For the Clan

by Archer Kay Leah

  If she was telling the truth, yes, but if she was lying…

  He couldn't discount the possibility. Everyone lied during bloodshed. If it wasn't to each other, it was to themselves. She could be taking him for a fool with every syllable.

  Except a begging tone softened her voice and desperation flashed across her face. Her fingertips pawed his vest, not in the caress of a lover but the urgent need of a woman afraid of losing everything.

  Maybe she wasn't as far gone as he expected.

  "Small problem: I'm tapped, remember?" Roan lowered his gun. "I've got a tiny, teensy fraction left. And it's hard enough to access it without people trying to kill me."

  "Yeah, I know, and I've worked it out." Sheyla glanced behind her. "Positive feedback loop. I'll give you some of mine, jumpstart what you've got left, spark up mine with the tension, and keep feeding back and forth. It'll drain us both for weeks, but it should work long enough to do damage. I just need some cover. And you need to get your people back. They can't be in the middle. They'll fry like the men you flambéed before." Her eyes narrowed. "Nice, by the way, and thanks for not killing me."

  "Bitch later. Let's just do this."

  "Deal." Sheyla rushed to one tent, pulling him along. She peeked around the canvas wall. "Get ready to shoot. A couple dozen up front, and they still have men at the trucks. And if you haven't already noticed, most of their guns aren't firing the Ven special. They'll put a hole in you, but you'll stay in one piece. Figured I'd give you a fightin' chance. The bastards never noticed the difference. So in three, two, one—"

  Sheyla sprung forward, aiming the launcher at the soldiers in the settlement. With one blast at the ground near a small group of soldiers, the impact sent men flying back into tents and clansmen. Roan hurried behind. More bodies lay on the ground than he remembered passing when Sheyla had chased him. Helicopter debris pinned a few soldiers to the ground. One of them wailed over the loss of feeling in his legs. Not far from him, a blade impaled one of the clanswomen, staking her unmoving body to the ground. Other men limped and hid behind the dismantled tents and tables, firing on soldiers who used other overturned possessions for cover.

  "She's switched sides!" one soldier announced, shooting at Sheyla.

  She deflected the shots before launching a grenade at the trucks across the field. One of the trucks burst apart. Its shattered frame slammed into the truck beside it, fueling another explosion and massive flames that consumed soldiers on all sides.

  "Get your men back," Sheyla shouted at Roan. In a fit of manic laughter, she fired at the trucks, setting off a cascade of explosions. Soldiers scattered into the field.

  Paused at the side of one Teach woman, Roan scooped up her rifle and stared at her muddied face and lifeless, open eyes. Guilt gnawed on his recognition. Her name was Sophie. She'd been kind, one of the few who didn't hiss or insult him whenever he walked by. She'd even shared a drink with him once, unafraid of what he was. Now she was dead because of him.

  Sheyla wasn't the only one still searching for freedom. He wouldn't cost anyone else theirs.

  "Get back! Get to the trees," Roan shouted, directing the clan fighters in the opposite direction of the military. If they could get to the trees, they could get to the clan vehicles hidden in the forest. If they got that far, they could escape to Windsor as heroes and miss whatever disaster he caused.

  A dark figure crept towards him with hobbled steps. "Thought you were hung out to dry," Dixon called. He grunted and swung his arm out. His bloody fingers squeezed off a round from his pistol and downed a solider rushing towards them. "Headshot, my favourite. Just not when it's my own head," Dixon grumbled, wiping a hand across the gash between his forehead and jaw.

  "Tow your ass back. Get the trucks and leave," Roan commanded. He gestured to the left with his chin, his gaze locked on oncoming soldiers. "And grab Gin on your way. She's over there somewhere."

  Dixon limped away, hollering for Gin.

  Roan stepped back, careful to avoid the bodies. He needed to get Jace. If there was anyone who needed to pull out, it was Jace.

  Jace would also be the one who'd put up the most fight.

  This time he's not winning. I don't care what he says. He's not calling the shots, not when Sheyla's lit up and taking names.

  Gunfire surrendered to silence. Without questioning the lull, Roan dashed towards the shredded weapons tent where he'd last seen Jace crouched. Behind the drooped canvas, he skidded to a stop and cursed before almost landing on Jace.

  "Come on," Roan said, pulling Jace up, "you're next."

  Jace resisted. "Only if you're heading back. Otherwise I'm staying."

  Roan grit his teeth, tempted to punch Jace until one of them passed out. "Fine. I'll take you myself."

  Sheyla yelled in the distance. Unable to make the words out, Roan ignored her and ran for the trees with Jace. More than two dozen ragged clansmen were in front of them. Some men had already taken cover among the trees. Others ambled through the grass. Several of them were in pairs, dragging each other and hollering for assistance.

  Dixon and Gin lagged behind the rest, walking backwards with their guns drawn. They stopped as Roan and Jace approached.

  "So now we've got enemy fighting enemy or what?" Gin croaked, favouring her wounded arm. "Or is she just picking them off before she gets to us?"

  "Sheyla's a friendly," Roan answered between shallow breaths. "Just go with it. Answers later." With his gaze locked to Dixon's, Roan gestured towards Jace with the subtle tilt of his head and flickered glance.

  Dixon's slight nod suggested that he understood Roan's silent request.

  Before Jace could intervene, Roan dug in his pocket and pulled out the vial. "A gift from her, for Jace." Swallowing back the bitter taste of blood from his raw, irritated throat, he slipped the vial into Jace's palm. "This'll make sure you're safe. Make sure you take it. And I love you, don't forget that."

  Jace blinked, staring at the vial. "What—"

  Roan shoved Jace into Dixon and ran towards the settlement.

  "Roan!" Jace yelled. "What are you doing?"

  Don't look back. Don't. Don't do it. Don't—

  Roan turned around. The sight of Jace struggling to escape Dixon's arms stole the little breath Roan had. It would be easy just to run back to him…

  "Get back here!" Jace stomped on Dixon's feet. "It'll be suicide, and you know it!"

  Yeah, but what's a bit of kamikaze anyway?

  Once Gin gripped Jace and helped Dixon haul Jace towards the trees, Roan continued towards Sheyla. He'd started this situation. He wasn't done until he ended it.

  One shot. For my mother. For Jace and Cayra. For myself. Let's make the governtary wish they'd never taken us out to play.

  Focused on the last bit of magic reserved inside him, he hurried through the obliterated settlement. What had been a camp full of life and hope was now a grotesque combination of hospital and morgue. Black uniforms and tattered bodies bled into the dark gear of the clans. Moans drifted with the breeze. Whimpers and whines sounded like the cries of children. The toxic gases were gone, but everything was doused in the sick stench of blood, burning rubber, cooked flesh, and oil. Small fires raged in isolation, consuming the camp one tent and corpse at a time.

  On the other side, Sheyla stood among the rubble and mounds of dirt in a vegetable patch. Various shades of grey smoke darkened the sky. The air was thick and dry. Roan sucked in small breaths, choking on the little air he could force to his lungs.

  "You ready?" Sheyla asked over her shoulder, her gun aimed at the last five trucks. From Roan's count, at least four dozen soldiers remained.

  They needed to go.

  One shot. Roan raised both of his shaking hands.

  Sheyla squeezed one of his hands in hers. Still facing the soldiers creeping forward in military formation through the field, she waved the gun. "Ready to surrender?" she shouted.

  "Not on your life, you stupid test tube Merlin," a soldier on the front line ans
wered, the red laser of his gun targeting the middle of her forehead.

  "Can't say I didn't offer," Sheyla mumbled. Her fingers were hot around Roan's, a gentle yellow glow enveloping their hold. Magic trickled from her into him, numbing his insides. A familiar, murderous feeling wove around his nerves, danced up his arm, and shot into his chest.

  Roan gasped. The foreign energy stabbed him, demanding control. His headache burst, throbbing harder and slamming pain against the back of his strained eyeballs. Every breath pushed harder on his chest, crushing his heart. Through blurred vision, he snatched images of fluttering shadows and whirling colours. It was enough to make him want someone to shoot him.

  "That's all I can give you right now," Sheyla whispered, dropping his hand. She grabbed her pistol and jumped in front of him, shielding him from the soldiers.

  Eyes closed, Roan rocked against the pain. The numbness gave way into burning: his magic was assimilating hers and contorting. Under his taut and itchy skin, his muscles pulsed and pulled. Knots tore apart under his shoulder blades. His knees cramped until bending with the weight of charley horses in both calves.

  One shot. Can't. Screw. This up.

  Panting and wishing for a breath that didn't make him cry harder, he imagined flames engulfing the entire field. Intense yellow light filled his mind, ramming his brain against his skull. Vivid orange and red light blinded him in bursts, entwining with the yellow flames flickering in his thoughts. He clenched his fingers into his arms, his nails digging into his skin. The external pain fueled the fiery images. Smoke suffocated him, driving him deeper. Unlike before, the screams of dying men were not only in his mind. Every sound pierced his ears, deafening him. Fire and rage filled him from between his tearful eyes to his curled toes.

  "Shey," Roan rasped, yanking Sheyla into him, forcing blasts of his magic into her.

  Sheyla jolted, her elbow hitting his ribcage. She hissed as his energy flowed into her. When she jumped away, he fell forward.

  She caught him before his knees hit the ground. "Not beddy-bye yet. One last thing to do." They stood together, struggling to breathe.

  Roan lifted his open palm towards the cautious soldiers, thankful that Sheyla caught on quickly and mimicked him. "Think kill mode. Force energy out. Dead people. Fire, burn." The pounding of his racing heart filled his chest, the beat resonant in his head. He couldn't focus. He didn't feel sane. In a few minutes, he'd short-circuit neural pathways and give himself permanent brain damage.

  Great. A vegetable in a vegetable patch. Something ironic in this.

  A bullet grazed Roan's thigh.

  Roan thrust his hand outwards. His teeth chattering, he tugged on every bit of energy pooled inside and forced it out. Amber light launched from his body. Beneath his violent shakes, Sheyla followed his lead, sending her contribution forth in a burst of burnt orange light. Their magic swirled and entwined, forming an opaque cloud. Soldiers swatted the dense air. The mass grew larger, consuming everything in its path. Tangled, gorging wisps wrapped around the trucks.

  With the snap of Roan's fingers, the cloud erupted into flame.

  Soldiers screamed and writhed. Beyond them, a truck burst, then the others in sequence until all of the vehicles lay scattered about one another. No one was spared.

  Roan's knees gave. He hit the ground, his wrists cracking from his weight as he caught himself. Wails and explosions dulled his hearing. The ground spun. Vomit fought its way up from his stomach, burning his throat. Each time he took a breath to force it down, he choked and sputtered. Sheyla touched the back of his neck.

  He jumped and shuddered. Her fingertips singed his skin.

  His eyelids clamping shut, he surrendered, falling onto his side. Darkness filled his mind, replacing the flames with solace. Peace and calm were all he wanted. Eyelids flickering open and closed, he glimpsed his limp hands resting before him on the leafy green plants and mashed yellow potatoes.

  Cayra's going to kill me. Her plants. All the time she spent on them…

  Voices called his name. Roan couldn't make any of them out. Instead, he focused his sudden visual clarity on the dull pink earthworm in the dirt before him, wiggling its way through the uprooted mess as though it were an average day.

  Hands grasped his shoulders. He barely felt them. His body was numb to almost everything except his heart, which felt as if it'd been ripped from his chest and shoved through his ribcage into his spleen.

  "Roan," Jace's voice called.

  Roan groaned as someone rolled him over. Jace's dirty face came into sight. Dixon and Gin's stained features hovered above him, their words jumbled and mostly inaudible.

  He closed his eyes, fading in and out of consciousness.

  When Roan opened his eyes again, he was no longer on the ground. Hands and fingertips dug into his body, clenching his shoulders, hips, and knees. Part of him believed he was floating except for the sharp sting in his neck whenever someone tipped his head upwards.

  "… Windsor Eight… now…" a man said.

  Shadows crept across Roan's vision, darkening his sight. His body slid across a hard surface, his limbs bending and clothes bunching until someone straightened them out. Twisted at the hips, he stayed where he was placed. His knees were bent with gentle movements. A door slammed. The sunlight dimmed.

  While his head was lifted and laid down on something soft, he found Jace peering down at him. There was a second slam and the light went dark. Jace's tender hand caressed Roan's forehead and temples while his other hand rested on Roan's chest.

  In the silence marred by the soothing sound of an engine, Roan let the darkness take him.

  14

  Old London

  July, 2170 AD

  "Daddy! Daddy! Mama!" a high-pitched voice hollered. The canvas flaps flew open, filling the tent with sunlight. Containers jiggled on the table near the tent entrance.

  Roan groaned as light hit his closed eyelids. So much for getting up at dawn… This was something between a wake-up call and punishment. Although for the little girl stopped at the bedside, it was nothing more than play.

  "Nannie, baby, not so loud," he mumbled, slowly opening his eyes. Beside him, Jace snorted and fidgeted, his head pinning Roan's outstretched arm to the pillows. Jace's back shifted from Roan's side as Jace held Cayra tighter, her still form taking up the other half of the mattress.

  "Sorry," Nannie whispered, creeping closer to the edge of the bed. The corners of her dark red eyes crinkled as she grinned, her missing front tooth making her flawed smile oddly perfect. "It's just really cool. The puppies are crawling around and everything now. And I really, really, really want one. Can I, Daddy? Can I? I'll be real good."

  Ask your mother, were the first words Roan could think of, recalling Cayra's seesaw relationship with canine companions. But it could wait. She'd had a hard enough time sleeping with the twins bashing at her insides, using her womb as a fight cage.

  "Later, baby. We'll talk it out later." Roan blinked, his vision clearing. Nannie's white shirt was on backwards. Her dark blonde and titian hair was tangled and messy. Dirt smudged her tan cheek—or was it bits of her breakfast?

  Until her, he'd never realized how impossible it was to keep a five year old clean for more than half an hour, if even that long. She taught him something new almost every day.

  Nannie pouted and laid her cheek on his arm, covering the infinity symbol tattoo that officially declared him part of Clan Teach. The printless fingertips of one of her tiny hands pawed his shoulder. "But I want you to come and see. And Rigo, too. He wants you to see."

  As if hearing his name, a small boy in black shorts toddled into the tent, almost tripping over his own feet. "Look what I can do!" Rodrigo hopped towards the bed, his wrists bent forward as he impersonated a rabbit. His blond hair fell into his red eyes, and he huffed until relenting and brushing the strands away.

  "Hey, mini me," Roan greeted, rubbing Nannie's elbow with his flexing hand. At three years old, Rodrigo resembled him almost identi
cally. It filled him with more pride than he usually admitted. "Why don't you guys go and I'll follow?"

  "Okay!" Nannie jumped back and skipped out of the tent. Rodrigo followed but stopped in the doorway, humming and bobbing his head while he shuffled in wait.

  Careful not to worsen things for Cayra, Roan slid out from under Jace and rolled from the bed. Jace grumbled into the pillow, his words muffled. Roan dressed quickly then rushed to the tent entrance. Rodrigo squealed as Roan swept him up in his arms and carried him outside.

  Children had gathered on one side of the fire pit, some standing while others crouched. Nannie bustled around them on her tiptoes then squeezed between the children to enter the centre of the circle. She bent down out of Roan's sight.

  Seconds later, Nannie straightened, cradling a furry black bundle in her hands. Her gaze met his, her toothy, ecstatic grin knocking his heartbeat out of kilter.

  How could he have ever feared he wouldn't love her?

  "Down, Daddy," Rodrigo demanded, squirming in Roan's hold.

  Roan set him down without protest. Rodrigo waddled to the fire pit, his chubby arms flailing. Just as he reached the children, Rodrigo stumbled and fell, creating a gap in the circle and narrowly missing the litter.

  "Ah, shit, kiddo," Roan muttered, stepping towards the group. Rodrigo wasn't the most coordinated child in the settlement. He was also a sensitive child, prone to cry whenever he made a mistake. Although he was named after Cayra's father, the similarities ended there, at least according to Cayra. If anything, Rodrigo acted more like Jace.

  To Roan's surprise, Rodrigo stood up and didn't cry. Sheyla crouched before Rodrigo, holding his dirty hands and smiling. When she stood and winked, Roan remembered to breathe, the potential disaster averted.

  "Thanks," Roan said as she approached him.

  Sheyla wiped her hands on her pants. "It happens." She pushed back her hair, exposing the branding tattooed on her face: 203σM1, a designation that made Roan laugh. She was hardly the mediocre soldier the M1 suggested. "And morning, by the way. How's your mama bear? Ready to pop yet?"