by L A Kennedy
Strain looked up from his phone to see a man standing beside the table. “Garm, take a seat.”
Garm, the new Calyph, replacing the traitorous Cael, took a seat in the club chair on the opposite side of the table from Strain. Garm, an irregular, was built like a brick shithouse. Standing six feet one, with shoulders that made Strain’s look like toothpicks. Garm was perfect for the job. He was remorseless, slightly unbalanced in the head, didn’t flinch and loyalty meant something to him. On several occasions, Strain had tested Garm’s loyalty, and not once had he bent. He was willing to die for intel that didn’t even matter. Garm was a keeper, for now.
“Hello, hun, what can I getcha?” The hostess with the mostest leaned into the table, looking at Garm, her bosom pushed up and flooding the top of her shirt, threatening to spill out.
“Nothing,” Garm answered, not breaking eye contact with Strain.
Strain grinned. “He’s good, but I’ll have another.”
She gave a nod and sauntered off. She, like ninety-nine percent of this club, was high as balls and barely touching the ground. Strain liked her, for some reason. She was quick on her feet, never asked questions and always cleaned up the back room when he was done. She wasn’t left special tips—cash only. She could purchase her death somewhere else.
“Did you get my text?” Strain asked, knowing Garm had. He’d sent out a text demanding that Neri be found.
Garm gave a quick jerk of his head. “She’s in some shack on the backside of Cypress.”
“I’d like her brought in tonight, unhurt.”
“Already in process, sir. Dispatched seven of my best, under the explicit instruction that she is to remain unharmed,” Garm answered.
That’s what Strain liked most about him. Garm thought a few steps ahead, never overstepping but knowing exactly what was needed and when. Garm was a go-getter. Strain knew that eventually he’d have to kill him. Rising too far and too fast would be a problem when he’d come looking for another promotion. Strain would need to kill him or expand the operation. Strain was good with either decision.
“Well done.” Strain smiled, lifting his glass and toasting the air.
With a nod, Garm stood and walked out. Small talk was not his forte. Strain appreciated that. Unless Strain was beating them to within an inch of their lives or fucking them to within an inch of their lives, he couldn’t care for useless small talk.
With a new drink in his belly, Strain hit the streets. The desperation in the air prickled his skin. He stepped over the same homeless man he’d seen before and headed to his center. Newly purchased and soundproofed, with all the toys he needed to pry information from those who had the misfortune of meeting him.
Tonight he had another meeting. A little family get-together. And like most family meetings, it would be filled with wishing there was a way to kill them all and get away with it—or, at the very least, wanting to belong to a different family.
Meeting with his father, the Genesys, had reminded Strain of each time he’d walked into the middle of a gang turf war. It was a rush and was quickly accompanied with immediate dread, not knowing if he would walk away from it or die in a pool of his own innards. This would be much like the times he’d woken up next to a disgusting piece of ass. He’d known she was disgusting but had fucked her anyway. His regret and dread pushed his feet forward. Like that piece of ass, he couldn’t ignore it or wish it away. Like the whore, he could only hope his father would leave quickly.
His father wanted to be kept apprised about the chemical, which was in mass production. He would also want to be updated on the release of the Proletaryans. Neither could exactly be flooded into the population. Inch by inch is what would win this war. Flooding the market with chemical would sound the alarms, and his little pet project would flop. He couldn’t have the irregulars too scared to buy his product. Releasing all of his little creations would cause panic, and the streets would be littered with the po-po. His puppets weren’t much help when there would be two cops to every one monster.
His father was impatient. He would feel that impatience on his hide. Hopefully he’d be able to walk after this meet and greet. He had shit to do, and healing wasn’t on that list.
He couldn’t fucking wait for his father to die. One day.
The inside of his new center looked like a sound studio. Little black egg cartons lined the walls, over layers of anti-vib padding—tried, tested and true. Someone could scream bloody murder and not a whisper could be heard on the outside.
Strain knelt in the back room—nude—and waited for his father. Each second ticked off, feeling like an hour dragging by. His father liked to build anticipation. He reveled in the fear Strain would be dripping in by the time he finally graced him with his presence. Strain couldn’t blame him. He did the very same thing with those he took.
“My son,” the Genesys finally spoke. His voice, as always, sounded like claws raking down the face of a chalkboard.
The room filled with the painful sound of his father’s voice. Searing heat filled his eardrums, reminding Strain of the deep hate that was his father. Breathing in deeply and pushing his fists into the black mats under his knees, he waited. It took time for his body to acclimate to the insanity his father brought with him. His brain struggled between passing out and pushing forward. His father was an abomination, and sheer will alone was the only thing that kept Strain from bolting. He had to force his body to keep from entering survival mode, running from the impending danger.
The Genesys stood five feet in front of him, covered in the shadows of his own presence. Darkness surrounded him, forming the evil seed of a man that was the Genesys. Strain lifted his dizzy head, looking at his father with abhorrence and revulsion. He wanted to make his father proud, yet hated him for the limits his father placed upon him. His father, made of pure evil, was weak.
“Hello, Father,” Strain spoke, unable to hold back the hate in his voice.
His father reached out of the dark fog, his boney white hand colliding with Strain’s jawbone. The touch, never meant to be gentle, felt like an explosion behind his eyes. One touch was all it took for Strain to land on his side with the world ringing in his ears.
“You will learn your place or die, while you try to climb a ladder that isn’t there,” the Genesys whispered. The whisper filled Strain’s head and pinged off his central nervous system. “You will do as you’re asked. There is no alternative option.”
Strain’s stomach heaved. His father’s anger touched every nerve and twisted around every organ. All he could do was nod as he tried not to vomit.
“Now tell me of your news, my good son.”
Strain forced himself back into his kneeling position, his body feeling like melted jelly. His muscles threatened to give out, collapsing onto his shaking bones. Strain told his father of the Netherworld lab and of one escaped physician. He gave his usual update of the chemical and of his creatures.
“I have thought upon your suggestions regarding your puppets and the chemical. I will agree, for now. Planned attacks, as you put it, will do fine.”
Strain nodded. He had implored his father to be strategic—to think ahead—and he’d reminded him that times had changed. There were squads who worked tirelessly at keeping the irregulars above ground and out of body bags. Releasing all of the Proletaryans at once would end in serious bloodshed, but it would also end with the extermination of his puppets. They were easy enough to make, but it took too much time to rebuild an entire army. Cael and his band of misfits were taking them out too fast to launch a full attack. A flood of them would only cause a call in for more Slayers. More than that—being smart, crafty and ruthless was what would kick the Netherworld’s feet out from under them. Slow and steady wins the race.
“Look further into these Slayers that I have heard much about, but be smart about it. Do not focus solely on them. To do so will be your ruin.” These were his father’s last words, which dragged across his brain like blistering daggers, before he fhade
d from Strain’s center.
The darkness that was the Genesys was gone. The fog filtered out of the little cracks and crevasses unseen to the naked eye. And with his father went the air, sucking away Strain’s ability to breathe or blink. Falling to his side once again, he suffered, wrapped up in complete darkness.
One day, I’ll kill my father and take his place.
Chapter Five
Cracking his knuckles, Zylan was jumping out of his skin, waiting for the truck to come to a stop. Hell, just to slow down a little, so he could jump. He was almost sure that Riam was taking corners on two wheels because he knew damn well Zylan would jump if he could. It took everything for him not to open his door and dive out anyway. He knew the truck would make it there faster, but at least he’d be doing something and not just sitting, twiddling his thumbs. It felt like he was letting her down in some way. Like if he wasn’t running after her, it made him the reason for all of this. Love wasn’t exactly logical.
His heart pounded in his chest. His thoughts were consumed with her. He swore an oath to her, silently, that if anything had happened to her, someone was going to die. At this point, he didn’t care whose heart he ripped out—still beating—from their chest. As long as they slumped dead at his feet, he’d be satisfied. He honestly couldn’t wait to get out of the truck. He needed the fight. He was in full combat mode and on the edge of insanity. Closing his eyes, he envisioned not just punching the SOB in the face, but punching through his face and brain. He clenched his fists at the thought. His knuckles throbbed to touch ground on a cerebral cortex or two.
Riam and Bane talked shop in the background, making a plan. For Zy, he didn’t care what plan they had. He had one goal—Neri. He’d picked up bits and pieces of what they’d said, though. Bane would use his abilities to sniff out the area before they went in with guns blazing. Riam and Zylan would hold back a few feet, letting Bane scout. The idea of hanging back made him angry. He didn’t want Neri to see Bane first. The thought blistered his ass. He should be the one to rescue her—only him. She is mine.
Zylan rubbed his sternum, trying to ease the tightness there. His world felt cramped, smaller than it had been when he’d thought his life couldn’t get any worse. He’d sooner face his people and draw the Reaping blade across his own throat than have Neri in danger. Hell, he’d tap dance around the room and fill their celebratory glasses himself rather than this.
“Did you hear me, Zy?” Riam asked, nudging Zylan with his elbow.
Zylan blinked, staring at the clock. He knew they’d be pulling into the place in less than five minutes. He was thankful that Riam was behind the wheel. Riam knew the roads, inside and out. For once Zy had wished he had been full Vampyre, with the ability to fhade, dematerializing to any location he wanted. If the process didn’t take so fucking long, he’d have cut his own throat back at the compound. But it went against everything his people had taught the younger Vampyres. No one fhaded into unknown locations, not unless they had a death wish.
Zylan rechecked his gear, double checking that he’d remembered extra clips, extra knives and a first aid pouch, just in case. It was all he could do to keep himself from imploding. He rotated his ankles, ensuring his boots were the right tightness for the full speed marathon run that was coming up in exactly four minutes. Rotating his head and shoulders, he was as ready as he was ever going to be.
“Zylan, you’re a hair trigger away from losing your shit,” Riam spoke up. “You need to ground yourself or you risk all of us. Try some deep breathing and…”
Zylan jerked his head to the side, meeting Riam’s eyes, cutting him off. “Don’t, not tonight, Riam. Not. Fucking. Tonight. Keep your therapy shit to yourself for once.”
Riam’s eyes grew darker, if one could possibly imagine a color darker than black. He slammed on the brakes, skidding on the loose gravel. He let go of the steering wheel and grabbed onto Zylan, pulling him by the shoulders to inches from his face.
“How the fuck are you going to save her if we’re all dead? How the fuck does that help her? It won’t. All it’ll do is piss off whoever is chasing her. You’ll be the death of her—of us all—and I’m not going to die for your bullshit. I won’t die because you couldn’t keep your shit tight.”
Bane leaned back in his seat, taking a deep breath. “Usually I’m not one to chime in when you all throw down, but I suggest you kiss and make up. We’re running out of time. I can smell it.”
Riam pulled Zylan closer. “Tick-fucking-tock, Zy. I have all the time in the world, but she doesn’t. What’s it gonna be? Team up or team out, and you go it alone.”
Zylan gave a few quick, jerking nods. “Team up.”
Riam released Zylan and put the truck back on the road. Riam’s shoulders relaxed, and his breathing returned to normal. Riam was the poster boy for meditation and tranquility. It was almost irritating. Zylan had never seen Riam lose his cool, not truly. Oh, he’d toss you the fuck on your ass and get in your face, but he’d never honestly lost his shit or his focus. Then again, to everyone’s knowledge, Riam had never been in love. Love… Now that drug kicked him in the brain and stomped on his throat. It removed his higher reasoning and replaced it with sludge.
The truck went as far as it could go on the back roads. Zylan’s heart skipped a beat. He was nervous. He feared she was dead. But he was also scared she was alive and that he would scare her even more than she already was.
Riam touched Zylan’s arm. “We’ll get her back, Zy, or we’ll die trying.”
Bane reached up from behind his seat. “Zy, you have my word. I will die before I give up on your Fyrvor, Slayer.”
Zylan climbed out of the truck, his shaky legs surprisingly keeping him standing. They were restless, much like the rest of his body. The three men exchanged nods, then they were running, full speed. All three could book it like no one’s business, but Bane was the fastest of them all. Bane would take the lead, clearing a path for Riam and Zylan. The location of the safe house was hidden from the world, tucked into the back of the mountain about two hundred yards off any beaten path. It would be a treacherous climb for Zylan and his two comrades, let alone the average Joe.
Following a climb that burned Zylan’s legs, they were at their location. It was a single story cabin, a dilapidated eyesore that screamed a tetanus booster was needed. It had one window that was covered in plywood, a chimney that was falling apart and would lead to burning down the entire forest if someone tried to light it and a front door barely hanging on. But inside was a different story altogether.
Zylan had helped with the design—a small door in the back of the fireplace that led to a bunker. Below housed food and water, a two-way radio, first aid supplies, four bunk beds bolted to the ten-inch-thick steel walls and the odd book here and there. It could house half a dozen people for a week, more if you were in a crunch. Only a select group of people knew of this safe house, the Slayers, the Rector and Captain Salas Warner, who was their contact with the Netherworld Agency and the only one outside of the Slayers to know their intimate details. How Neri had found out about it was beyond Zylan. He’d never told her and knew no one else would have.
Coming to a halt twenty feet from the cabin, all three hunkered down in the brush and dirt. Each one of them had one task, and each would die carrying it out. Zylan watched Bane, eyes closed, breathing in the night’s air. Zylan’s skin prickled with goosebumps. The moon was high above them, not yet full. Zylan watched Bane shiver with each breath and new smell.
Zylan lifted his head to the tree canopies. Some of the oldest trees around stood above them, lending to their cover. Above the treetops, a crystal clear sky added just enough light for them to get their jobs done.
As Zylan stood, Bane grabbed Zylan’s hand. “No!”
A beep-beep sounded, Zylan’s ears twitched with the complete silence that followed. In less than a heartbeat, the forest exploded. The blast hit Zylan in the chest, blowing him back and into the trees that he’d just been admiring. On his back, his
chest tight, he stared back up at the little diamonds in the sky. In that moment, it dawned on him how badly he’d wanted to do this with Neri—lie under the trees and watch the sky, for no other reason than to escape the world around them, to create a memory he could hold on to forever. It would be a memory that would carry him into his duty, a memory he could always turn back to, when the life he hated replaced the life he wanted.
Zylan could feel the darkness coming, seeping in and chewing away at his vision. He rolled his head to the side. The cabin was gone, leveled, erased from existence. His body felt cold, realizing the safe house was gone and with it, his Fyrvor—his reason to live, his reason to pick himself up off of the ground and keep moving. It took him a moment to realize his vision wasn’t fading. It was blurred from tears. He felt them roll from the corners of his eyes.
“Zy!”
He rolled his head again, looking into the darkness of the forest. He saw Des, running full throttle, dressed in head-to-toe gear. Behind her, the Slayers followed, all of them suited up and ready to rock. Goosebumps covered his skin. They were here. They were here to help him rescue his Fyrvor.
Des skidded on the ground, grabbing Zylan’s head, leaning over his face. Des was a thing of beauty, the kind of beauty you find in a raging inferno or in a wave that takes out everything in its path. There’s always beauty in destruction and horror. You just had to look for it—like how a fire destroys but creates new life.