Relapse (Breakers Book 7)

by Edward W. Robertson

  * * *

  Before he left, he circled the reservoir. There was no particular reason for it, but he had six days left and his mind could only take so much staring at a bobber. Besides, it was good to know the land. Raina and her people were proving that much. If worse came to worst and they ever had to flee the Heart, it could come in handy to have a handle on places to camp and feed and water.

  Around the back side of the lake, he spotted prints in the dirt. Shoes. He placed his shoe next to one of the prints. Right about the same size, but the prints would have shrunk as they'd dried. When had it last rained? It had been weeks, he thought—they were in the middle of a drought and the rainy season wouldn't pick up for another month or so.

  There were other marks besides the shoes. Round holes in the soil, as if the man had been walking with a cane or a staff. Lowell bent and stuck his finger in one of the holes. It went down to the second knuckle. He touched the pistol on his belt and scanned the trees.

  Over the next few days, he continued west, scouting as he went. He soon had more fish than he could reasonably eat, but he still cast a line wherever there was water, if only to remember the look of concentration on Garrett's face. He marked his map with his results, too. When he got back, he'd assign someone to come back out and do a more thorough survey.

  He didn't like to admit it, but Anson had been right. The days off were good for him. The shade of the woods, the gentle beat of the lake on its shores. It would make a certain amount of sense to keep going. To hike north into the Cascades. Alaska, even. It would be peaceful, beautiful beyond compare. He knew he would be happy, or close enough to pass muster.

  He couldn't, though. All those people in Los Angeles, the ones Anson was shepherding toward their murky future, they were starting to have kids. In the scheme of things, his life wasn't worth much. He'd survived and found survival wasn't enough. Building a real future for those kids—if he could do that, he would know that he'd done just fine.

  With two days to go, he turned around for home, setting an easy pace. When he rode up to the gates, the sentry let him know Anson was looking for him. Lowell dropped off his horse at the stables and hustled to Anson's stately home overlooking the lake.

  "He's upstairs," the servant said. "I'll inform him you're here."

  "I'll save you the trip." Lowell brushed past him and jogged up the stairs. Anson was in the bathroom, shaving, bare to the waist. Lowell met his eyes in the mirror. "Do you have word from Catalina?"

  "Not yet," Anson said.

  "Then what'd you call me in for?"

  He set down his straight razor. "To ask how you enjoyed your vacation!"

  "The meeting was last night, wasn't it? Why haven't we heard from them?"

  "I can't say. And we can't exactly send over a scout. So how about you accept that we're momentarily powerless, and tell me what you did on your fucking vacation?"

  "I went fishing," Lowell said.

  "And?"

  "Hiked around. You were right. It was good."

  Anson grinned and picked up the razor. "Good to hear. Remember, we're a team here. If you're ever feeling worn out, there's no reason you can't step out for a few days."

  Lowell nodded. "So what happened while I was out? Have you heard anything out of the aliens?"

  Anson ran the razor down the soft part of his neck. "The bugs? No, it's like I said, they're keeping their heads down. Why?"

  "They've been awful quiet lately."

  "Is there something wrong with quiet?"

  "Not until there is." He got out a piece of gum, letting the shards soften in his mouth before chewing. "Think I'll head to the Dunemarket."

  Anson swished the razor in a bucket of water. "Good thinking. They'll probably be the first to hear anything from the island."

  Lowell shook his empty pack of gum. "Plus I'm out of this."

  Both these things were true. He also did his best thinking while he was riding. The tracks by the reservoir weren't fresh, but they couldn't have been that old, either.

  Either the aliens were cheating on them, or Anson was lying to him.

  10

  Raina stumbled back against her chair, grabbing for her throat.

  Dashing bolted to his feet. "Milady? Are you choking? She's choking!"

  Arms wrapped around her back. A fist settled over her gut and drove upwards, gouging into her belly. Her head swam with alcohol and foul poison. Was she being assaulted? She raked her nails across the attacker's forearms.

  Mauser cried out and let her go. "Christ, Raina, I'm trying to help!"

  She moved a step from the table, knees bent, arms out. "I'm not choking. I've been poisoned."

  "Poisoned?" Mauser said. "Raina, are you—?"

  She pointed to the glass of beer. "Smell it."

  Mauser glanced across the table, as if searching for signs it was a prank. Shocked faces stared back at him: Dashing, his retinue, Tina, Gates, a handful of soldiers and warriors.

  Raina stuck her finger down her throat, dislodging a great quantity of stew-like matter from her stomach. Mauser gaped at her, then moved toward the table and reached for the glass. Before he could pick it up, Billy rushed in, slapping Mauser's hands aside. Billy grabbed the glass of red beer and chugged it, foam and spittle dribbling down his chin.

  "You son of a bitch!" Dashing flung himself at Billy, tackling him into the side of the table.

  The wooden edge drove into Billy's side. He fell on the table, pawing at a platter of bison chunks. At the other end of the table, Dashing's soldiers drew their pistols. Raina's warriors pulled out guns and knives. Raina's skin felt hot, itchy. Her stomach gurgled. Her mouth tasted sour.

  Dashing wrestled Billy to the ground and used his knees to pin the boy's arms. "What did you do, you idiot?" When the boy didn't answer, Dashing struck his mouth with a closed fist. "Tell me!"

  Billy grinned, blood lining the cracks between his teeth. "Exactly what they sent me to do."

  "What was in the beer, boy? Tell me and I'll make your death a fast one."

  "She and I will die together!"

  Dashing hit him again, then winced, shaking his hand. He stood and beckoned to a soldier with a scar around the outside of his left eye. "Bird! You want to beat it out of him?"

  The man moved around the table, heading their way. Raina crushed down her panic, grabbed a meat knife from the table, and kneeled beside Billy.

  "You will speak." She put the blade to his eye. "Or I will remove every part of you that doesn't produce words."

  "No!" He jerked his head away. "Stop!"

  He glanced at Dashing. There was fear in his eyes, but there were many flavors of fear. His was pleading. Raina followed his gaze to Dashing. The king showed fear, too, but not the fear of concern for a friend's safety, or even the fear of violence.

  He showed the fear of a dog that had eaten something it knows will make it sick. Seeing her stare, he tried to harden his gaze.

  "If you had a tail," she said, awash in beer and sickness, "it would be tucked."

  "Kill him!" Dashing said. "Before he gives you a second poison of lies."

  Raina raised the knife. She tensed her legs and sprung at Dashing. He outweighed her, yet he was nothing before her. As he fell, she guided the blade between his ribs and into his heart.

  They crashed to the ground. Men shouted, lifting pistols.

  "Stop!" Mauser said. "Raina, what are you doing?"

  Light remained in Dashing's eyes, so she stabbed him again. Six feet from her, Bird, the soldier with the scar, leveled his pistol. She flung herself to the side. His weapon erupted, the bullet thudding into Dashing's stomach. But the king no longer had the life to cry out.

  Mid-air, she slung the knife at Bird. Flinching, his second shot slammed into the table. The knife bit into his gut and he staggered back. Raina rolled under the table. Around it, feet shuffled and trampled. A second gun went off. Janna, one of the palace guards, fell to the floor, clutching at her bleeding ribs. Raina scampered past the ta
ble's legs and grabbed the sword from Janna's belt.

  Guns fired to all sides, filling the great hall with thunder and hellsmoke. A body crashed onto the table. A chicken carcass plopped to the ground, leaving a trail of grease and spice in its wake. Staying beneath her cover, Raina lashed out at the legs of Dashing's soldiers. As they fell, she jabbed at their faces and necks. Blood squirted up her nose.

  Her sword lodged in an eye socket. As she fought to wrench it free from the greedy skull, one of Dashing's soldiers lifted a blade and charged her, bellowing a war cry. Around the hall, men battled in knots or sniped at each other from behind the cover of stuffed chairs.

  Raina let go of her stuck sword and grabbed a mug from the table. She hurled it at the advancing soldier. As he batted at it with his sword, she smashed a plate against the table's corner. The plate cleaved in half, leaving a wickedly sharp ceramic edge. As the man rushed in, she slapped another mug at him. He turned his shoulder to it, sword cocked back in both hands.

  Raina ran right at him. He swung horizontally, sword at waist level. Raina dropped into a slide, whooshing over the polished stone floor. She slashed the broken plate across the back of the man's ankle. He shrieked and toppled. Raina dropped the plate, seized a wooden chair, and swung it down at his head. He intercepted with his blade, tangling the two.

  Raina closed on him, scooped up the plate, and came at him from the side. He shoved the wreck of plate and chair at her. Still enmeshed in the chair, the tip of his sword pierced her hip. She drove forward, freeing herself, climbed on top of him, and swept the ceramic blade across his throat.

  An arrow hissed across the room, followed by a volley of gunshots. Bird trudged across the room toward Raina, reloading his pistol. Henna appeared on the railing overlooking the hall and sent an arrow into his blood-spattered head.

  Raina stepped forward. Pain spiked in her hip and her leg buckled. She found herself seated on the floor, vision awash in gray speckles.

  "Raina?" Mauser materialized before her. He was covered in blood but appeared to be standing of his own power. "What happened?"

  "He looked to him for help," she said. "And he was scared. Not for me—of me."

  "What? You're not making any sense." He crouched beside her and touched her forehead. "Are you okay? You're as pale as I am."

  She could no longer locate her words, so she shook her head. After a moment, she thought she had stopped shaking it, but the world continued to spin, circling her like water down a drain.

  Then it was gone, and so was she.

  * * *

  She ran with them, free and pure.

  Each had their place and each had their name. She had known dogs when she was younger, before the sickness, when they had names like Peaches and Bubbles and Grandma Chiquita, but those names were no longer right. As she ran with them, she watched and she listened until their true names revealed themselves: Iron, Marrow, Skurt.

  She contemplated her own name, too, thinking that she must have a new name as well: a true one waiting to be revealed by the trials of the plague-killed city. Yet when she found her true name, she laughed: it was still Raina. For her, there was no separation between before and after. Instead, she had been born for the after. Everything before then was nothing but egg-time. Like the wait on a sidewalk before the bus arrived to take you where you needed to go.

  At first the dogs were skittish, dancing away from her with growls and flattened ears. She accepted this and ran at their fringe. When they slept, she slept nearby so they could smell her in their dreams.

  A week later, she woke to find Marrow the bull terrier sleeping beside her. He got up then, too, licking her face with his doggy tongue.

  They ran from street to street, snuffling the junipers where the others had left their mark, tracing the trails of possums and cats. In time, they learned to chase prey up trees, baying at the bottom while Raina shinnied up the branches.

  She moved from the pack's fringes to the front. There, though he was a terrier mutt, far from the largest, Thorn held sway. He ran wisely and Raina did not think to challenge him. He heard and sniffed better, and when he made judgments to run away, to growl at an enemy, or to fight, the pack was always served well.

  Though there were days of cloud, rain, and fog, every afternoon seemed to come to a warm yellow glow. You could wrap yourself in it like a blanket, or if it became too much, it was a welcome companion while napping in the shade of a tree or a porch. There were times the glow lay on the land so thickly it felt not like weather, but like a place of its own. If Thorn turned the right corner or followed the right trail, the pack might find themselves within a land of light and warmth, where all things lived forever without hunger or fear.

  One morning, before the sun was up, she woke to dense fog. It curled over the rooftops like smoke. In the trees, it gathered on the leaves and fell like rain. To escape the droplets, the pack had moved from the magnolia they'd started under to the shelter of a roofed porch.

  When Raina got up to join them and huddle in their fuzzy warmth, Thorn was nowhere to be seen.

  By dawn, he was still gone. The others wandered around the yard. Confused. Frightened. Raina walked along the damp, foggy streets, then returned to the pack to get Marrow, a dachshund with a good nose and a prudent head. At first, all Marrow wanted to do was sniff the shrubs and flowers where other dogs had peed. Then Raina got angry and shoved her.

  Marrow looked up in affront, but when she returned her nose to the sidewalk, her posture got stiff. She trotted uphill, toenails clicking, ignoring the fallen leaves and the sodden trash on the asphalt.

  Marrow swerved to the sidewalk. The fog had tried to wipe away the red puddle there, but the blood was too strong for anything less than the winter rains. Raina broke into a jog, following the red drops up the hill.

  They found him beneath a pickup truck whose windows were beaded with mist. Raina crawled under to be with him. His fur was matted, crusty in some parts and damp in others. He whined as she checked the wound. It wasn't the puncture of teeth. It was the straight line of a knife. A human. Thorn rolled his eyes to meet hers.

  "Who did this?" she said. He didn't have the strength to answer.

  She stayed with him until he died. Back at the yard, some of the dogs were still sleeping on the porch. Others sniffed the grasses, searching for food. A few wandered down the sidewalks to mark that which was theirs.

  Raina did not want it, but she knew she must fill the void. She whistled them to her. When she turned and jogged down the street, they followed.

  * * *

  "Raina?"

  She scowled. Only the dogs knew her name, and they couldn't speak.

  "Raina?" the voice repeated. "Are you awake?"

  She knew the voice. It wasn't a dog. It was a lizard. She let her eyes fall open. It was so bright that the world was nothing but light and fuzz, yet she recognized the woman leaning over the bed by her smell and her posture.

  "Mia," Raina said.

  Mia smiled down at her. Except for matters of high ceremony, Mia no longer used powder to cover the burn scars on her face, but Raina thought they were far more minor than Mia believed. They certainly hadn't put Mauser off. Between their new relationship and Mia's efforts to recover from her wounds—she'd been hurt badly in the Battle of San Pedro—Raina had seen little of the woman in weeks.

  "So you did say something." Mia went to the end table and got a glass of water. "At first I thought it sounded like a bark."

  "Where am I? This isn't the palace."

  Mia handed her the glass. "After the brouhaha, Mauser and I thought it best if you were away from the palace for a while. We had no idea how King Dashing's people would react when he didn't come home."

  "Or Anson's." Raina took a drink of water, then understood how thirsty she was and drained the glass. "They were working together."

  "That's what Mauser thought you said. I suppose I'd better not let Tina Young know you're awake."

  "Why not?"

  M
ia glanced out the window. "Because it's been sheer chaos ever since the Night of Almonds."

  "Night of Almonds?"

  "After you collapsed, you were in and out of it for a while. Mauser couldn't get you to say anything besides 'almonds.' Tina and her war council have been girding the island for invasion, but they're hoping your explanation of why you attacked Dashing can ease his people's anger. They've sent a runner here every day this week."

  "This week," Raina said, tasting the word with her mind. "How long has it been?"

  "Nine days?" Mia looked up, lips pursed. "Make it ten."

  Had she been running with the pack for so long? She could believe the dream had lasted as little as a single night or as long as an entire year. She tried to swing her legs from bed, but her hip was sore and her body felt as though it had been fed through a sieve.

  Mia sighed. "Mauser told me you'd try to do that. Trust me, as someone who's just been through this, you don't want to push yourself too hard. You'll only set yourself back."

  "Bring me drumsticks."

  "You're hungry? That's great! We were afraid the arsenic would mess with your digestion."

  "I feel like I might barf." Raina was able to sit up. "But I must bring strength to my legs. And that means I need drumsticks."

  Mia visibly bit her tongue, then nodded and went from the room. Despite her best efforts, Raina fell back asleep, but woke to the clink of a plate on the end table. It was heavy with cold, roasted chicken legs. She ate as many as she was able. Mia left her with a strange plastic contraption that would serve as a handheld bathroom for pee, along with a bell in case she needed to do "more." She spoke as if Raina might be embarrassed, but after months of running with the dogs, Raina no longer felt much of that.

  She woke again that night. Mia had left the drapes open and silvery moonlight gushed inside. Raina's hip told her that it wouldn't work. Most times, she let her body tell her when it was strong and when it was tired, but she had let her body dictate such things for more than a week.