mustard utilitarian paint covered the walls, punctuated by numbered doors with no indication of what lay beyond. Straight ahead of her a staircase rose steeply. Violet limped upward, passing a noticeboard with a pinned coffee rota and a postcard from a previous employee addressed to all the nerds that worked in Archives and Special Collections.

  The air was dry and caught in Violet’s throat, triggering a coughing fit that fired bolts of agony across her chest. Probably bust a rib. The cherry on her bad day. Jeez.

  Darr finally opened a door ahead, and grainy light outlined the final section. He waited, holding the door open as Violet wheezed toward him. Then he closed it behind her with a click. She turned in a slow circle, struggling to adjust to the gloom. Dust thickened in her throat and exacerbated the knot of unease in her belly.

  Yellow light flared as Darr lit an oil lamp, suffusing the space with a warm, golden glow. Its flicker caught the angular lines of his face, revealing a handsome profile under the scruff of unshaven beard—strong jaw, full lips, and intelligent eyes that scrutinized her. Why was her heart rate accelerating as he stepped closer to move past her? She consciously slowed her breathing, reminding herself that he had left without warning, leaving good people, her people, to destroy the Chittrix nest alone. It was going to take a lot more than his pretty face for her to trust him.

  Darr held the lamp high, and as her vision adjusted, Violet saw she stood beside the rail on the first floor of a library mezzanine.

  In front of her were rows of bookcases stacked with neat successions of books. Compiled scientific journals with thick spines of navy blue and embossed with gold rose up around her in the structured framework of a once dominant civilization. Not anymore. She ran her palm across the rail of dark wood edging the mezzanine, polished smooth by generations of student hands and leaned over. An entire floor of regimented books filled the floor below crammed against an orderly progression of study desks and green lamps. As she craned her neck to look up, she struggled to ascertain exactly how many levels ascended ceiling-wards disappearing into the darkness. The place was immense.

  “This way.” Darr brushed past in the direction of a central stairway that rose on the far side of the room in an elegant sweep.

  “Wow,” Violet said, her voice booming in the hush of the library. “This is amazing.”

  Darr smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling in appreciation. During their contact three months ago, he’d appeared permanently pissed off, his mouth unforgiving and hard. But this gentle smile touched his eyes with warmth she’d never witnessed.

  Violet’s mouth went dry as dust danced in the silence and yellow light between them. She lowered her voice, swallowing quickly. “I never figured you for a library guy.”

  He shrugged, the smile gone as quickly as it had appeared. “There’s a lot you don’t know.” He brushed past her toward the stairs. “Are you coming?”

  She nodded and followed him, limping up the stone steps one at a time. He walked slowly, not commenting on her injuries, but giving her time. She a
ppreciated the kindness but reminded herself this was easy, and when the chips had been down, facing the Chittrix, he’d walked.

  At the top, he stopped and waited for her. When she drew level he placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her to a door on the far side.

  Goosebumps skittered up her spine. She straightened, moving away from his touch. She was wounded and needed his help. Nothing else.

  He opened the far door and lit another lamp. The head librarian’s office, Violet guessed. It was spacious, an original open fireplace on her left bookended by mismatched, beaten armchairs. To her right, an enormous wooden desk was piled high with books, books, and more books.

  Darr gestured for her to enter the room as he shrugged off his winter coat, revealing a thin, knit navy sweater that hugged his torso. Sleek muscles flexed on his forearms as he rolled up his sleeves and secured his crossbow on steel hooks above a small armory of pulse rifles and handguns. The weapons shone in the lamplight, clean and cared for, and the sniper in Violet silently approved even as she noted a handgun remained on his hip.

  He held out his palm, his eyes unreadable.

  Violet returned the handgun he leant her with a glare, but he took the weapon from her, unperturbed, and slotted it onto his homemade ammunitions wall.

  She opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it. Instead, she turned away and focused her attention on the rest of the room. Right now, she needed his help, and she was his guest.

  Near the armchairs, a doorway led to a smaller room. Must have been for storage, she guessed by the narrow space as she peeked inside. Now it was a bedroom. Simple, almost monastic. A white single mattress with a sleeping bag rolled neatly at the base and a white cotton pillow, straight and tidy at the top.

  She took a step back, sensing his gaze on the back of her neck, but when she turned, he was busy with his backpack, unloading it into a tall cupboard built into the wall across the room. The breadth of his back filled the narrow doorway and prevented her from seeing what he was doing.

  Violet risked another glance into his bedroom, curious about his personal space. Books filled the floor next to the makeshift bed. Piles of them, stacked ten, twenty-deep beside the bed, covering every inch of floor space that wasn’t mattress. Violet craned to read the titles.

  Entomology Essentials.

  Fundamentals of Insect Physiology.

  Insects: Structure and Function.

  The bug books went on. Light bedtime reading.

  Given the similarities that the Chittrix shared with Earth insects, the textbooks were understandable. Violet recognized some of them from Anna’s weapons lab at the Command Base. She absentmindedly fingered the thick layer of the organic armored vest she wore, engineered by Anna from the combined DNA of Chittrix and ants.

  Psychic Connection: A Personal Perspective.

  Understanding Para-psychology.

  Her mind spun, struggling to understand the titles. She picked one up.

  The Alien Connection.

  A door slammed, and she jumped guiltily, dropping the book and spinning to find Darr regarding her with a steely glare from the other side of the room. Violet’s face flamed red as she retreated from the bedroom door. Busted.

  “Don’t touch.” His eyes burned through her, and she squirmed internally.

  “Sorry. The door was open. I was looking for your radio…” Damn I’m a crap liar.

  “I don’t have a radio. I already told you that.” Nuclear anger radiated off him in waves that were almost visible.

  “Right, sorry.”

  A black and white cat slunk out of the shadows, surprising her as it wound its way around her leg, purring loudly.

  She stroked her hand along its back, her fingers sinking deep into knotty fur. “Who’s this?”

  Darr straightened. “The Cat.”

  “Yes. I got that. Can I pick him up?”

  Darr shrugged. “He’s his own boss.”

  In her arms, the cat vibrated with a deep, resonant purr and rubbed his head against her hand. She smiled “I can’t believe you have a cat.”

  “I don’t,” Darr replied, approaching her with a large green first-aid kit.

  Violet closed her eyes, luxuriating in the scent of the small furry animal. Most domesticated pets had died, abandoned after the invasion, and the few scrappy survivors had turned feral and vicious. “I’d forgotten what it feels like, holding something soft that isn’t trying to kill you. Does he have a name?”

  “Cat.”

  “Oh.” Forthcoming as ever. She stared at Darr. “You must be feeding him?”

  “Maybe.” Darr was unpacking the first-aid kit.

  She rubbed the small head a final time then placed the cat back on the floor where it trotted through the door and disappeared from view.

  Her mind spun. Nathan Darr. Taciturn and closed, choosing to live isolated from the remaining survivors of the human race, but sharing his meager food rations with a stray cat.

  Darr pointed at her torn cargos. “Those need to come off.”

  6

  Darr waited for Violet to respond. He’d seen her checking out his books, tilting her head to read the titles, and now her expression was inscrutable.

  She bit her lip as she considered his request before acquiescing with the tiniest nod.

  He released a low breath. He wasn’t sure how he felt about a woman being here. Especially this woman, who had challenged him every step of the way since Day One. Russet highlights tangled at her nape, reminding him of a long-ago time when he’d run his fingers through the softness of a woman’s hair.

  Realistically, he knew those thoughts were now the memories of another person, in a previous time when normal people had the luxury of pleasure. Now? Now he was scratching his way forward alone, and he was anything but normal. His jaw clenched. Contemplation was an extravagance he no longer had time for.

  He sprayed his hands with antiseptic. The sharp aroma cut the air between them as he pointed at her thick coat. “Take that off too, so I can get a good look at your side.” He removed several stacks of books from the desk and patted the smooth surface. “Up here. So I can see properly.”

  As Violet shrugged off her oversized outer layer, Darr lit another oil lamp. Underneath, she wore a thick jerkin of bio-armor, snug over the black t-shirt that had caught his eye earlier. He recognized the military-grade protective wear from the Command Base. Violet’s brother Garrick was hooked up with the weapons scientist—Anna Ward—who’d developed it.

  Violet paused, her hands resting on the leather of her belt. Darr took the hint and turned away, but his mind didn’t let him off so easily.

  After a few seconds, his ears registered the hiss of a zipper being undone. The body armor, he presumed. He heard it drop to the table before the soft pop of fabric told him she was undoing her cargo pants. His head filled with the image of her slipping them down toned thighs to her knees, before shucking them off completely. His chest flooded with unexpected heat as he feigned interest in the green plastic box he clutched in sweaty palms. What was she wearing now? Had she kept the t-shirt on? Or was she just in her underwear and bra? In his mind, she wore simple black underwear that skimmed her flat stomach, the curve of her—

  “Okay. You can look now. You try anything funny, and I’ll stab you.”

  Darr started and nearly dropped the first-aid kit.

  Stop. Just fucking stop. She wouldn’t even give you the time of day if she knew what you really are.

  He turned to face her.

  She stood defiantly in front of him, dressed in a black tank that skimmed her hips and lacy black underwear. Definitely not soldier underwear. Her eyes blazed with challenge.

  He dropped eye contact, leveling his voice in his head before he spoke. “Sounds reasonable. Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said, without any hint of emotion.

  Violet shimmied her backside onto the polished desk, tentatively resting her injured thigh on the surface. Despite all her fury and skill with w
eapons, she was slight under all the layers. No more than five and a half feet, with slender arms, lean athletic legs, and small, high breasts. The gauze bandage he’d applied earlier to her thigh was soaked through, explaining her increasingly pale demeanor.

  Darr placed his supplies on the table next to her. The swell of her breasts rose and fell in a soft, distracting rhythm. Without being asked, she pulled her tank up to reveal a purple shadow of grazed flesh rising from her waist and curling around the side of her ribs and back. The freckles that graced her face adorned her creamy skin here too, scattering over the smooth bumps of her spine.

  Darr’s mouth went dry. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her nipples pressed against the thin cotton fabric in the chill air.

  He reached out and pushed the fabric higher, his fingertips brushing her back. She winced even under his gentle touch. His hands jerked from her flesh, his fingers splayed. “Sorry. I’ll be more careful.”

  He assessed the damage further without touching her. Then he retreated, gathering his senses which were in disarray. His head swam with Violet’s closeness. The scent of her hair filled his brain, fresh, warm, and spicy-sweet like the tea roses his mother had grown in her garden. It had been such a long time since he’d smelled anything beautiful, and it curled through his brain in a captivating, feminine spiral.

  He lifted his chin. She was hurt, and he was a freak. Nothing was happening here. “That’s quite a bruise, but I think Dr. Ward’s armor saved your ribs.”

  She flashed him a glance.

  “Of course, medical opinions aren’t quite what they used to be,” he admitted with a shake of his head.

  “Just clean it up.”

  He ignored her curt tone and sprayed the raw flesh with antiseptic before patting the graze dry. Violet sucked in guarded breaths as he worked, her face turned so only the sweep of her cheek and a loose tendril of hair were visible.