But Warrick was already shaking his head. “We take them alive.”
It was some kind of signal. Before she could protest, the guys split up in opposite directions and melted away.
Insufferable, infuriating, stupid, sons of bitches.
They were going to get themselves killed.
They thought they were going up against humans who got lucky, not soldiers trained specifically to kill them.
Since she couldn’t run after them and drag them back, it left her with one option.
She would have to set a trap of her own.
She only needed one thing…bait.
Chapter Eight
Atticus
There was only one thing Kronos wanted more than anything else in the world—her.
Octavia would need to play bait and hope the soldiers didn’t shoot her in the head.
While Kronos might want to capture daemons for their special projects, they believed her blood was needed to stabilize the serum that could give them the ability to fight daemons as equals.
Or that’s how Kronos sold the project to the troops…as their patriotic duty to their nation.
She suspected it had more to do with greed and their desire to rule the world with an iron fist.
If they found a chance to take her alive, they were going to jump at it.
Feeling a little sick to her stomach, she swallowed down the dread that seemed to grow legs and tried to crawl up her throat. She jumped over the half wall and boldly strode into the square. Without her weapons, she felt naked and exposed. She held up her hands in surrender and came to a stop in the middle of the square, then slowly knelt, crossed her ankles, and linked her fingers behind her head.
She raised her voice until it echoed against the buildings. “If you want me, you’re going to have to come get me.” She’d practically gift-wrapped herself for them. Her heart thumped against her ribs with each beat, every instinct urging her to run, the metallic taste in her mouth bitter with fear.
She was putting her whole life on the line in the hopes that the guys would be there to catch her.
She did her best to ignore the lifeless bodies surrounding her, their milky eyes staring at her accusingly, and her shoulders slumped with the burden of failing to keep them safe.
A dark chill reached out from beyond the grave and soaked into her knees where they rested against the blood. The bodies had been searched. The majority of the corpses left behind were human, like they couldn’t be bothered to bury their own kind. Most of the daemons, dead or alive, had been collected and removed, their blood too important to rot out here like the rest. Just one or two remained, their bodies in too many pieces to bother to collect.
Why hadn’t Eldon told her what he was planning?
She could’ve warned him—could’ve helped in some way.
A slight shifting of the winds carried the smell of gun oil and sweat-soaked shirts, warning her the soldiers were coming. They crept slowly out of the shadows like spiders…three, four and more.
They had their guns out and pointed at her head.
If she moved, if she tried to fight them, they would open fire. What were a few bullet holes, as long as she lived through it? Thanks to the unauthorized testing and a lot of pain, Kronos knew she could take injuries that would normally kill others.
Refusing to cower, she lifted her chin and sneered. “One girl against seven. Hardly fair.”
To them.
Of the four surrounding her, three of them were human. One man lingered behind the others, his cunning eyes watchful. A mask covered the lower portion of his face, and she suspected he was a guard dog—one of their failed experiments who could no longer pass for human. While he might be stronger and faster than humans, he didn’t have the extra abilities of the daemons.
The remaining three soldiers were too far away for her to tell if any of them were enhanced. She knew from experience that they wouldn’t send out a retrieval party without at least one special agent in case she showed up.
Static crackled in the air when they neared, like a charge ready to go off at any moment—once the soldiers exploded into action, they were an unstoppable force.
She studied the men around her carefully, waiting for an opening.
She refused to be taken back to Kronos.
She’d rather be dead.
Atticus stole from shadow to shadow, calling for aid from the beast who lived under his skin. While the Herculean strength he’d been gifted with by the gods was his most dominant skill and usually ended any fight quickly, his beast was more useful when stealth was called for.
Though he was normally laid-back, it was a lie that hid the monster beneath.
His Lycoan abilities allowed him to move like a predator—unfortunately, the beast also had a darker side, which was why Atticus kept him tightly caged. Once released, the beast refused to give up control until his bloodlust was appeased.
When Octavia boldly walked across the square, her arms raised in surrender, his gut churned with horror.
What the fuck is she doing?
While the others might be suspicious of her, his beast wanted to claim her and rub her lilac scent all over himself. She was dangerous, clearly deadly, and all he wanted to do was protect her. When she inhaled pure flames last night, he nearly dropped to his knees at the loss.
But instead of crumbling to ash, she rose from the flames, burning brighter and even more beautiful.
He watched his prey make his way cautiously toward Octavia, his gun raised, and Atticus’s beast gave a silent growl of possessiveness as he surged to the surface.
Mine.
No one else was allowed to touch her.
Just when a man was about to step into the square, Atticus closed the distance between them, bloodlust raging through him. He heard the squawk on the radio issuing orders to take her, and all thoughts of capture went out of his head. When his hand closed around the guy’s neck, claws burst from his fingertips, and he tore out the man’s throat without a hint of remorse.
Blood gurgled out of the gaping wound, the rich, coppery scent saturating the air, and Atticus inhaled the delicious aroma, the pounding in his veins demanding more.
The man spun toward him with wide eyes, clutching his throat, one arm groping for his weapon, but there was no stopping the gush of blood between his fingers as it spilled down his chest.
For the first time since he was a teenager, Atticus struggled to keep the beast caged, the creature demanding to take command and protect what was theirs.
Mate.
The single thought burst into his mind, strong enough to pierce through the turmoil, and he shoved the beast down, surprised to find that he’d taken a few steps forward, as if to charge out into the square and guard the girl.
He shook his head at his lack of control.
The last time he lost his shit, dozens of people were savaged to death.
Whatever Octavia might be, she wasn’t stupid.
She went out into that square for a reason.
No doubt to buy them time.
A distraction.
With every rational insight he gained more control of his body. Even so, it was a struggle to flow back into the shadows and stalk the next target, when all he wanted to do was charge to her rescue, him and his beast in agreement for once—no one was allowed to touch what was theirs.
Thankfully, the beast agreed the best way to protect her was to hunt the men in the shadows who had their guns trained on her.
He could smell them out there, more pungent and seductive than the death that clung to the air.
Humans.
Why were they targeting daemons?
More importantly, what did Octavia know that compelled them to do whatever it took to take her alive?
If Warrick even suspected she had anything to do with Eldon’s death, he’d kill her, and Atticus wasn’t sure if he could allow that.
Warrick was his commander. He’d follow the man into hell and back, and ha
d on many occasions. He owed Warrick his life. His loyalty should rest with the team, but everything inside him rebelled at the idea of any harm coming to the girl.
He wanted to accuse her of using Aphrodite’s perfume or Cupid’s arrows on him, but whatever her abilities, they remained dormant.
One thing he’d learned in his bloody and vicious past was to trust his beast.
If the creature said she needed to be protected, even if from his team, Atticus would do it.
He’d grown up over a hundred years ago, during a time when brutality was praised and rewarded. The demigods forged him into a killer, a monster unfit to touch innocence, but for the first time in his hundred and thirty years, he longed to claim something for his own.
Valkyrie—Octavia—whatever name she used—she now belonged to him, the world be damned.
His eyes locked on the man peering out of a second story window, rifle trained on his woman. Without wasting time entering the building, he began to climb up the near-sheer face of the brick wall, his claws gouging into the stone as he pulled himself up, determined to do the one thing he did best—drown his enemies in a river of blood—whatever it took to keep her safe.
Octavia studied the four soldiers emerging from the darkness. She could easily take the humans, but the creature gave her pause, the malicious gleam in his eyes promising pain.
Guard dogs weren’t good for much else but killing and cannon fodder.
She lifted her chin in challenge, and he tore his mask away, licking his lips hungrily as he shoved his way past the humans, the need to hunt turning his eyes red as his beast took hold.
Their beasts were a shapeshifters’ greatest strength…and greatest weakness. Once their primitive instincts emerged, they stopped thinking rationally. While they were more dangerous, they basically had the single-minded mentality of their animal.
Fangs slid over his lower lip, drops of blood trailing down his chin, and he licked at the blood greedily. Claws sliced from his fingertips, specks of blood splattering the ground as he stalked toward her.
The humans backed away when the beast began circling her, and she saw one of them being jerked back into the darkness.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out what her guys were doing.
And it was going to get them killed.
The soldiers were religious with their rules. It wouldn’t take more than a minute or two before they discovered one of their own was missing, and realize she wasn’t alone.
Two or three minutes before they opened fire on her.
Her heart skipped a beat, her body eager for battle, and she began a mental countdown in her head. She forced herself to remain relaxed, wait for them to get close enough for her to attack. She didn’t recognize any of the soldiers, so she still had the element of surprise on her side. While she might have been one of them at one time, most of the soldiers she’d grown up with were dead or gone. The few who knew of her existence found out mostly because of a standing notice to capture and detain—consider dangerous.
No reason why.
They said she was a rogue.
A deserter.
Which was partly true, but it was much worse than that. She knew too much. They would kill her if they could, but her blood was too important. As far as she was aware, she was the only subject to survive their testing.
Killing her would destroy their only chance for a new future.
Soldiers converged on her from different directions, and she lifted her chin, biding her time.
Enhanced soldiers carried an extra aura of crazy about them, a superiority complex that made them believe they were the apex predator. And it messed with their heads in more ways than one. The chemicals they injected themselves with eventually drove everyone who used them batshit crazy.
They began to see things—hear things—that weren’t there.
Human bodies weren’t built to do extraordinary things on a regular basis, and neither were their brains. The extra chemicals produced were toxic, and slowly killed everyone who used the injections.
Too bad Kronos failed to tell any of that to the soldiers beforehand.
Afterwards, the adrenaline boost and the special abilities were like an addiction.
Once they took the serum, they didn’t stop until they were dead and buried.
“Face-first on the ground.” One of the soldiers barked out the command, gesturing with his rifle for her to obey.
Octavia lowered her hands slowly and pressed her palms flat against the ground, then eased herself down until she was lying flat. Blood spatter rested just inches from her face, and she couldn’t look away from the milky white eyes of a young female a few feet away—all hope long since faded and gone. Flies danced on the surface of the dead, as if searching for a way inside to feast on the crumbled dreams.
One of the soldiers stepped on her shoulder, smashing her face into the gore, the rifle barrel pressing against her temple hard enough to break the skin. Another wrenched back her arm, snapping a cuff around her left wrist.
She gritted her teeth, waiting for the last soldiers to draw closer, biding her time.
Just one more inch.
A high-pitched scream broke the silence of the early evening, and she watched as one soldier came flying out a second-story window some thirty feet away, landing with a sickening crunch on the unforgiving concrete.
He didn’t move.
Taking advantage of the distraction, she twisted and brought up her leg, sweeping the feet of the soldier holding her arm out from under him. When the guy who had his foot on her neck leaned down to slam the rifle butt against the back of her head, she knocked the weapon aside. He lost his balance, his foot slipping off her neck. The rifle slammed into the earth, plowing up a couple inches of dirt, and kicked up tiny bits of rock that peppered her face.
She grabbed the stock of the gun, then shoved it back toward him, smiling when the rifle cracked into his face and knocked him back a few steps. He lost hold of his weapon, and she twisted into sitting position, flipped the rifle around, and used it like a bat, slamming the butt of the gun against his knees. The crunch of bones and cartilage was quickly buried under his bellow of pain.
The deranged beast charged—when one of the stray dogs that scavenged in the abandoned city barreled into him.
As they crashed to the ground, two more strays grabbed ahold of him, wrenching his arm and leg back and forth like the limbs had no bones. The man gave a panicked shout out of his deformed mouth that sounded more like a shrill howl. He lifted his free hand, claws slashing to fend off the first dog as it stalked toward him. With a ferocious growl, the dog lunged for the man’s throat, clamped down tight, and thrashed his head side to side until bones snapped and the soldier went still.
Apparently he was more human than beast, with no training in how to survive an animal attack…an appropriate ending, one she was sure he gave to many unsuspecting humans and daemons alike. A tiny wisp of caustic black smog curled up from his mouth and faded, stolen by the wind as it scattered throughout the square. The creature melted down, fangs and claws vanished, his red eyes faded until only a partially rotted corpse of the human remained.
The three strays looked up as one, their brown eyes almost glowing as they focused on the last target still standing…the man whose rifle she stole.
Octavia shook off her astonishment when the soldier fumbled with the latch to his sidearm, lifting the gun to fire at the dogs. She leapt to her feet and knocked him flat with a few well-placed blows—one to his ribs, then one to his kidney, before kicking his damaged leg out behind the knee. He got in a couple of hits, the strength behind the blow numbing her leg, while the one to her torso knocked the air out of her in a rush, but it didn’t take more than a minute to take him out.
A sound behind her made her whirl, and she braced for another attack from the man who tried to cuff her. Instead, Atticus had the man by the throat, lifting the poor sod clear off the ground. With just a twist of his wrist, he ripped the man�
�s throat out, blood and gore spilling between them. With a bone-rattling shake, Atticus released his hold and the body hit the ground with a thud. Chest heaving, he glared down at the dead man, a growl rumbled around him, the vibrations so low she almost missed it.
“Atticus?” She took a hesitant step toward him.
His shoulders tensed and he seemed to hunch forward, curling away from her like he expected to be beaten.
Worry churned in her gut, and she glanced around the square, searching for reinforcements, but the night remained silent. She shuffled toward Atticus, wondering if he was injured. “Are you okay?”
He turned toward her slightly, peering over his shoulder, half of his face hidden and distorted by shadows, his stunning green eyes whirling. Deep shards of red speared the centers, giving them a sinister cast, and she stopped dead. The longer she stared at him, the more the colors morphed and softened.
“Atticus?” Heart pounding, mouth dry, she reached for his shoulder, hands trembling…just as gunfire erupted from the building to their left.
Without hesitation, she whirled and charged into the darkness. Atticus kept pace with her, letting her take the lead. More familiar with the abandoned city than anyone, she swerved left and leapt through the darkened maw of a broken window instead of taking the stairs to the front.
She skidded across the dirt and debris scattered across the lobby and saw Warrick on the ground. Not moving. He must have been the first in the door and been taken by surprise.
Nikos hovered over him with glowing hands, and she tore her eyes away to see Keegan fighting two men with a grace and skill that made her pause to gawk. He never stopped moving, twisting and spinning, flowing around them like water, and just as difficult to catch.
What startled her the most was they were fighting with swords and a short knife.
One man was human and the other enhanced.
As soon as the soldier began using his powers, the sour smell of rot wafted from his skin, one she always associated with the dead and dying.
Daemon Grudge Page 7