Chapter 8
Acts of Rage
I stared at the knife in my father's chest – seeing it, but not really understanding it. My consciousness was splintered into too many fragments and this was too painful, too unexpected.
The knife demanded my attention and the splinters of my consciousness came rushing back together, forcing my mind to be whole once more.
Which meant I could no longer hold those hundreds of snare tendrils. In an instant, I lost control and the snares turned to wispy black smoke.
And let Thuanar free.
Between the shock of seeing my father stabbed and the adjustment of having hundreds of pieces of my mind suddenly slammed back together, I felt dizzy and the edges of my vision started to fade to black. The strength went out of my legs, and I dropped to my knees.
By sheer stubbornness and force of will, I managed to remain conscious, but by the time I regained enough composure to stand again, Thuanar was already disappearing from sight.
He was free.
For a moment I considered running after Thuanar to catch him. That’s what my dad would have told me to do. But he wasn’t conscious to tell me that, and I needed to know he was ok.
I dropped to my knees beside him and checked to see if he was still breathing.
He was.
I took a deep breath. That meant there was still a chance. I examined the knife wound. The knife had struck him in the right shoulder, just clipping the edge of his collar bone. The wound looked high enough up that the knife wouldn’t have hit any vital organs.
A yellow, sticky substance coated the part of the knife that still stuck out of Dad’s shoulder.
I had seen that substance before. The last time we had been down in Mexico someone had shot at me with a bone dart coated with that toxin. The toxin killed normal humans, but paralyzed Berserkers and gave them vivid hallucinations so they could be transported to a seal and sacrificed to open it.
Then it registered – it killed normal humans.
Like my dad.
The poisoned knife was meant for me, but my dad had blocked it with his own body.
It killed normal humans.
Anger welled up inside me. Someone had killed my father.
I was going to make them pay.
An eerie feeling of calm settled over me. I was more angry than I had ever been in my life. More angry than I had even thought possible. My anger had grown so overwhelming that it no longer manifested in blind rage – I was way beyond rage. This was a cold, single-minded fury that would not be denied.
And it made me the single most dangerous creature to ever walk the earth.
Calmly, I scanned my surroundings. Shing and Josiah were running towards me, no longer forced to defend themselves against the bird-monsters. Rhys was still unconscious, but Onaona was attempting to take care of his wounds.
There.
I couldn’t see him, but with my enhanced hearing I located the sound of echoing footsteps moving away. The killer was still close.
He would not escape.
Propelled by grief and hate, I sprinted toward the assassin. It took me exactly six heartbeats to catch up with him as he ran down a side street.
I rushed past him to the end of the street and turned around to face the killer.
I recognized him.
It was the curly-haired man from the airport. The creepy guy with the hoodie. My initial reaction was shock.
Who was he? And how had he gotten here?
My accelerated thoughts churned through the possibilities in an instant to come up with the most likely scenario – he followed us and then moved in to attack once the vortex and the birds disappeared.
I narrowed my eyes and clenched my hands into fists.
The man’s eyes widened in fear as he saw me. He stumbled to a halt and turned around, running back the way he came.
Effortlessly, I stretched out my arms and shot out a snare. The thick cables flew from my fingers and wrapped around the man, lifting him off the ground. I used a tendril to grab his hair and pull his head back, exposing his neck. I raised my varé and brought him in close to face me. I rested the tip of my weapon against his throat.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” I asked. My voice was calm and steady. I pushed on the varé just hard enough to break the skin and draw some blood.
Tears streamed down the man’s face. “What are you?” he asked.
“I asked you a question,” I said. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
“It was just a job,” he said.
“Just a job?” I repeated, my voice rising in volume. “You killed my father!”
Holding the man above my head with the cables from my snare, I ran back to the prone figure of my father. Shing and Miguel had removed the knife from his chest and were examining the wound.
I lowered the man in front of me and held him suspended, less than a foot above my dad. “Look at him,” I said, and then screamed at the top of my voice. “Look at him!”
The man let out a garbled sob, tears and snot freely mixing and running down his face.
But I had no pity for this murderer. Not after what he had done to my father. I lifted him into the air and wrapped the tendrils of my snare around his wrists and ankles. I then slowly began to pull, stretching him out above my head.
He let out a moan as the pressure became uncomfortable. That moan quickly turned into a scream as I pulled harder. I wanted to kill him. Rip him apart and then fling his limbs as far as I could.
I was vaguely aware of Shing and Miguel talking to me, pleading with me to stop what I was doing. But their words were little more than an empty buzz in my head. This man hadn’t murdered their fathers. Who were they to tell me what to do?
I pulled harder.
A soft voice cut through the anger and rage. It wasn’t loud, but it penetrated through the hate and pierced my heart.
“Stop.”
It was Rhys. He still lay on the ground, cut and bloodied, but he was now conscious and reaching out a hand toward me.
I ran to him and knelt on the bricks beside him. His face still had marks from where chunks of flesh had been ripped out, but the bleeding had stopped and they looked liked they had already begun to heal and form new skin.
I took Rhys’ hand and squeezed it tightly. He looked into my eyes and it was as if a wind came and blew away the fog of anger and hate that had enveloped me. The deep anger and rage that had threatened to consume me minutes before dissipated and, for a moment, he and I were connected in a way we hadn’t been since that first day of class.
“Let him go, Madison. This isn’t you.”
And then I realized that I still held the man above me, his arms and legs stretched tight in my snare. He was no longer screaming because he had passed out. Whether from fear or pain I didn’t know.
My stomach churned as I realized what I had been doing – I had almost killed a man. Yes he was a murderer, but I had almost ripped him in half. I would have, too, if Rhys hadn’t stopped me. I could hardly wrap my mind around what I had almost done. What I had clearly been capable of.
I remembered the man asking what I was. What was I, indeed? Was I the kind of monster who could kill a man in such a brutal fashion? The chilling answer seemed to be yes, I was. Tears began to roll down my cheeks.
I set the man down and let the tendrils of my snare turn to smoke and blow away. The man still seemed to be breathing, so that was something.
Rhys reached up a hand and brushed away my tears. “Don’t cry,” he said. “You didn’t do it. You stopped yourself. We all deal with rage. It comes with being a Berserker.”
“You don’t,” I said.
Rhys shook his head. “Even I do. I almost lost control today.” He hesitated. “I think I felt what it’s like to go feral today.”
The thought of Rhys going feral filled me with such agony that I could hardly hold onto the thought. It was like the mental equivalent of a burning hot stone. Every time I tried to hold ont
o it the pain was too great, and I had to let go.
My thoughts were interrupted by Shing calling me to come over to where he knelt by my father.
“Go,” Rhys said. “I’ll be fine.”
I hesitated, not sure I was ready to deal with seeing my Dad’s corpse.
Rhys nodded, gave my hand a squeeze, and then let go.
I took a deep breath and stood up, mentally preparing myself for what I needed to do. I walked over to where Shing knelt, a distance of maybe twenty yards, but time had slowed down for me, and it felt like it took at least half a lifetime to get there.
I stood over my father’s corpse and did my very best not to feel anything. I tried to be ice, but the best I could manage was a half-melted slush.
Shing had removed the knife and placed a makeshift bandage on the wound. A rather pointless gesture, but I appreciated the effort he had made to make him look more presentable.
And then I noticed the breathing.
Hope briefly surged, but reality reared its ugly, yet practical, head and punched it in the face before it had a chance to grow. The poison must take longer to work than I thought.
“How much longer does he have?” I asked. It was the question I had to ask, but didn’t really want to know the answer to.
Shing shook his head. “I do not know,” he said. “He should be dead already. I’ve seen this toxin before and it kills regular people almost instantly.”
I took a moment to let that sink in. Dad should already be dead from his wound, but was somehow alive. The toxin kills ordinary people, but paralyzed Berserkers and gave them vivid hallucinations.
Yes somehow, my Dad wasn’t dead. He also wasn’t an ordinary human. He had once been a Berserker. Could that make a difference?
It had better. That was his only hope.
“I hate to be the one to point this out,” said Josiah, “but Thuanar is hightailing it out of here in a hurry and getting farther away by the second. I feel bad about your dad and all, but I’m pretty sure he’d want us to catch the Havoc.”
I looked at the unconscious figure of my dad. I didn’t want to leave him. What if he died while I was gone? Could I live with myself if I missed the last few minutes of his life?
But could I live with myself if Thuanar escaped and others died because I didn’t at least try to catch him?
I knew what my dad would tell me to do. He was always practical. I could imagine his voice in my head: “I’m completely unconscious, Madison. Let’s be realistic. I can’t tell if you’re here or not. Go catch the Havoc.”
“All right,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Josiah let out a whoop of excitement and tipped his hat to me.
“Let’s do this,” he said, and flicked open his varé.
We took off at a run in the direction Thuanar had gone. I couldn’t see or hear him, but I could still use my Berserker senses to feel him. He was still nearby. He was moving quickly, but he was still close enough to track.
Josiah and I sped through the empty city, weaving in and out of streets and corridors. The city blurred around us as we ran, leaping over cars and the occasional building. Josiah got fancy and pulled out some parkour moves doing all sort of crazy leaps and jumps that would have killed an ordinary person. I had to admit it was pretty impressive. Parkour done by a Berserker was a whole other level of nuts.
I may not have had parkour moves like Josiah, but it felt good to be able to move at an all out sprint again. It wasn’t often that I got to run as fast as I could. Since Berserkers run so fast we needed a really big area to pull out all the stops like this. An abandoned city was the perfect place to do it and a rare opportunity.
Slowly the feeling of heat and nausea began to grow, moving from noticeable, past uncomfortable, and straight on to horrifically agonizing. It took an act of supreme will just to keep from losing my lunch.
We were clearly moving in the right direction.
A few minutes later we caught sight of him on a small bridge that spanned a narrow river running through town. He turned around to glare at us, and then galloped away as quickly as his six legs could carry him.
My quarry in sight, I kept running at a full-out sprint. I dug deep and was able to go even faster. I slowly began to pull away from Josiah and cut the distance between me and Thuanar.
Sprinting as a Berserker was a strange phenomenon. You never got that feeling of tightness in your chest as your breathing became labored or had difficulty forcing your legs to keep moving at the desired speed. Since becoming a Berserker, a flat out sprint really felt no more strenuous than a brisk walk. A part of me kept looking for those signs, knowing that they are natural and normal when sprinting, but they never came. I felt like I could run all day, and a part of me wondered how far and how fast I could go if I had the time and place to run for as long as I could. A hundred miles? A thousand?
Once I got within twenty yards of Thuanar, I began to gather my power to cast a snare. Black tendrils shot out from my hands, snaking their way toward the Havoc. He either knew what I was doing, or was the luckiest monster on the planet. Right as my tendrils reached for him, Thuanar turned the corner and they flew past him.
Well, the majority did.
Two of my thick cable-like tendrils managed to wrap around the spines running down his back. For an instant everything was in perfect balance as the Havoc reached the full length of my snare.
Then with a jolt, I was yanked forward and slammed against the side of a building and dragged along it as I made my own – rather ungraceful – turn around the corner.
It would take more than being slammed into the side of a building to really hurt me, but it did disrupt my concentration and I lost hold on Thuanar as my snares dissipated into dark black smoke.
I rolled several times and tumbled to a stop in time to see Josiah rush past me, capitalizing on the slowdown that my snare had caused.
He leaped onto a large truck and from there onto a long building with a relatively flat roof. He ran to the edge and made a spectacular jump into the air, landing on the back of one very surprised Thuanar.
I was more surprised that he hadn’t landed on one of Thuanar’s spines and somehow impaled himself. That was some impressive timing on the leap. Since those spines were part of a living creature, they could still do some serious damage to a Berserker.
Josiah grabbed the horns on Thuanar’s head and started twisting the creature’s head toward the ground. Thuanar let out a bellow of rage and managed to lift his neck into the air and began to thrash wildly about, attempting to dislodge Josiah. He held on tightly, but flopped this way and that like a rag doll being tossed around by the world’s grumpiest – and ugliest – toddler.
I got to my feet and ran after them, ready to help Josiah subdue Thuanar.
But I was too late to stop what happened.
Josiah’s grip slipped on one of the horns. We may have super strength, but we don’t have extra friction. His body twisted as he tried to hold on with one hand and his legs swung directly in front of Thuanar’s massive jaws.
In an instant Thuanar bit off Josiah’s right leg, severing it just above the knee.
Josiah let out a high-pitch scream and his remaining hand let go of Thuanar’s horn. He dropped to the ground and collapsed in a heap, the stump of his leg spurting blood.
Thuanar roared, the severed leg falling from his mouth and once again began running away.
It was a testament to just how much gross stuff I had experienced in the past year that the sight of a severed leg didn’t make me pass out.
Now I was faced with a choice. Did I chase after Thuanar, or try to help Josiah keep from bleeding out and what would be almost certain death? Duty told me that I should chase after Thuanar, but my conscience wouldn’t let me leave a friend to die.
But hadn’t I just left my dad to die?
This was clearly different. With my dad there wasn’t anything I could do. He was unconscious and nothing I did would have made any difference. With
Josiah I might still be able to save him. It was a slim chance, but with Berserker healing anything was possible.
I couldn’t leave him to die.
With one last frustrated look at the disappearing Thuanar, I ran over to Josiah. His ‘zerk was gone, and he looked strangely fragile and vulnerable in a heap on the ground. I pulled him straight and laid him on his back. Blood continued to spurt from the severed artery. I needed something to stop the bleeding.
Like all good cowboys, Josiah had been wearing a belt with a big buckle. I pulled the belt out and cinched it around his thigh attempting to slow down the flow of blood and give it a chance to clot.
And then I had a sudden idea. I knew Berserkers couldn’t regrow a lost limb, but maybe the healing powers would allow it to reattach?
I shot out a snare and used it to pick up his severed leg. It still had his shoe on and his mangled pant leg around it. I tried not to look at the jagged pieces of bone sticking out of the top as I brought it over.
I pulled off the ripped piece of his jeans and set his leg next to the stump it had once been attached to. Taking a deep breath, I attempted to line up the pieces of bone together as best I could, making sure they were touching. I could almost feel pain myself as the pieces of bone scraped together while I tried to align them as best I could. I used several more tendrils of snare to wrap around his leg and hold the splintered bones in place. When I was done, I loosened the belt on Josiah’s leg.
At first nothing seemed to happen. Blood began to flow from the wound, but that was to be expected. Then bits of white began form around the broken bones. I held my breath as tiny threads began to form around the muscles, slowly growing and knitting together.
It was working! His body was accepting the severed leg as still part of it. I had seen Berserkers – including myself – heal from wounds before. It had always been pretty quick – the magic healed the damage in a matter of minutes. This time the healing was much slower. Apparently this wound was taxing his healing abilities to their very limit and they were just able to make it work. It reminded me of a toy train I had as a child. When the batteries started to die, the train had difficulty making it up the hills on the tracks. Gradually the train grew slower and slower until it could no longer make it up the hills and got stuck.
Bonds That Break (The Havoc Chronicles Book 3) Page 11