When Stars Burn Out (Europa Book 1)

by Anna Vera

  Apollo glares at the speaker. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Silas,” the ash-blond boy says. Instantly, his eyes begin roving the clearing’s perimeter. “That guy, over there,” he adds a little too loudly, nodding at Cigarette Boy, “is Jac.”

  “One’s down,” Jac relays as Silas pats Apollo down, looking for additional weapons. “Doesn’t look good. They want help.”

  Silas operates quietly, patting Apollo down longer than he probably needs to—stalling.

  “Let’s get Rion,” Silas says at last. “Where is he?”

  “Dude, who even knows?”

  “I’m over here.” The voice is at my back, but before I can turn to face its owner, I’m enveloped in a set of strong arms that pin me down like a folded umbrella.

  But Rion’s going to have to do better than that.

  I throw my head backwards, aiming for his chin, but only getting his chest—he’s taller than I initially guessed—managing to throw him off balance ever so slightly.

  That’s all I need: a blip, a split-second’s advantage.

  I rip free, pitching forward, but he’s on me again in only a few seconds flat, grabbing me by the waist and tackling me into the snow. We engage in what becomes a one-sided fight where I’m throwing punches and he’s throwing blocks.

  Why aren’t you fighting back, Rion?

  I fake a punch—he doesn’t fall for it, snatching my wrist midair and forcing it away. I throw a left hook, which he dodges the first time around, but not the second. Maybe he doesn’t take me for a girl who’s capable of a vicious backhand—either way, I catch him hard across his perfect mouth.

  Fire ignites in his eyes—he’s done playing—and in a flash he’s lifted me up out of the snow, thrown me around, and shoved me back down with merciless strength. Flurries and whorls of snow twirl in my periphery, as I lay prostrate on my back.

  Rion’s got me trapped beneath him and I’m left privately cursing myself for underestimating a person with such a lithe, muscular build.

  I should’ve known he was a fighter based off that alone.

  He leans forward, looking down at me through hair that’s grown out of its cut: dark and slightly curly, framing bronze cheeks and heavily lashed eyes.

  I dive a hand to the gun Apollo gave me—located on my upper thigh—and realize he’s basically sitting right on top of the damn thing. But a guy’s private area isn’t going to stop me from reclaiming my gun and shooting him with it.

  I reach again, angry with myself for pausing long enough to make eye contact with Rion, who feigns modesty. I can almost hear him say, Now? In the woods? I would never!

  “Don’t even flatter yourself,” I spit, reaching between his thighs fearlessly and taking ahold of my pistol. I raise it up so the barrel faces my assailant’s pretty face, surprised that he didn’t bother to take it from me first.

  Why do I get the feeling he . . . let me take it?

  I loose a smile. Rion’s head tilts, gazing back at me with his full lips climbing into to a smirk, and doesn’t so much as flinch at the gun I’ve got pointing between his eyes.

  I aim the gun right over his shoulder, and fire a warning.

  But click. It’s empty.

  Rion runs a thumb over his bloody lip, wiping it clean as he expels a laugh—though light, it sends a plume of white vapor colliding against my face.

  “I know the look of a killer. You don’t have it.”

  Rion grabs the pistol, revoking it from my custody as easily as an adult stealing a child’s plaything. I don’t fight for it, still too shocked to find it was empty, watching soundlessly as he stuffs it into the waistband of his pants.

  Then he stares at me, pinned beneath him, shrouded in a cloak of ice and snow. There is something so odd about the way he looks me over, as though drinking me in. His face is youthful and soft, despite the damage he’s clearly capable of inflicting.

  There’s something about him—like his eyes, themselves, are some kind of a bizarre weapon, a net with which he’s capable of ensnaring prey.

  I shove him. Hard. But my effort is in vain; it’s like trying to roll a fallen tree off my legs.

  Rion scoffs again, laughing a little at my futile efforts, as he tilts his head back and surveys the cloudy sky. When he looks at me again, he’s all business.

  “There are five of you,” he says. Not a question.

  “Yes,” I croak.

  He gives a distant nod, eyes leaving mine. Then, without a second’s warning, he grips the collar of my jacket and drags me up to a standing position.

  I consider putting up a fight—or arguing, at least—but then again, we’re at his mercy. We need his help for Lios.

  I’ll stay in line for that reason alone.

  When we make it to the clearing, Rion pushes me down to my knees in the snow, beside Apollo.

  “Found this one. She’s a spy,” he says, instigating identical reactions of surprise from Jac and Silas.

  “How many?” Silas asks.

  “Five,” Rion echoes.

  Meanwhile, I glare at Apollo. You idiot . . . You complete and total idiot, handing me an unloaded gun!

  What’s wrong with you?

  I shift my focus to the three natives. Are they Mabel’s people?

  Couldn’t be. Three skillset-less guys, taking down four leagues like ours, two back-to-back? Impossible. They must be seconds, or back ups, or maybe they’re just in the wrong place at the wrong time . . .

  And yet, as it stands, I’m the one kneeling to them.

  Rion nods at Silas. “Go twenty yards southeast and you’ll find the others. I can confirm three, one of which looks like he was just mauled by a Mute.”

  “Aye-aye,” Silas replies, jogging off into the dark. Jac keeps his gun trained on Apollo and me, cigarette limp between his lips, glowing a dull, dying red with each inhale.

  I put my pride aside, snagging Rion’s sleeve as he goes to walk by my side. “Do you think you can help him?”

  Rion pins me with a stare. He’s got Apollo’s rifle propped over his shoulder. He pulls his sleeve away from my grip, his gaze unyielding, analyzing me openly.

  “Help him—or help you?” he inquires before walking off, leaving me to stare speechlessly, gawking, in his wake.

  Jac prods me in the back with a gun’s cold snout, urging me to move forward. Apollo eyes me warily. The three of us move wordlessly at Rion’s back, the hush disrupted by Jac’s random humming and spattering of questions.

  “What’s your name?” he asks to nobody in particular.

  “Which of us are you speaking to?” Apollo asks.

  “Both of you.” Again, he prods the gun uncomfortably into my spine. “Starting with her.”

  I swallow. If they are Mabel’s people, then they’re a part of a community we’ve got to gain access to—and thus, they cannot know who we really are.

  “I’m Elizabeth,” I reply coolly.

  “Elizabeth,” Jac says, feeling the name out. “Old name.”

  “My parents liked that stuff . . .”

  “Old stuff, yeah?”

  “They liked history,” I reply convincingly.

  “Well,” Jac proceeds, showing no indication whatsoever of suspicion or reluctance towards me, “Elizabeth, what should I call you for short? Eliza? Liz? Beth?”

  “Abe,” I quip. Apollo stifles a laugh. “I prefer Abe.”

  Jac stares at me, not quite catching my sarcasm, itching a stubbled chin before yanking the limp cigarette out from his lips and tossing it aside, where it fizzles in the snow.

  “I’m Jac,” he carries on, “and you’re free to call me Jac.”

  “And I am David,” Apollo adds, unsolicited.

  “He prefers to be called Davy,” I say, much to Apollo’s overt displeasure, which worsens only as conversation cont
inues and he’s repeatedly called Davy.

  Eventually he turns to Jac and says, “Are you a member of that large quarantine nearby? Mabel’s, is it?”

  “Yep,” Jac says simply. He doesn’t elaborate, and I wonder if that’s because it isn’t a big deal to say so, or if it’s because he’s got something to hide.

  We make it back to Lios, who reeks of the metallic odor of spilled blood, and is moaning in abject agony. I feel a cold sweat break over me, rolling sickeningly like a bout of the stomach flu.

  Cyb’s at Lios’s side. Finally, though she refuses to look at his wounds when Silas peels my jacket off his chest. He cringes at the sight of it, going pale.

  “Signature,” Jac says, looking at Rion. “Definitely a Mute.”

  “Twelve inches, at least.” Silas hovers a finger over the long laceration cleaving Lios’s muscled chest. “He’ll need stitches and a large dose of antibiotics, at least.”

  Cyb croaks, “Do people . . . Can . . . Is this survivable?”

  Nobody replies.

  The forest goes quiet, filled only by Lios’s whispering, his incoherent gibberish: the language of severe blood loss. That’s the biggest downfall—and irony—of Lios’s skillset.

  He can heal other people, but he can’t heal himself.

  Silas’s pale brows rise, looking at Rion. “Your call.”

  Rion nods. “Take him.”

  Cyb’s eyes brim with tears. “You . . . you’re going to help?”

  Silas, Rion, and Jac kneel beside Lios, preparing to lift him to his unsteady feet. Apollo leaps in at the last minute, and they heave Lios’s large frame upright.

  Silas breathes heavily, straining under Lios’s weight as the four of them act as his crutches. “We’ll do what we can,” he says as they pass by, leaving.

  Cyb stays on her knees in the snow and doesn’t move. Her eyes fixate on her bare hands, gloved in a thick film of sticky, half-dried blood. Lios’s blood.

  I drop to my knees. “It’s okay, Cyb.”

  Her eyes—tearful, pink, and puffy—find mine. “Be honest with me, Eos,” she gasps fragilely. “Will he die?”

  I sit silently for a while, drinking in the weakest side of my oldest sister I’ve ever seen—a side that is, despite it all, far more beautiful than the mask she usually wears.

  “Not today,” I say, extending a hand, which she takes. I lift her up, and we walk together, lingering at the back. The snow falls in a white veil, drifting hauntingly through a night that feels like it’ll never end.

  Everybody is quiet except for Lios, who heaves dry, piercing sobs for hours—until eventually he doesn’t anymore, and the ensuing silence is so, so much worse.

  An hour later, we arrive at the quarantine.

  I swear my foot is frostbitten. We never did find my other boot and after trekking five miles through dense snowfall and endless gusts of cheek-chapping winds, I’ll be surprised if by the end of this, my whole foot isn’t blackened with frostbite.

  Up ahead there is a glow of smoke in the air.

  The quarantine.

  We approach a wall of logs: a two-story, fenced perimeter with sharp, fang-like tips. Rion identifies a door that’s invisible to the rest of us, blending in with the rest of the fence. He jams a key into four padlocks, unlocking it. Then he backs up, generates a burst of momentum, and rams his shoulder into the warped wooden door.

  It gives way, swaying open.

  There’s an immediate rush of heat that follows, and a burst of flickering firelight. A bonfire sits before us, spitting glowing embers into the inky midnight sky.

  We shuffle inside. They lay Lios down by the fire. His skin has gone so pallid it’s almost translucent, and his injuries are still bleeding heavily, emitting a strong metallic odor. I try closing my mouth against the smell, so pungent as to inspire a flavor, and yet again, I feel my face drain to a light gray-green.

  I look away. The quarantine is not at all like I’d imagined it would be—not a large warehouse of a building, with one massive communal room, but a community.

  The center of the quarantine is marked by the bonfire. All else is wrapped around it. Staggered slightly, like rose petals, row after row of huts made up of saplings sealed together with clay and insulated by stripped bark and dry leaves.

  I notice each hut has a chimney burping wisps of smoke into the night sky. A few huts even have hides draped over their doors for additional insulation, furs I can identify as belonging to white-tailed deer.

  Something moves at my periphery, drawing my attention.

  A girl is approaching from across the way. I’d guess she’s no older than I am, with smooth skin, a complexion of coffee with cream, and a veil of black hair framing startlingly bright eyes.

  Jac looks up from Lios and shouts, “Mia, hurry up. This isn’t a walk in the fucking park.”

  Mia’s jaw tightens, but she picks up her pace. When her eyes find Lios, they flare wide with concern. “Holy shit.”

  “The Muted,” Silas confirms.

  “Where’s Mabel? Is she on the compound?”

  “No,” Silas confirms grimly. “She’s spending a couple days in the city, helping with—” To my chagrin, Silas pauses, eyes clicking to mine. “She’ll be back in a few days.”

  Damn it. He was so close to slipping up . . .

  “All right, it’s up to us, then.” Mia stands, brushing her hands off on her pants. “Let’s get to work on him, shall we?”

  “You’re taking him away?” Cyb asks. “Where?”

  “To Mabel’s cabin. She’s our quarantine’s founder and has access to all of the medical supplies.” Mia shakes her head, eyes glued to Lios’s injury. “Your friend is going to need a lot of help.”

  “Can I go?” Cyb practically begs.

  Mia glances at Rion, as though looking for permission and after a moment’s pause, he gives her a fraction of a nod.

  “Yes,” she concedes. “But we’ve got to hurry.”

  The boys gather around, readying to lift Lios again. I wiggle my way in between them, finding Lios’s hand and holding it in my own. It’s sweaty, clammy. Everybody stops, expecting me to say my goodbyes.

  But I am not here for that.

  Say what you will, but I can’t say goodbye. The word isn’t part of my vocabulary. I sometimes wonder if this is the softest part of me as a person: my inability to say farewell.

  I look to Cyb, who’s watching with sad eyes. Merope gives me a quiet nod of encouragement. I pull Lios’s mushroom hat off his head and clutch it against my chest, like it’s some kind of a talisman, and face him as I calmly say, “Goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  The corner of my eye picks up the native-borns exchanging skeptical glances, as though to say, Wait, did she just tell him what I think she just told him? Goodnight instead of goodbye?

  But I don’t give a damn what they think.

  I watch as they, strangers, carry him away.

  Before Cyb follows, she casts us one last glance, eyes wary and panicked—distraught. I’m glad they’re letting her go. It’s a mercy, a kindness, we haven’t yet earned.

  These people are tough. But they are good.

  They fade into the darkness of an unlit path, finding their way based off memory alone. Merope and Apollo inch in close beside me, masked in the golden light of the bonfire.

  “So,” Apollo says as soon as they’re out of earshot. “I hear that our target isn’t currently present.”

  I echo Silas. “A few days, and she’ll return.”

  “We’ll need this time, anyway,” Merope declares. “We’ve got to earn their trust, gain membership. And now, with Lios in their care, we really can’t leave.”

  11

  When Rion and Silas return, it’s without anybody else.

  Silas is holding a key, which he twirls in his finge
rs. He juts out a pale, lightly stubbled chin, nodding at Merope and Apollo as he begins barking orders. “You two. This way.”

  “We’re not splitting up,” Apollo says curtly.

  Merope pins Apollo with a lethal stare. “They’re helping save our friend’s life. We’ll do whatever they ask of us, whatever makes them the most comfortable.”

  “You’re strangers to us,” Silas defends, shrugging. “We don’t know if you can be trusted, and until we’re sure, you’re going to be split up individually and supervised.”

  “Who is going where, then?” Apollo demands to know.

  “You two are going with me. I’m supervising Mary, and Jac is going to supervise you.” Silas drops his hand down to his side, palm resting threateningly on the handle of his gun. “Do we understand each other?”

  Apollo’s posture stiffens visibly. “What about Elizabeth?”

  Silas falters, casting a nervous glance at Rion. “We weren’t expecting so many. We’re, uh . . . well, we’re still looking for a volunteer for her.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll take her,” Rion says.

  “No. Dude.” Silas drops his voice to a whisper. “I know how much you hate playing babysitter. I’ll take them both myself, or we can always wake up Fallon—”

  “Fallon is an asshole if he doesn’t get his sleep.” Rion gives his comrade a tired smile. “It’s fine. Really.”

  “All right. Well, that’s great, then,” Silas says, turning his attention back to our group. “Your friend Lucas is doing better after getting stitches, antibiotics, and painkillers, but he still isn’t even close to being out of the woods yet. We’re keeping him and that other girl—Cindy?—together, supervised by Mia.”

  I expel a sigh of euphoric relief.

  Lios is doing okay. He’s strong. He’ll make it.

  Silas goes to walk off, saying, “We’ll keep you posted on his progress,” but is stopped abruptly by Merope, who has caught ahold of his wrist.