Aether (The Shadowmark Series Book 2)

by T. M. Catron

  The synthetic blood coursed strangely through her body, mixing with her own. Calla shivered under the hot water. She had allowed the truth to mix with lies. When Doyle had taken her to the Condarri, she had rightly assumed it was for her failure to catch the rogues. But that conclusion still gnawed at her. Condar had accepted Doyle’s every word. What proof had he provided? So far she had seen utmost loyalty from him in carrying out their mission. She could even argue setting the aether free was justified. And if the action had angered Condar, they had not summoned Calla. Maybe Doyle was correct—if Condar trusted him, she could too.

  Calla dressed quickly. She would return to the lodge and take out the rogues there. And that human. And any other humans that got in the way. When Doyle returned to the Nomad, he would know she had been here. No matter. She would report in now.

  Calla summoned the hologram inside the cabin. A map glowed golden in the air. She couldn't track one hybrid without tracking all the others—a flaw in the ship’s design. Something she needed to correct. She had refrained from tracking Doyle’s adarre for fear of alerting the rogues to their presence, but by now the rogues knew she was hunting them, anyway.

 

  The projection shifted. Instead of zooming in as Calla expected, it panned across the country, then showed her a map of North America.

 

  The map remained still. It couldn’t find him. Doubt overshadowed her newfound trust. He should have no need to hide himself like the rogues. Calla reached out to the ship, the Nomad relaying her message for Dar Ceylin only. She needed his commander’s approval for an outright attack.

  She waited.

  he responded.

 

 

 

 

  Calla swiped the map away from her face and sank onto the pile of bedclothes on the bunk behind her. What had changed? Why would Doyle change her orders? Despite the events of the day, she did not wish to sleep. She rose and took the stairway into the core of the ship.

  Calla had often wondered how rogues hid from the Condarri tracking system, which sensed their presence through the adarre. She had never considered digging into the code to find out why. Adarria wrapped around the innermost core, controlling the solar energy trapped by the ship’s hull.

  By allowing the hybrid engineers to use the adarria on board, the Condarri had ensured the ship could never be out of reach or be used against them. Calla ran her hands along the tiny grooves, feeling their heat. The rogues were taking advantage of a loophole; she was certain.

 

  The hologram appeared next to her, displaying 1,043,237. The expected number. She had seen it before.

 

  1,043,114.

  Even rogue deaths registered. She had already known that fact as well.

  One hundred twenty-three hybrids left. After accounting for Doyle and herself, one hundred twenty-one rogues were left on Earth.

 

  The map changed, showing one—Calla.

  How were they doing it? She toyed with the idea of demanding an answer from Doyle. But that conversation should be face to face.

  The Condarri could change their adarria at will. Perhaps the rogues—and Doyle—had altered their adarre in some way. Calla doubted she could change her own without Condar. And changing them would not explain why the adarria registered deaths, but not lives. The rogues must be blocking the signal somehow. And when they died, they could no longer control it. They had evolved.

  Adarria could evolve too. Calla had seen the differences between the symbols in the Factory and the ancient ones in the mountain bunker. Halston had been in the bunker. So had Doyle. Maybe their adarre had not evolved, but devolved. Calla tried to remember the ancient symbols, but she had not studied them.

  She needed to see them again. The adarria in the bunker were the key to the rogues’ ability to disappear. Apparently, Doyle had figured it out. He could have provided her with this information.

  Calla ran up the spiral staircase three steps at a time. At her bidding, the Nomad flew back to hover over the mountain bunker. She disembarked without supplies, only her weapons. Since the ship couldn't land, Calla jumped out of the open hold door into the trees below. She grasped the nearest branches and swung herself down hand over hand until she landed lightly on the ground.

 

  She paused. It was not Doyle’s summons. So she waited, concentrating.

 

 

 

 

  ***

  Mina stood at the shallow falls. The sky had clouded over, casting pallid light down onto the rocks and water. Emily had liked this place. Mina vividly remembered her bony legs dangling over the log going across the stream, warmed by the summer sun.

  Why did I come here?

  To check, her mind answered. But Emily was not here. Would Calla have hidden her body, or would she have left it for scavengers to find?

  Doyle always left his dead bodies behind; Calla would not be any better.

  Mina rolled up her pant legs and removed her shoes. Despite the thick heat, the water was pleasantly cold. She waded in, focusing on feeling the water when it first lapped at her knees. Smooth rocks at the bottom massaged her feet. She contemplated sitting down in the pool, clothes and all, and staying there until someone pulled her out.

  Why not?

  The water shocked and cooled her body. Her clothes filled with it, her t-shirt rippling about her in the current. Mina dunked her head under as well, pulling the rubber band out of her hair to let her curls saturate.

  When she came up for air, she drew her knees to her chin and looked down into the clear water, watching her fingers prune. The day was turning old. If she didn’t get up soon, her clothes wouldn’t dry before dark. But instead of getting out, she scooted back toward the shallow falls. The water churned around her, buffeting her body from side to side.

  She concentrated on the water, on the feeling of her body swaying in the current, on a tiny fish swimming near her toes. Sunlight peeked out from behind a cloud, and for one short moment, the water glowed golden and green. Mina closed her eyes. She couldn’t stand the sight of anything beautiful. Not now.

  Finally, she stood and dragged herself to the edge of the stream. She wrung water from her hair, stray curls already puffing out in the humid air. She was wringing water from her shirt when she saw Doyle walking toward her through the underbrush. He frowned as they made eye contact.

  “Don’t tell me I can’t be here,” Mina said when he was close enough. She finished with her shirt and climbed out of the creek to sit on a dry boulder.

  Doyle picked up her worn shoes and brought them over, placing them next to her before sitting down on the rock beside her.

  “Why are you here?” he asked.

  “Emily’s dead.” Mina anticipated his rebuke. Unbothered by death, he would not sympathize with her. But Mina was irreversibly tethered to it. And the feeling that she should have done more.

  Doyle stared over to the other bank, waiting on her to elaborate. Water dripped from her clothes and pooled beneath her, creating crooked rivulets down the boulder and back into the creek. Mina’s eyes glanced over something that didn’t look like rock, and she leaned over the boulder to look. In a dry crevice, a small hardcover book was wedged between the rock and a rotten stick. She dug it out.

  The pages were swollen from moisture, the yellow cover rippled and smeared with mud. Poems for the Grieving was splashed across the front in gold lette
ring. She opened it and flipped through the pages.

  “It was Emily’s,” Mina said, recognizing one titled “Sleeping At Last.”

  “What happened?”

  “She killed her.”

  “Who?”

  “Calla.”

  Doyle turned to face Mina. “What?”

  “Calla walked into camp wearing Emily’s dress.”

  “And you recognized her.”

  Mina nodded. “As soon as I saw the dress, I knew what had happened. Is there any chance Calla would have taken it from Emily without killing her?” She searched Doyle's face, hoping he would tell her she was wrong.

  He shook his head.

  Mina sighed, willing herself to stay calm.

  “And then what happened?”

  “I shot her. And she ran off.”

  Doyle stood now. “Shot her? So, it was you . . .” At Mina’s puzzled look, he explained, “She returned to the Nomad to treat a gunshot wound.”

  “So she’s alive.”

  “Yes.”

  Mina’s anger boiled over, and she stood to face Doyle. “She should have died! No . . . You should have stopped her! You knew what she was!”

  “Just hold on!”

  “No!” Mina jabbed her finger at his chest. “You’ve been so concerned with keeping your cover, you let the most dangerous hybrid of them all run loose!” She shook in her fury, which compounded when Doyle did nothing but look at her.

  Finally he said, “I told you what I was. If anything, I’m worse than Calla. She wasn’t on the ground during the invasion.”

  “But you’ve changed, right?”

  “In what way?”

  “Have you harmed anyone else since you killed the Condarri?”

  Doyle sighed. “You know the answer to that.”

  “Why didn’t we just run away? Why are we still here?”

  He grabbed her arms, none too gently. “Now you want to run? When the truth about the hybrids is too inconvenient for you!”

  Mina yanked away from him. When she did, her foot slipped on the wet stone, and she fell backward toward the stream. Doyle caught her around the waist, pulling her back upright to face him.

  He held her a moment. “The hybrids’ nature won’t change just because you wish it to.”

  “No. But it will if you wish it.” Mina wiped the tears streaming down her face and looked him directly in the eye. “Who are you going to be?”

  “I am both human and Condarri. Do you expect me to choose?”

  “That’s what you are, not who you are. You need to decide what’s most important to you. Who are you going to be?”

  Doyle searched her eyes. “Who I am.”

  “And that is?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mina scoffed. Doyle released her, and she sat to put on her shoes. “You need to figure it out soon. Before more people die.” She stood and strapped her pack to her shoulders.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find Emily and then Lincoln.”

  Doyle picked up his own pack.

  “You’re coming with me?”

  “If you wounded Calla, she won’t rest until she finds you and takes revenge. You’re not leaving my sight.”

  “What about your plans?”

  “Screw the plan! Calla will kill you.”

  Mina wrapped her wet hair back into its ponytail. She hadn’t really considered Calla’s reaction. When she’d left the lodge, her mind was consumed with Emily. And she didn’t have any energy left to argue with Doyle. “Okay,” she said and walked through the trees.

  ***

  They found Emily’s body upstream, stripped and awkwardly splayed with a gunshot wound to her temple. Mina pulled her blanket from her pack to cover her friend. Doyle stood behind.

  “She didn’t deserve to be left here like no one cared about her,” Mina said after a moment.

  “Maybe she’s better off.”

  “What?” She turned to look at him.

  “She’s not in pain anymore. She’s, well . . . gone.”

  Mina stood. “Is that how you see it? That you’re relieving human suffering?”

  He didn’t respond, his eyes on the slight figure beneath the blanket.

  Mina frowned and looked back. “Doesn’t this mean anything to you? Don’t you feel anything when you see someone die?”

  “I didn’t know her.”

  “You’ve never lost someone you cared about?”

  He met her eyes. “I didn’t say that. But we do what's necessary, don’t we? Survive. Follow orders. Even now . . .”

  “I don't have orders to follow.”

  “But you do. We all follow someone’s orders, whether intentionally or subconsciously. Having free will doesn’t mean freedom from influence, merely freedom to choose who influences you. You asked who I am, Mina, and I may not know. But at least I know what’s influenced me. Every last second of my life. Can you say the same?”

  Mina sniffed and turned to Emily. “No, I cannot.”

  They stood in silence several minutes. Emily had been so small—the blanket barely rose off the ground. Mina wished to see the blanket rise with Emily’s breath, to see that they had been mistaken, that Emily was alright.

  But her friend wasn’t in pain anymore. And Mina no longer had the responsibility of watching out for her, of wondering when she would fall ill and die. Relief flooded through Mina. She flushed and turned away from the body. What kind of person was relieved at the death of a friend?

  She sank down onto the soft earth. Doyle wrapped the body in the gray blanket while Mina sat despondently in the dirt. If only she could cry, she would feel better. But tears wouldn’t form.

  Later, they dug a shallow grave away from the creek. Emily’s quilt lay abandoned in the brush, and Mina wrapped it around her own blanket before they covered the body with dirt and stones.

  Standing by the mound, Mina read the poem Emily had quoted so often, etching it into her own memory as she did so. Then she placed the book on top of the grave.

  “You’re not keeping it?” Doyle asked.

  “It’s not mine to keep.”

  ***

  Lincoln’s forearm was swollen and red. He stepped into a patch of sunlight to look at it, careful not to touch the itchy rash with his other hand. Looked like poison ivy. Lincoln hadn’t seen any, but he hadn’t exactly been the most alert the last few days. Halston and Baker probably set him down in a patch of it while he was blindfolded. Perfect. Just what he needed to add to the throbbing in his thigh—a painful, disgusting rash on his arm.

  He swiped at a spider’s web in front of him, sliding down through the trees to a creek. Hadn’t he already crossed this creek? Or was it another one? Lincoln eyeballed the opposite slope covered in trees. The parkway should be above him. Should be.

  He hobbled up the steep slope, using trees to pull himself up. His leg gave out three times, and each time he was grateful a tree was nearby to grab hold of. He didn’t want to tumble down the mountain. Sweat soaked his clothing, which clung to him and chafed in odd places.

  Halfway up the mountain, Lincoln pulled himself onto the parkway and looked around. Leaves and twigs covered parts of the road. Doyle had told him to head south from here. Lincoln looked north. But he remembered this parkway. The hotel lay south of the mine. He turned and walked with the rock on his right, careful to ease around the bends so he wouldn’t surprise anyone else on the road. But he met no one.

  Lincoln saw the Springwater Creek sign before the lodge. He thought he’d never been so happy to see such a ramshackle, smelly dump. A sea of colorful tents packed the parking lot. People milled around. Smoke from cooking fires rose over the gravel. The smell of cooking meat wafted his way.

  He gazed at the building, soaking in the sight. How about that? Doyle had been correct about the lodge. What else had he been right about?

  “Lincoln?”

  He turned toward the tents in the parking lot. Alvarez stood near the outside ring
, holding a bundle of twigs. She looked the same—glasses askew on her nose, hair chopped off around her tanned face. He smiled.

  She dropped the wood and ran to him, throwing her arms around his chest and squeezing.

  “Ouch—careful!” He was more sore than he’d realized. But he returned her hug, anyway. “Glad you’re okay,” he said.

  “What happened?” Alvarez took his arm and steered him toward a tent at the edge of the gravel. “You look awful.”

  “I feel awful. Carter and Nelson around?”

  “Yes. They’re with Solomon in the back of the shed. He found an old bomb shelter hidden back there, and the lodgers want to turn it into a cellar.”

  “Solomon?” Lincoln let Alvarez help him sit on the ground.

  “He’s helped us quite a bit,”—she put a hand on his shoulder—“and Mina too.”

  Lincoln exhaled and rubbed a hand through his matted beard. “So she’s alive.”

  “You know? How?”

  “It’s all very strange.”

  “Sit here and rest. I’ll go get Nelson and Carter.”

  “Hey.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Where’s Mina now?”

  Alvarez glanced around the camp. “She left. Just stay here. We’ll fill you in.” She watched Lincoln a moment as if to ensure he really would stay put.

  He waved her off. “I’m not going anywhere. Too pooped.”

  Alvarez ran off. Lincoln eased off his shoes, glad she had left for a minute. He thought he might start blubbering and didn’t want to make a fool of himself. The news Mina was alive had released something inside him. He’d thought she was dead. No, only assumed it. He’d had no real evidence. Deep down, he hadn’t wanted to believe she was alive and on her own, starving and fighting off who-knows-what to survive. How had she survived?

  Doyle. The answer came to him, and Lincoln knew it was true even as he told himself he was jumping to conclusions again. But then why had Doyle helped kidnap him? And why had Mina left? Is this some cruel trick? Lincoln glanced up at the sky, looking for an answer. Instead, three shadows descended on him. Then his friends surrounded him, asking questions, making apologies.