Aether (The Shadowmark Series Book 2)

by T. M. Catron

  “Shut up,” ordered Baker. “Let’s go.” She shoved him forward, and they walked down the road with her hand on Lincoln’s arm to guide him.

  Day 90

  WHEN DOYLE HAD RETURNED TO the Nomad after one day, he claimed the first bunker had been empty. They repeated the process at the next bunker with Doyle leaving Calla in the clouds while he went down to search for Halston. A brief summer shower spattered the ship in tiny droplets.

  Onboard, Calla spent long hours studying the profiles of the missing hybrids. She had memorized each face, each strength, and each weakness. One face haunted her—Alison Baker. The hybrid had been assigned with Halston at the very beginning of the invasion. Calla had planned on questioning her after Halston’s disappearance, but other events took priority. Now Calla realized her mistake—Baker had disappeared too. Calla wanted to find her and itched to leave the Nomad. But doing so would require wresting control of the ship from Doyle.

  She found her spare clothes in the hold, stuffed behind a row of black flight suits. Why had he put them there? His behavior had definitely become more erratic since the invasion. Calla made a mental note of the oddity and went back to researching the rogues.

  On day four, Doyle returned to the Nomad with a look of satisfaction on his face. “Found him—he took the bait,” he said, settling into the captain’s chair and looking toward the mountains racing below. The Nomad mimicked Doyle’s mood, diving to fly over a small waterfall and then spiraling back into the air to break out of Earth’s atmosphere into outer space. The ship set itself into orbit over Appalachia where the dark green ribbon stood out against a lighter green.

  Calla bristled at his enthusiasm. How had he persuaded Halston to trust him? She was thinking of all the possible reasons, the most plausible being Doyle was rogue himself, when he spoke quietly.

  “Why don’t you just ask me?”

  She stood firmly in front of the chair and faced him, ready to detect a lie. “Have you betrayed the Condarri?”

  Doyle leaned back. “Yes.”

  Her heart skipped a beat at the admission. Then her temper flashed—he mocked her. “You should guard your words!”

  Doyle stood with his face inches from Calla’s. “You needed something to take back to the Condarri? Take that to them and see where it gets you! That’s why you’ve been quietly following orders—to catch me out!” Doyle mastered his voice, lowering it. “Does your loyalty lie with the Condarri or with yourself, Calla?”

  “With the Condarri, of course! But I know what you are!”

  “What makes you think you can find deception when the Condarri can’t? You’re vain, Calla. Be thankful for your life now that it has been given back to you.”

  Calla stood up as straight as possible, bringing her eyes level with his. “You mean thank you, right? Be thankful they haven’t found you out, rogue!”

  Doyle backhanded Calla so fiercely she bent over at the waist, her lip split. She straightened and spit blood onto his shoes. It wasn't the worst injury Doyle had given her. Indeed, she had dealt him far worse.

  His voice rippled low and black with rage. “That’s the last warning you will get. Do not doubt me again.”

  Day 93

  THE SPRINGWATER CREEK LODGE WAS a small, three-story brick construction nestled into the turn of a mountain parkway. Originally built for coal-miners, the hotel had fallen into disrepair in recent years. But all the rooms faced the highway and provided a view of the curving sheltered valley through each window. No one knew who the original owners were or where they might have gone.

  Cast out of the military camp weeks ago, the refugees had sheltered here. They crammed into the small rooms four or five at a time. Everyone else tumbled out into the tight parking lot, pitching tents and lighting fires under the shadow of the mountain.

  At night, campers gathered at the small lobby tables, trading stories and gambling while a fire burned cheerily in the corner fireplace. The games ended peacefully, but Mina had yet to find reason to participate in one of them. Still, she was drawn to the lively energy found when neighbors are thrown together around the same fire.

  Her months with Doyle had taught her to be wary, but so far she had fit into the tight-knit community without trouble. She kept her gun tucked under her t-shirt, her pack on her or hidden carefully away like Doyle had taught her. Mina had quickly volunteered to do chores like carrying spring water up to the building, but her knowledge of edible plants made her truly valuable to the lodgers.

  She watched two men lay down their cards. They sat at a small wooden table scooted up against the wall close to the fire. The winner, Solomon Mills, grinned at Marty across from him as he produced three queens and then tucked a new knife into his belt. His blue eyes sparkled as he rubbed his whiskers. His baseball cap read Gone Fishing on the front.

  “Care to play a hand, Mina?” Solomon asked as Marty thumped his hand on the table and left. “I’ll go easy on you.”

  Mina smiled. “No thanks. You told Marty the same thing.”

  “Marty’s been playing for years,” he said as he shuffled the cards. “This is the second time I’ve won this knife off him. He’ll win it back, always does.”

  “Maybe later. Where’s Evan?” Solomon’s fifteen-year-old grandson usually hung out in the lodge, watching the card games.

  Solomon's wooden chair creaked as he twisted to survey the room. “He caught a bunch of trout down at the creek this morning. I imagine he’s trying to find a new way to roast them over the fire. Boy’s not a great cook, but better than his gramps.”

  He rose and tucked the playing cards into his pocket. “If you’re not going to play, I better go check on him. Show him my new knife.” He touched his cap and winked at Mina before walking out. Mina smiled at Solomon’s innate Southern charm and gazed around the room.

  Others chatted around tables and on barstools. Some nights jokes flew across the room and laughter reached out the open windows into the cool mountain air, but tonight the lodgers congregated with the air of those who had labored all day—quiet and subdued. A brown-haired man in his forties sat across the room, under the window near the door. He patched a jacket with coarse, crimson thread and hummed to himself. Mina paused to listen and caught the tune of a hymn from her childhood.

  Her dad used to sing that hymn. It was his favorite.

  She listened a moment more, remembering the words. When the man finished his sewing, he left. Mina rose to go too. Then the door opened. A woman slipped through it, her eyes darting around the room like prey in a predator's territory. She wore a thin navy print dress. Her lank hair fell down around her dirty face, and mud caked her bare feet. The stranger had rolled a frayed patchwork quilt under her right arm. Her left arm hung limply at her side. She passed the tables to the corner opposite the fire, using her good arm to spread the quilt on the tile floor near Mina.

  Mina had never seen the woman before and assumed she had just arrived. The hotel offices were occupied, but the lobby was kept clear as a meeting place. A few people did sleep here. They were dubbed “homeless” by the lodgers because they had to stow their bedrolls behind the hotel counter every morning.

  Realizing she was staring, Mina stepped around the woman and walked out into the dark, her boots crunching over the gravel. The words to the hymn came to mind, and Mina paused with her hands in her pockets. She turned and caught the door as a man exited, making her way back to the fireplace. The stranger was still wrestling with the large quilt. The woman smoothed the edges before laying on it, using her good arm to pull one edge over her lame shoulder. She regarded Mina apathetically, her dull eyes containing no spark or hint of interest at being watched.

  “Name’s Eve,” she declared.

  “Hi, Eve. I’m Mina. Do you need any help?”

  Eve looked up at Mina with the same dead stare. “I can manage.”

  “Okay.” Mina waited, wishing she’d stayed outside. Eve’s emaciated body looked bony even through the quilt, and now that Mina could
see her sunken cheeks and the dark shadows under her eyes, she thought the woman couldn’t have looked more skeleton-like. Eve could have been twenty or forty; her broken body gave little indication of her true age. Unsure if she should stay or go, Mina said, “Are you new here?”

  “No.” Eve waited and watched Mina without volunteering anything else.

  “I have some food if you’re hungry.”

  “Not hungry. Ate already today. Stuffed.”

  Mina almost laughed out of pity—the woman looked barely alive. But she obviously didn’t want help. “Okay,” Mina said again and left her.

  Outside, Mina wandered through the tents, stopping near Solomon and Evan’s where the teen had burned the morning’s trout and was apologizing to his grandfather. They sat on logs in front of a small cooking fire. Evan was short for his age, yet strong and sturdy looking like his grandfather. He had the same blue eyes as Solomon but with darker hair and a down-turned mouth that contrasted sharply with his grandfather’s beaming smile.

  “It’s alright,” Solomon was saying. “It’s food.”

  Evan looked sullen, visibly upset at his failed dinner. He caught sight of Mina approaching and shoved his blackened fish into the pocket of his hoodie. Mina pretended not to notice.

  Solomon chewed his food determinedly but rose halfway before Mina waved him down. He nodded for her to sit. She did and warmed her hands over the fire.

  Solomon swallowed half the fish in one go. “Change your mind about poker?”

  She laughed. “No, not in the last ten minutes.”

  “Want some fish? Evan doesn’t like sushi, so . . .” He offered Mina a black and crispy filet, plated on tree bark, looking as if every drop of moisture had been sucked from the poor fish’s body.

  “Gramps!” Evan’s face turned beet red in the firelight.

  Mina remembered when she was hungry enough for the charred morsel to have looked like a royal feast. She glanced at Evan who now brooded at his grandfather. “Thanks,” she said, “but I came over for another reason.”

  Solomon chuckled and asked, “What’s that?”

  “A woman came into the lodge a minute ago with just a quilt. She looked injured. I thought she was new, but she said she wasn’t. She acted a little . . . off.”

  Solomon nodded. “That’d be Emily.”

  “Emily? She said her name was Eve.”

  “Huh. Never heard her use that one before. When she first came to the lodge, she introduced herself as Emily, so that’s what folks call her.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Don’t know. She just showed up one day from the road. Her clothes were bloody, her body . . . well, I’ve never seen anyone so dirty. Mud and filth all over, like she’d rolled in a pigpen. And the smell.” Solomon frowned and glanced at Evan. “Some of the women took her in, got her cleaned up. She was so skinny we thought she wouldn’t make it, but she came round after a little rest and food. Then one day she disappeared again, wandered off. She shows up now and again, but won’t let anyone feed her, and we don’t know how she feeds herself. Each time I see her I think she’s lost more of herself. Don’t know why she comes around at all except maybe to keep that last bit of human connection. You said she was injured?”

  “Her left arm hangs limp, and her shoulder droops like she doesn’t have control over it.”

  “That’s new. Maybe Helen or one of the more steady ladies can check on her. I won’t. She's terrified of men. I’m surprised she walked into the lodge tonight while they were in there. She must be pretty bad off.” Solomon stood. “I’ll go let them know.”

  Mina looked at Evan after Solomon left. “Don’t worry about the fish. It happens.”

  Evan shrugged. “I’m not worried about it.” He poked at the fire with a stick, casting up embers.

  “Okay.”

  “Emily’s weird.” Evan said it confidently as if he knew she would agree.

  Mina, taken back by the abrupt confession, thought about it for a moment. “I think she’s just been through something terrible.”

  “So’ve the rest of us, and we’re not rolling around in mud.”

  “People handle tragedy in different ways. And we don’t know what’s happened to her.”

  He made a sucking noise with his teeth and fell silent.

  What had Solomon and Evan had been through? They never mentioned it. Around here, the lodgers had an unspoken rule against talking about the invasion. Mina wasn’t in a hurry to talk about the last few months either, but ignoring the past could be a fatal mistake if the proper precautions weren’t taken. Surviving not only involved avoiding Glyphs, but protecting themselves against other alien enemies as well. Aliens that looked human. But the lodgers didn’t know about the hybrids.

  Mina had tried not to think about Doyle the last few days or wonder what had happened to him. She had gone through every scenario in her mind. Obviously the Condarri had attacked the camp near the bunker Doyle wanted to see. Had he known they were on the way? Was that why he made the comment about running? If he’d been aware of what was going to happen, he could have given her more warning instead of dumping her out of the ship. For every logical explanation she devised for his absence, three illogical ones popped up in its place. But Mina couldn't shake her feeling of abandonment, no matter how many times she told herself Doyle couldn’t help it. He may even be dead. Mina watched the fire and tried to push the thought away.

  “You two are a happy pair,” Solomon said as he returned. “Helen’s checking on Emily.”

  Mina stood to go. “Let me know if I can do anything.” She said her goodbyes and walked to her tent.

  The next morning, Mina didn't see Emily at all. According to one of the homeless, she had rolled up her quilt and disappeared at first light. Mina went about her day, hiking into the woods above the hotel to look for food. She had to hike farther every day to find it. With so many people to feed, would it run out? And what were they going to do for winter? She’d heard someone discussing building a smokehouse and cellar, but so far no one had put the words into action.

  If Doyle never returned, Mina had little choice but to stay at the lodge or some place like it. She couldn’t wander around the woods on her own forever. Last night, she had again tried to assess her feelings for Doyle, but she remained as confused about him as ever. And how did he feel about her? A nagging thought kept returning: he wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble to protect her if he didn’t care. But maybe hybrids were different.

  And then she couldn't shake those images of hybrids fighting like animals until they were all destroyed. Yes, hybrids were powerful, and violent. Doyle had tried to tell her. Was he really like that? Yes. He’d killed hybrids and humans—she’d seen it. By his own admission, he’d sent whole camps of people to their deaths. But all Mina could think about was whether he was coming back for her.

  At midday she placed the dandelions she’d found into a pouch and headed back to camp. When she arrived, several lodgers stood out by the road. A woman and two men walked slowly down the road, headed for the hotel. The woman and the smaller man supported the larger man between them. Two lodgers jogged to meet them. Then they all had an extended conversation there in the middle of the parkway. Solomon joined Mina.

  “What are they talking about?” she asked.

  “Dunno. Seems like they don’t want them here for some reason.” He was right—the three were being escorted past the hotel. The injured man breathed heavily as they passed. He looked familiar to Mina, but she couldn’t place him. When Solomon saw their faces, though, he walked to the two lodgers who had refused the group and argued with them about something. At the end, Solomon called out to the three strangers who turned around. The smaller, wiry man among them shook Solomon’s hand and patted his back. A second group of people gathered around them, pressing in, and whatever had caused the lodgers to change their minds, Mina saw that the little group would be allowed to stay.

  Figuring she would meet them later, she retri
eved an empty hydration pack from her tent and hiked to the spring down from the hotel. Before returning, she hiked farther down to the creek. Here, it flowed over large rocks that formed natural dams. Sunlight danced through the trees, causing the water to look like liquid glass. Beyond the pools, a fallen tree created a bridge over the rapids. A barefoot woman walked with perfect balance over the mossy log. At first, the sun playing through the leafy canopy hid her identity from Mina, who shaded her eyes with her hand and squinted. Emily.

  Emily sat down in the middle of the bridge, her feet dangling just above the rushing water, and smoothed her dress over dirty, bony knees. Her left shoulder still drooped—she’d refused to let anyone touch it. Afraid to disturb her, Mina turned to go, but the woman caught her eye with the same dispassionate look she’d had the previous evening.

  “Name’s Emily,” she stated.

  “Yes. Hi, Emily. I’m Mina, remember?” Mina walked to the edge of the fallen trunk, shifting positions to keep the sun out of her eyes.

  Emily gazed into the trees above. “The birdsong is beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Mina looked too. Sparrows fluttered and dove at one another over the water, their snarky twittering hardly a song.

  Without waiting for an answer, Emily spoke again in a soft voice. “Fast asleep. Singing birds in their leafy cover cannot wake her.”

  Startled out of her reverie, Mina looked back at Emily. “Sorry, what?”

  Emily peered at the birds through gaunt eyes glazed over, seeing something else. “Sleeping at last,” she breathed.

  “Is that a poem?” Mina asked, intrigued. The lines brought back memories of another life, a life full of words and thoughts and joy.