“You tell me ‘I don’t know how to do this’ and ‘I don’t have the tools,’” he said, pitching his voice in a mockingly high tone. Blade and the other meathead snickered. “Did you learn anything from Mitchell, or did he just keep you around to suck his cock?”
She flinched. It hadn’t been like that with Doc. At all. Doc had been, if not a good man, a decent man. Decent in his own way, at least.
Thalia lifted her eyes. Doc taught her a lot, but he also taught her to know her limitations. “If I dig around in Nathan for that bullet, I’d be going in blind. He will die. If I pack the wound with the stuff the military uses to stop the bleeding so we can take him to the hospital, he could live.”
Nathan circled the table, his hands making a mess of his hair. Calmly, too calmly, he took off his well-tailored suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The leather of the shoulder holster contrasted sharply with the brilliant white of the shirt. There was no missing the matte black metal or the glowing green lights of the illegal blaster in the holster. “I want to believe you, Tallie, but if I take my friend to the hospital, they’ll put a chip in his head. The government will be able to track him. That’s how they found Doc, because of the damn translation chip the aliens put in his head.”
All the stuff she had heard before. During the Invasion, when Thalia had been scrounging for food, Doc had still been a licensed, respectable member of the medical community. He worked in a refugee camp and had been fitted up with a translation chip that allowed him to talk to the alien allies. Mahdfel. Whatever.
Nicky couldn’t seem to let the idea of an implanted chip go. She got it. Really. Having a piece of hardware shoved into your brain that altered the way you processed language seemed bizarre. Unhealthy.
Keeping pressure on the wound, she glanced at her bag. The expanding foam compound was in the front pocket. If she used it without permission, Nicky might take Nathan to the hospital.
Or he might punish her for defying him. She never knew if she would get Reasonable Nicky or Punisher Nicky.
That wasn’t completely true. Punisher Nicky had taken up permanent residence since Doc’s murder. He struggled to maintain his control over his business, but younger, hungrier rivals kept coming.
“A man should have privacy in his own home. In his mind.” Nicky’s delivery grew more hurried and more erratic. Blade and meathead shared a look.
“Tell me what you want to do,” Thalia said.
His head whipped around, his body tight with tension and all his attention focused on her.
Nicky stalked toward her and gripped her head, forcing her to look him in his icy, empty eyes. His fingers dug into her scalp to the point of pain. “Are you certain he won’t make it? Are you telling me that Nathan is as good as dead? Right now. Dead. Even though he’s still breathing?”
“Yes. If the bullet hit an organ, he needs surgery. Even if I dig it out, he needs blood to recover, and nothing in here is sterile. He’ll get an infection and go septic.” It was a terrible way to die, your body burning alive from fever. She had seen it once before, with a low-level flunky who waited too long to be stitched up by Doc. He didn’t respond to the antibiotics they had on hand. The really strong stuff was harder to get than gold.
Nicky’s gaze bore into hers, determining the veracity of her statement. This close, the stink of his cologne and stale cigarette smoke burned her sinuses. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Her shoulders slumped in relief.
“Okay.” Nicky turned to Nathan’s prone form on the kitchen table and leaned down, whispering in his friend’s ear. “I won’t let them have you. I won’t let them.”
He kissed Nathan’s forehead and drew himself up to his full height, pulling Nathan into a sitting position. With an arm wrapped around the unconscious man’s shoulders, the harsh overhead light was unforgiving on his lean frame, highlighting every brutal angle. Pulling out the blaster from his shoulder holster, the weapon hummed, and he shot Nathan once in the center of his forehead.
The back of his head exploded like a melon, spraying the wall and everyone in the vicinity.
Thalia screamed and jumped back; her bloody gloved hands clamped over her mouth. She bumped into the counter, the hard edge jabbing into her hip. The spray coated her eyeglasses. Everywhere she looked was an abattoir.
She could taste it, all salty and metallic. She could taste Nathan in her mouth.
Nicky holstered the blaster and calmly reached around Thalia to rinse his hands in the sink. Blood spattered his expensive white dress shirt and clung to his face. A car pulled into the driveway, the lights moving across the walls. He grabbed a towel for his hands and then used it on his face. The towel merely smeared the blood across his skin instead of removing it.
He grinned at her, the blood of his friend on his lips and in his mouth. “Now, I’ve got more men coming in with various workplace injuries. Are you going to be able to help them or should I save us all the trouble and put a bullet in their brains when they walk through that door?”
“No. No. I can do it,” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
He smiled, all teeth and empty, cold eyes, and raised a hand as if to pat her on the side of her face. He hesitated. “Get cleaned up. We’re professionals.” He turned to others, “Take Nathan to the funeral home. Get him something nice. Lilies and roses, all that shit. You know how he was.”
The men shuffled their feet, unsure.
“Now!” Nicky barked and they sprang into action.
Thalia tore the gloves off her shaking hands and tried to scrub herself clean, to no avail.
Havik
The elders say the sun could burn away most anything, and if the sun can’t scour it away, then the sand could.
Havik walked the sands for three months. He headed north because he had never seen the ocean. The idea of so much water seemed unfathomable. As a youth, he had wanted to see the sunlight glitter on the ocean’s surface like shattered glass and have the waves crash at his feet. Fathers often took their sons on the journey when they reached a certain age, venturing out into the sands for weeks.
Havik had dreamed of the journey, of sweating during the day as he and his father walked the endless miles, of the cold nights spent camping under the stars, just him and his father. No one to compete with for the warlord’s attention.
The journey never happened. Years passed. He told himself it was not that important if he missed a rite of passage with his father. Not everyone could survive the weeks in the extreme heat of the day and the freezing temperatures of the night with little water and only the food they could hunt. Many failed. Even more never made the attempt. His father’s lack of interest held no deeper meaning.
Havik had looked forward to standing on the ocean’s rough shore with his son.
It was not to be.
When Vanessa arrived, Havik had been overjoyed. He ignored the whispered concern from his father that the soft Terran female could not thrive on Rolusdreus or that he was barely old enough to avoid tripping over his tail. True, he was young, and the wind and sand would strip her delicate skin to the bone, but that did not matter. She could not tolerate the radiation levels and had to be kept indoors, shielded constantly.
Havik did not care. She was for him and him alone. Her differences, her softness, made her beautiful. Sequestered away to the shadows, the rest of the clan never set eyes on his uncommon mate. He already had to share his father with the clan, as Kaos was the warlord. Surely the universe would be kind enough to allow Havik this selfishness.
The universe was not kind. He had only to look out to the wastelands that stretch from east to west to know that little survived on Rolusdreus, especially kindness.
Ultimately, his father had been correct.
“You lost your mate and son,” Kaos said in that flat, brisk tone Havik heard so often before. His father offered to arrange the funeral fires for Vanessa and their unnamed, unborn child so Havik could walk the sands. The unusually genero
us offer surprised him. Finally, Kaos saw Havik. He saw that his son needed him, despite being a mature male. This tiny scrap of acknowledgment bolstered Havik, and he hoarded it close to his heart.
Havik walked to stay ahead of his grief. If he kept moving, he could outpace his traitorous thoughts that whispered he had not paid enough attention to his mate. He failed to notice how she struggled or how exhaustion took her after the simplest of tasks. In his selfishness for a son, he overlooked his mate, and now he had neither.
The flowing fabric of his hooded wrap and trousers kept his temperature regulated during the heat of the day and kept him warm in the freezing nights. He dug roots for water. He hunted the small creatures that burrow under the sand. The mechanics of keeping his body alive kept him too occupied to worry about the sharp pang of grief.
Eventually, he arrived at the north shore.
The light broke across the water like shards of glass.
His feet sank into the damp sand.
The cool water smelled of brine. Unusual creatures lived in the waters and the tide pools. The air was cooler than he liked, but he constructed a fire from driftwood to stave off the cold.
Days blended together. When he felt more like himself and less like a male hollowed out by disappointed fancies, he returned to the clan.
“A monster stalks the sands.” When Havik arrived at the village clustered around a desert oasis, the elders greeted him with their problem. He came to replenish his water but welcomed the opportunity to hunt.
Laying on his belly atop a sand dune, he lowered the binoculars. The creature was not a monster. Kumakre were normally docile, if territorial. They burrowed under the sands, as did many creatures on the planet, and hunted via vibrations. A young warrior is told to walk softly across the sands and to speak only with solid ground under their feet.
A kumakre only attacked a settlement for two reasons: a fungal infection that inflamed the brain or poachers. The infection made the creatures abnormally aggressive. They attacked everything from the smallest sand vermin to entire settlements and had to be put down to end the violence. Poachers, however, disturbed their nests. Unable to distinguish between one villain and an innocent, the kumakre killed indiscriminately until it felt the threat had been eradicated.
If Havik could not find the powdery white fungus in the crevices between the carapace, then the village harbored a poacher. Ancient tradition claimed the kumakre’s shell, when ground into a powder, could extend a person’s life. Such claims were false, but that did not stop the desperate and fearful.
Sleek dark red, nearly sanguine under the moonlight, the kumakre approached the oasis. It was a gorgeous creature, lethal with two front pincers, six legs, and a barbed tail that curled upward to strike.
Havik hated to end the kumakre’s life, but it had attacked vehicles traveling the main road to the village. Soon it would attack the village itself. Beings would be injured, possibly killed. Havik had spent his entire life training to protect the people of his home world, from Suhlik or any other threat. He would not let the village suffer.
He crouched down, his right hand holding a blade. Energy coursed along the cutting edge, glowing a faint blue. The blade itself, honed to a wicked sharpness, was not strong enough to pierce the carapace. The added boost of electrical charge would be enough if Havik aimed true. A badly placed blow would bounce off the kumakre’s shell and he’d be exposed to the barbed tail. The venom in the barb was potent enough to slow a Mahdfel’s heart, making him sluggish and vulnerable to attack by the pinchers.
A prepared warrior would wear a complete set of armor, but armor was heavy to carry and too hot to wear under the Rolusdreus sun. Havik had a reinforced jacket, hardly adequate coverage.
Best to avoid being jabbed.
Injuries only enraged the creature. Hormones flooded its body, giving it a boost in strength. An injured kumakre was a formidable opponent. The fastest way to end the battle was to pierce the creature’s brain.
The kumakre raised its head, mandibles flexing as it tasted the air.
“Turn back. Do not make me end you,” he whispered.
It moved toward the village.
Now.
Havik sprang into action, running along the crest of the dune. Sand gave way under his feet, but he had months of practice walking on the sand. He adjusted his posture with each step, moving swiftly and making no more noise than a whisper.
He leaped down, landing in a crouch, and barely pausing before running straight at the kumakre. At the last moment, he veered left, dodging the tail strike, and slashing with his blade.
Aiming for the joint in a leg, the blade sliced through the weak spot. The kumakre shrieked as the limb fell away.
Havik spun, dust floating in the air. Reduced to five legs, the creature still moved swiftly. The tail lashed out. He rolled away but did not escape unscathed. The barb pricked his right leg, near his ankle.
Rising to his feet, his right foot already felt sluggish and numb. He had little time.
Havik leaped onto the beast’s back. It bucked and thrashed, trying to dislodge him, but his legs wrapped around its torso tightly. The tail struck him again and again in his shoulders and back, each blow hitting his armor jacket.
The kumakre had a vulnerable point in the back of its head where two carapace plates joined. He noticed the deep black color of the joint with disappointment. No powdery white fungus.
Energy hummed along the edge of the blade, crackling blue, as he pushed it in. Meeting resistance, he threw his entire weight against the blade, driving it deeper.
The dying shrieks of the kumakre filled the desert air. The tail whipped about dangerously, hitting the back of his neck and his jaw.
Havik held tight, refusing to loosen his grip until the creature stilled. He slid off it, landing ungracefully on his back. The venom made him lethargic. He needed to reach shelter to protect him from the cold night air before his body shut down.
Stumbling to his feet, he retrieved his abandoned pack and returned to the creature to remove his blade. His hand fumbled around the handle, but it would not move. Frowning, he realized he had run out of time.
Once more, he tried for the blade, this time wiggling it out. Blood and fluid oozed out of the wound.
Grasping the tail, still warm to the touch, he said, “You were a worthy foe. I will wear your barb with pride.” Concentrating, he removed the barb and placed it in his pack. Warriors who defeated a kumakre alone often wore the barbs around their necks. He would do the same—if he survived the night.
Havik dumped half his pack onto the ground. He curled up next to the hulking body of the kumakre, letting it block the wind. His heart thudded slowly. The natural effects of the cold on his person combined with the venom threatened to drag him down into unconsciousness. Wrapped into a foil sheet designed to trap body heat, he would stay awake and endure the night.
The poacher had been apprehended in short order. In an outbuilding, Havik searched through documents and equipment for any other collaborators. He found evidence that the poacher worked for a wealthy individual in another settlement. They were also arrested.
Then, buried under heavy tarps and broken equipment, he found a trunk with a heavy, top quality lock. Curious. The trunk was rickety and nearly falling apart. Why give it such an expensive lock?
Using the handle of his blade, he broke the rusted hinges and removed the top. Inside, three pink shelled eggs nestled in rough cloth.
Kumakre eggs.
Another three months. Wind and sand scour away the top layers of his epidermis. The sand worked its way into every joint in his tail. He tasted sand, constantly. He dreamed of sand.
Fucking sand.
Only one of the kumakre eggs had been viable. Using his pack as a harness, he kept the egg warm with his body heat. One day, it jostled and cracked, and an infant kumakre emerged.
With pieces of damp shell clinging to its bright red back, Havik offered it water and dried insect mill as a first
feeding.
Havik wanted to leave it in the sands but it followed him, chirping, and tumbling on unsteady legs. It was too small to survive on its own. Reluctantly, he carried the tiny creature, telling himself that it was only until it was big enough to hunt for itself. He could barely care for himself, much less a companion.
Weary down to his bones, he approached the domed city. Perched on his shoulder, the kumakre rattled its segmented tail. Sand rippled across the pavement in the wind. The setting sun turned the sky red and the spire of the city appeared gray. Small points of light flared into existence.
Home.
He could already feel the pulse of the sonic shower surrounding him as it dissolved dirt and grime and tasted his mother’s sweet rolls. With each step, he created a menu, a feast of fruit soaked in rich syrups and covered in chopped nuts, bread still warm from the oven, slathered with a thick layer of butter, water so cold it made his teeth ache, and anything that did not involve him picking sand out of his teeth.
As much as he longed for the comforts of the city, Havik settled on a cluster of rocks near the road. He unscrewed the cap to the water container and filled it for the kumakre. While it drank its fill, he sipped. Thirst quenched, the kumakre returned to its perch on his shoulders. Watching the sky change from a placid blue to a vivid orange streaked with pink and gold, he fed the creature tiny pieces of dried meat and fruit. His companion hummed and chirped, blending with the wind.
The air grew cold as the sun vanished below the horizon and the lights of the city sparkled in the darkness. A dome contained the city, protecting the inhabitants from the elements and the worst of the radiation that still lingered in the sands. As a Mahdfel, his ancestors had once been genetically engineered to be the perfect soldiers and slaves. Since rebelling and winning their freedom, they were further altered to better fit the harsh environment of Rolusdreus.
The most recent addition to a long line of highly specialized warriors, Havik required less water and sustenance in the extreme heat. He was resistant to the high levels of radiation and lingering toxicity in the sands.
Havik: Warlord Brides (Warriors of Sangrin Book 9) Page 2