Jaxon Prayer (Jaxon Prayer Trilogy Book 1)

by Rachel West

  “Ambush!” One of the Praetors near Red yells. “The prisoners!”

  I ignore the sounds of battle around me and focus on the one man who is my quarry. Rather than pull his weapon and meet me, the Praetor slaps his hand against the back end of the h-cylce, revealing a small trunk. From within, he pulls out an hourglass shaped bottle, which he shakes in his hand. I narrow my eyes, curious as to what trick he may be playing.

  He sprays the bottles over the open bars of the metal cage. Liquid splashes over the captives who flinch awake with startled cries. The Praetor grabs a second bottle and empties it into the cage.

  A small wafts through the air, acrid and sharp in my nose. An accelerant. The Praetor reaches into his pocket and terror strikes my heart when I recognize what he pulls out.

  A lighter.

  The Praetor takes one look at me barreling towards him. I rush with all my speed, trying to stop what I know is going to happen. A grin plays on the man’s cheek as fire blooms on the lighter in his hand.

  “No!” I shout, but I am too late. He tosses the flame into the cage, and with a whoosh that seems to draw the very air from my lungs the entire thing goes up in flame. The prisoners scream - a sound of terror and desperation that will haunt my nightmares until the day I die.

  I change the direction of my path, darting around the Praetor to the front of the cage. The flames burn, mostly in the back as the prisoners press their bodies desperately against the bars to escape.

  “Help us, save us!” They all scream and one voice fuses into the next until they are indistinguishable. I pull at the door but it is locked tight. A key. I need a key. I look once more at the trapped and burning prisoners, their wide eyes bore into mine, their faces white with fear.

  “I’ll come back,” I promise and I pray I am quick enough.

  I run back towards the Praetor and pull my synthblade as I charge him. A look of deep amusement crosses his face as when he sees me -- like I am no threat at all, nothing more than a child playing at adult games.

  I lunge forward, striking out with my weapon at the exposed part of his neck. He easily batters my blade away, the strength of his blow sending vibrations up my arm.

  He strikes out, quickly smoothly, like his weapon is more whip than blade. Instinctively, I bring my hand up to guard my face and the Praetor’s synthblade cuts through my flesh with ease. I cry out, stumbling back in an effort to regroup myself. Pain burns down my arm, from elbow to wrist, but when I wiggle my fingers they all move and I know I will survive it.

  The Praetor laughs a deep, condescending sound, and takes two steady steps forward. Again he strikes out and this time I am quick enough to dodge the blow. Over and over he strikes and it takes everything I have to avoid his maneuvers.

  My back presses into something hard and I realize I have come to the edge of the clearing. The Praetor smiles and swings his blade once more. Time seems to slow as the weapon moves towards my face and I realize I have nowhere left to retreat. I duck low, and the synthblade cuts through the tree above me without any stall in its momentum. I swallow hard as bits of bark rain down on me.

  A look of annoyance crosses the face of the Praetor. I jab at his stomach with my weapon, but he swings low, catching my blade and sending it spinning off to the forest. Again, he pulls back his arm to strike and I realize I am going to die. There is no where left for me to go. He is too quick. Too well-trained. And I am nothing more than a toy he’s already grown bored with.

  Then there is a shower of sparks as two synthblades meet above me. To my right, Jaxon grunts as he uses his weight to shove the Praetor’s weapon back. I see the instant the Praetor recognizes Jaxon’s Millennial tattoos.

  “My lor--“ The Praetor begins to say but Jaxon brings up his weapon and strikes, cutting off his words. Without his helmet to protect him the synthblade cuts cleanly through the Praetor’s throat. Blood gushes from the wound as the Praetor stumbles back, a look of shock on his face, and brings his hands to his throat. Gloved fingers probe the wound like he can’t believe it’s there. His mouth works, but no sound comes out, then suddenly, he collapses to the ground like a spent doll.

  Jaxon studies his bloodied synthblade with a look of such intensity that it leaves my heart breaking. He rubs his chin against his shoulder, absently removing the blood that drips down his cheek.

  “Thank you,” I say. I clench my trembling fingers into a fist, refusing to show weakness after what Jaxon has done for me.

  Jaxon says nothing but I see the bob of his adams apple as he swallows whatever feelings are inside. He looks me up and down with an inexplicable emotion on his face then he throws the synthblade at me like its poison.

  “Go rescue your criminals,” he sneers before walking away.

  I drop to the ground by the dead Praetor. Blood coats my hands as I fumble through his pockets, searching desperately for a key that will release the prisoners. Screams assault my ears as the world around me comes back into focus. The prisoners beg and cry, pleading for my help.

  I run my fingers along the Praetor’s neck, feeling the outline of a metal chain. I yank it from beneath his uniform, and on the end, a small, square key. I pull on the chain but it is too well-made to break. I lift the Praetor’s head, my fingers tangling in the soft hair of a man who only moments before was living.

  I shudder as acid burns up my throat. I lean to the side, coughing weakly as everything around me spins out of control. I rest my forehead against the cool metal of the h-cycle, centering myself, because if I don’t I think I am going to pass out and then no one will be able to help the prisoners.

  “Get up!” Someone screams.

  I leap to my feet, the world tilts alarmingly me around me, but I keep my balance enough to stumble towards the cage. The screams have mostly died out, replaced with moans of pains and a silence that is more terrifying than anything at all.

  I slam the square key into its sister hole. The two pieces align and I twist my wrist violently, releasing the latch. The flames burn against my face; smoke makes sight nearly impossible. I reach in blindly to the cage. My hands encounter someone, I grasp desperately and pull. Sizzling flesh and the sickly sweet scent of burning fat tumble out with the body.

  I glance at the ground. Dead. Whoever he was, he’s dead now. My eyes burn, from smoke and tears, as I try to set free everyone within. My muscles tremble as I pull on the deadweight of six people who I was too late to save. Clothing still burns, the flames bite at my fingers and wrists, but I don’t bother stamping them out.

  It’s already too late. I was too late.

  I reach in for the last of them, grasping my nearly-numb fingers tightly against a hooded jacket. I yank as hard as I can, tumbling backwards as I pull the body free from the lip of the cage. I drop to the ground, the body falling next to me.

  I bend in two, resting on my elbows as coughs wrack my body. Next to me a hint of movement draws my eye. I turn to the dead man next to me. Burns cover nearly all of his upper body. His clothing has melted away, with bits of thread left sticking to weeping blisters.

  Again I see movement and I look closer. I lean over the body, looking desperately for any sign of life when his eyes spring open inches from mine.

  “Oh,” I startle back. Black eyes full of pain stare into mine and I am lost. The man’s pink tongue flickers out, running against cracked lips. His eyes widen as I reach out to him. He scrambles backwards, crying out in pain as burned flesh encounters hard ground.

  “Stay still,” I say. But the man doesn’t listen. Somehow, despite his wounds, despite the blisters that bleed openly and the clothing that still smokes with a hint of flame, the man is able to climb to his feet. He shouts something, but the words are garbled and more the sound of beast than man.

  “Please, we’re here to help you,” I beg. But it’s not me he looks at. His eyes are focused on a point above my head and I spin quickly to see Jaxon behind me, the flames playing against his tattoos like a demon’s mark. The injured man flees into th
e forest; his path weaves back and forth like a drunkard’s but he somehow keeps his feet.

  “Jaxon!” I shout, but it is Red who comes running. Blood paints his face like a mask, the spatter more intricate than even Jaxon’s tattoos.

  “Are you okay?” Red drops to the ground next to me. He runs his hands along my face like he’s trying to convince himself I am real. When he pulls back the tips of his fingers are black with soot and ash.

  “One of the prisoners,” I struggle to speak through panting breaths. “He,” I point towards the forest, “He ran that way.”

  Red touches the charred clothing of one of the bodies next to me. He finches back from the heat that still rises off it. “Evie,” Red says sadly.

  “Don’t,” I say, “We have to find him. We have to help him.”

  “It’s too late,” Red replies. “I’ve seen injuries like this, whoever he is, he’s probably dead already. He shouldn’t have survived the blaze.”

  “We have to try!”

  Red rests his hands on my shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

  I slap his arms away and struggle to my feet. I wipe at the tears that burn down my cheeks, knowing Red is right but hating him for it.

  CHAPTER 16

  A stillness settles over the Praetors’ camp. I look around expecting to see carnage but the other four Praetors are neatly lined up on the ground near Jaxon. Jaxon crouches on the ground next to the bodies, searching through a bag. I wander over to him, not able to spend a moment longer next to the still burning bodies of the prisoners.

  “What are you doing?” I ask Jaxon.

  “Looking for a shovel.”

  “Why?”

  “To bury them.”

  “The prisoners?” I ask.

  “The Praetors,” Jaxon replies.

  “Oh,” I search for the right words to say. Anything that will break down this wall Jaxon has dropped between us. “Do you want help?”

  Jaxon shrugs but he doesn’t say no so I begin searching the bags of the dead Praetors next to him. “Can we bury the others too?” I ask.

  “If you wish.”

  When I find nothing of use in the bags of the Praetors I make my way over to the h-cycles. I breathe lightly through my mouth but despite that I am still able to smell the burning bodies. I cover my face with my sleeve and dig through the trunks of the h-cycle. They are larger than expected, holding more in each one than the three of us combined have been able to carry.

  “Here,” I call over to Jaxon. I wince as my cry echoes across the forest and between the trees, the sound of it somehow an offense to the dead.

  I hand Jaxon the shovel I found and search the other h-cycle for a second. “How’d you know they would be here?” I asked Jaxon.

  “The Praetors have to carry them. Once, a long time ago, a unit was transferring prisoners and they left their fire burning behind them. It burned out a whole section of forest, all the way out to one of the farms. Ever since then, the Praetors are required to put out their fires. Burying them is the simplest way.”

  “Oh,” I say, because I don’t know how to respond but at least Jaxon is talking to me. The look on his face, after he had rescued me. There was betrayal in his eyes -- hate. And I thought maybe it was directed at me, but now hearing the deadened tone of his voice, I wonder if it’s himself that he hates and I don’t know which is worse.

  “What are you two doing, we need to leave,” Red comes over and interrupts us.

  “Go right ahead,” Jaxon replies sarcastically. He stalks back to the bodies on the other side of the clearing, back stiff and shovel gripped between two hands like a weapon.

  “Give us a little bit,” I say softly to Red. “Just a little”

  Red looks cross but nods his assent. “Be quick,” he orders and I smile to show him I understand but can’t make any promises.

  I follow Jaxon across the clearing to find him stabbing angrily at the ground with this shovel. I start on my own grave, a few feet away from him. With the shovel I reveal fresh ground, layer after layer and it’s nothing like the dirt of the city. The scent of it is musty and fresh and alive. For a moment it’s enough to let me forget about the bodies smoldering a few yards away

  We dig the graves in silence. Before long my shoulders begin to burn, my fingers to tremble, but I attack the ground over and over with the shovel; the discomfort a reminder, that at the very least, I am still alive. The graves we dig are so shallow they’re almost disrespectful, but we don’t have the time or the strength to offer the dead any more.

  Blood drips down the metal handle of the shovel and I glance at my hands, certain the heavy labor must have opened blisters. But it’s my arm that is bleeding, the wound where the Praetor struck me with his synthblade. I drop the shovel and pull up my sleeve to get a closer look.

  A gasp catches in my throat as I see the ugly wound. The charge of the synthblade has cauterized the edges, leaving only the center wet with blood. I poke at the cut with one finger, unable to stop myself from touching it. I have never been wounded by a synthblade before. I’d seen their work done, when the Praetors abandon a body behind, but never has it been so…personal.

  “You should not do that.”

  “Do what?” I glance up, surprised to hear Jaxon speak.

  “Touch it. You will cause an infection.” Jaxon slams his shovel into the ground hard enough to leave the tip of it reverberating. He jumps out of the shallow grave he dug and stops a few feet away from me. “You need to treat that.”

  “Yeah,” I say and look haltingly around the clearing but I can’t focus on finding the first aid kit. I can’t focus on anything but the feel of Jaxon’s angry gaze on me and the dead surrounding us and Red pacing the edges of the camp. Somehow everything has fallen apart and I don’t know how to make things right again.

  “Here,” Jaxon says as he shoves something at me. I shake my head, bringing my thoughts back into focus. Jaxon holds out our first aid bag, gesturing for me to take it. “Give me your arm.”

  I hold out my arm and Jaxon pushes my sleeve further up. He gingerly touches the skin around the wound and pain blossoms through my arm. I bite my tongue, refusing to show any weakness to him. Not after today. Not after everything that happened. I avert my eyes, unable to watch as he smooths antiseptic over the cut.

  The bodies of the dead stare at me with unblinking eyes, like they blame me for their death and I can’t hate them for it because it truly is my fault. I thought we’d come here, we’d rescue the prisoners and take down a couple Praetors then we would be heroes. We’d be doing the right thing. But nothing went like it was supposed to. Now all I had was five deaths on my hands and Jaxon so angry I can feel it in his touch. If we’re unable to stand against a couple of Praetors, how are we supposed to rescue my sister from dozens of them?

  “Why did they do it?” I ask Jaxon. His eyes narrow at me and I clarify my question. “Why did they burn the prisoners?”

  “It is the…logical thing to do,” Jaxon replies and his mouth twists like he has a bad taste in it. He can’t meet my gaze; instead his eyes are locked on the bandaging he wraps around my arm like it is the most important task he’s ever faced.

  “When is it ever logical to murder five people?” I try to gesture with my wounded arm but Jaxon tightens his grip around my wrist.

  “Hold still,” he says.

  “Don’t tell me what to do.” I try to pull my arm away, tired of him. Tired of his arrogance and his protestations of logic. But again he holds onto my wrist and I’m too exhausted and too weak to truly free myself.

  “Then stop doing foolish things.”

  “It’s not foolish to try and help someone. It’s the Praetors who were wrong. They are monsters. Murderers. Why would they do it? Why would they kill them like that? Tell me!” And by the end I am shouting and Jaxon’s face is pinched into a tight scowl, looking like he is ready to hit me or leave me and I don’t think I know which is worse.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Jaxon mo
cks and then laughs. A sound so bitter and full of hate that it makes my heart chill. But I am so angry I could spit so I shove him away and even though it sends pain racing up my arm I don’t even care. He’s standing there, acting like a pouty child, like a victim, when there are six people who were murdered lying by his feet.

  “It is how they are trained,” Jaxon says and he stares at his hand while I wonder what he sees. “The only reason a prisoner transport would be attacked is to rescue the prisoners. Well, if there are no prisoners to rescue?” Jaxon shrugs and looks up to meet my gaze and he doesn’t have to finish his explanation for me to understand.

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “It is the way of things.”

  “It’s wrong!”

  “I know!” Jaxon whispers furiously.

  “If you know, then why are you so angry?”

  “Because!” His words are a strangled shout that send me a step back. With mud tracing his arms up to elbow and hair wild around violent eyes, for the first time Jaxon looks nothing like the Millennial he is. He looks angry, and feral and frightened like an animal backed into a corner.

  “Jaxon,” I say his name softly, realizing I have done nothing but push and push at him and maybe I am the one backing him into the corner. Realization hits me and the guilt is so strong it’s almost palpable.

  “Don’t,” he raises one hand, palm forward, to stop me as if willpower alone is enough. But I see the tremble of his fingers and it’s not a Millennial standing in front of me, or the son of the Great Uniter. It’s a boy whose whole world has come crashing down around him. A boy who’s desperately trying to hold onto what he has left.

  I step as close as I can to him without touching. I don’t want to push him anymore than I already have. I can’t. “I’m sorry that you had to kill one of the Praetors for me,” I say and am surprised to find I mean it. If I could, I would kill any Praetor who stepped in my path. They are evil and cruel and they do nothing but cause pain. But the fact it was Jaxon…