by Naomi Martin
“What the hell are you lookin’ at?” says a dark-haired Latino man.
“Why do you hate us?” I ask.
“You’re abominations,” he spits. “Dangerous abominations who need to be wiped out.”
“You really believe that?”
He spits, and I watch the glob of mucus fly from his mouth and land a few feet in front of me. I hate spitting. It’s gross. I channel a small flow of Spirit and use it to slap him across the face. His head rocks to the side and when he turns back to me, I see a thin rivulet of blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes are filled with fire and a depth of hatred I’ve never seen before.
“Don’t do that again,” I admonish him. “It’s disgusting.”
“You’re all going to die,” he says.
“But why?” I press. “Why do you want to kill us all?”
“Because you’re abominations—”
I wave dismissively. “Yeah, you said that before,” I cut him off. “How about an answer that doesn’t come from Bigotry for Dummies? Use your own thoughts and your own words. Why do you, personally, hate us so much?”
He falls silent, glowering at me, so I shift my gaze to the others kneeling beside him. They all stare back at me just as hard as the first man does.
“What about any of you?” I ask. “Any of you care to explain why you hate us so much? And I swear to God, if one of you says it’s because we’re abominations, I’ll show you exactly how much of an abomination I can be.”
No answer, but I’m not surprised. It’s like they’ve been indoctrinated to hate without ever stopping to consider why. I mean, I get that in the military, you’re conditioned to follow orders. Thinking for yourself, critically and independently, is frowned upon. But when it comes to killing other people, I would have thought they’d have a good reason. Something to justify what they’re doing.
I find it hard to believe these men would just kill men, women, and children—their fellow American citizens—just because somebody ordered them to. I have to believe they think they’re serving some higher purpose by violating every oath they’ve ever taken as soldiers. And I really want to know what that reason is. I want to know why they think hunting down and murdering people they swore an oath to defend is righteous and just.
“Nobody?” I continue. “None of you can tell me why you hate us so much that you’d murder us with smiles on your faces?”
“You’re monsters,” a man with sandy blonde hair finally says. “A group of you vampires murdered my family. So, as far as I’m concerned, you can all go to Hell.”
I round on him, fury in my eyes. “And your leader—Colonel Villa—slaughtered my family, as did some of your brothers in arms,” I hiss. “If we’re monsters, what the fuck does that make you?”
“It makes us soldiers. Patriots,” the Latino man speaks up again. “It makes us heroes who are fighting for our country.”
I scoff. “You’re murderers. Just like those vamps who killed his family,” I snarl, gesturing to the blond soldier. “At least I have the courage to call those vamps what they are instead of hiding behind the flag and some fake patriotic jingoistic bullshit.”
“Yeah, you tell yourself whatever you have to, bitch,” he snaps at me. “You wouldn’t know the first thing about serving your country.”
“Neither do you, it seems,” I say. “Not if you’re willing to murder your fellow citizens.”
“You’re not citizens,” he shoots back. “You’re not even human.”
“Wow. You think you’re right to murder us, even though none of us asked to be born this way,” I reply. “We had no more choice in being born with our abilities than we did in the color of our skin or the color of our ey—”
“Save it, bitch. And justify it however you want, but you’re monsters,” he growls. “You’re all nothing more than murderous fucking monsters.”
I shoot to my feet so fast, I knock the chair over, making all of the bound men flinch. I don’t know why I’m having this conversation with them, or why it seems so goddamn important that I understand them. Or, what’s more, why it seems so important that I make them understand that I’m not a monster. That most of us aren’t monsters. That we’re just… people. Like them. Our only crime is that we’re a little bit different.
I channel threads of Air and use them to bind the guards tighter before I walk out of the barn, my blood boiling. Stepping into the cool night air, I look up at the sky. The moon is a fat crescent that’s darting in and out of the dark clouds drifting through the heavens. The cool breeze feels nice upon my skin, though, and I can’t help but feel my blood starting to cool off—if only a little.
All around me is a hive of activity. Once we secured the farmhouse, I called in the teams who were in the woods and they are now scouring every inch of it, searching for weapons, prisoners, or anything else we might find. But all of that is an afterthought, for me. My real purpose for being here is to get some experience. To practice my new skill.
It’s terrible, really, the reason I’m here. But it’s also necessary since my practical experience is virtually nil. Just the thought of what I have to do turns my stomach. But then I think back to the hatred in their eyes. Their utter disdain and contempt for me. And for what? Because I’m different than they are. I hold onto that anger. That rage. I hold it tight, knowing I’m going to need it.
“You all right?”
I turn to find Gray stepping up beside me, a plate of fried chicken legs in his hand. He takes a bite of one and tosses the bone away, grinning at me as he chews. I run my hand down his arm, recalling the way his muscles had bunched and rippled beneath the fur that had covered his body. I remember the muzzle full of sharp teeth. He’d looked vicious and animalistic. When he’s in his bear form, he radiates such raw power and intensity, it’s overwhelming. Intimidating. Sexy as hell.
“Yeah. Fine,” I reply. “Have the teams found anything?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet. There’s still plenty of places for them to look, though.”
I nod. “Okay,” I say grimly. “I guess I need to get to the reason we’re here.”
“Yup. Let’s get to it,” he says and tears another chunk of meat from the bone.
We walk back into the barn and to the waiting prisoners. My stomach churns and my heart thunders in my chest as we slide the doors closed behind us, like we’re stepping into a prison cell. That’s the feeling I have. Like I’m trapped in this. A prisoner to my abilities, and caught between two sides who want two very different things from me. One side offers me the chance to do something for the greater good. The other side simply wants me dead and will kill me on sight.
I look down at the four soldiers, letting myself fill with rage at their bigotry, ignorance, and hate. They all stare up at me, doing their best to look hard. Unflappable. But I can see the flash of fear in their eyes. I can see the tremble in their bodies. They know what’s coming and are trying to face it bravely, with dignity. But I can see the cracks forming around the edges of their façades of fearlessness.
I glance over at Gray and he smiles at me around a mouthful of chicken, then gives me a wink.
“Hey, you know how to get to Carnegie Hall?” he chirps.
“What?”
“Practice, practice, practice,” he says, then laughs at the old joke.
The guards kneeling before me turn white as a sheet. I groan and roll my eyes. I honestly don’t know how he can be so flippant about taking the lives of these men. Given who they are and how they feel about me, I’m likely not going to lose sleep over what I have to do, either. They’d kill me in a heartbeat if I let them go. And the spirit of what he’s saying isn’t wrong; I need the practice if I’m going after this Senator Cook character. But he doesn’t need to be so glib about it.
He shrugs, as if reading my mind. “Sorry,” he mutters, then goes back to his chicken.
“You’re just proving us right, you know,” the Latino soldier spits. “By killing us, you’re jus
t proving you’re the monsters we already know you are.”
I pause as a dark-haired woman steps in through the door at the rear of the barn that Gray had blown off its hinges when he burst in here. Her name is Ellen and she’s an Elemental. Tough. Good in a fight. And she fears nobody. She’s dedicated to the cause and we get along well.
“We found prisoners. Three of them,” she announces. “They were in an underground bunker out in the field.”
I nod. “They all right?”
“Hungry. Thirsty. And some of them have been beaten up pretty good,” she says. “But, overall, they seem okay.”
“Good. Take them into the house and get them food and drink while I finish up out here,” I say.
She looks at the guards, flashing them a dark smirk. Like so many of us, the Cleansers wiped out her entire family, then, in the facility they’d taken her to, subjected her to degradations that nobody should ever have to suffer. She revels in taking Villa’s men out and I can tell she wants to stay and see what happens—maybe even spill a little blood herself—but she tears her gaze away from them.
“You got it,” she says, and leaves the barn.
Gray sits the chair I knocked over upright again, then drops down into it, chewing on chicken legs and tossing the stripped bones over his shoulder. He looks like a man shoving popcorn in his face before the start of a movie.
“You can kill us, but we’ll never stop coming for you,” the Latino guard speaks. “We will hunt you all for the rest of your lives. We’ll hunt you to extinctio—”
His words are cut off when I channel some weaves of Spirit and gag them all. I need to focus; I don’t need them yammering in my ear. Closing my eyes for a moment, I draw a deep breath and concentrate on pushing everything out of my mind. I try to avoid thinking about the fact that I am about to kill four men. Try to push away thoughts of morality, thoughts that my actions here, right now, could be seen as evil. Try to ignore the feeling of wrongness about what I’m about to do.
But then I let the things they said float through my mind. I let myself hear the venom and hate in their voices, feel how I felt when they told me I’m a monster and should be put down. I steep myself in their bigotry and the threat of violence that surrounds them… imagine the violence they’d do to me, if given half a chance.
And then I picture Gray down on his hands and knees, blood flowing from more wounds than I could count. I recall the sound of the slugs they’d put into his body hitting the wood floor, remembering that each one of those metallic thuds could have ended Gray’s life. And as I do, I feel the rage inside of me building. My anger at these men, who would kill us simply for being born differently, rises like a tide inside of me.
I channel a flow of Spirit, sending the weave straight at the guard on the end. He’s a stout man with hair cropped close to the skull. His blue eyes widen as the thread slips into his chest. He struggles against his bonds and lets out a scream that’s muffled by my gag. I close my eyes and, in my mind’s eye, I see that stupid Operation game board and slow my breath, trying to use the delicate, feather-light touch of Spirit that Kayla’s been teaching me. I focus on my breath as I reach into him with the weave, trying to find my way around his body.
There. I feel my weave wrapping around his heart. Can feel it beating and pulsing as the weave slips around it, caressing it as a lover would. The man’s body grows rigid and his back arches, the muffled noises bursting from his mouth stuttered and sputtering.
My weave takes hold of his heart, holding it as if in a fist and starts to squeeze. I strengthen the weave, the fingers of energy gripping it tighter. His muffled, stuttering cries grow louder and more intense. I squeeze harder, trying to stop the beating of his heart. It starts to slow and feel a surge of triumph, but as I direct a little more energy through the weave, I realize too late it was too much.
The energy pulses and the front and back of the man’s chest seem to explode outward with it. A burst of red, meaty, viscous matter sprays the floor in front of and behind him. The man’s eyes are wide and glassy as he slumps over, hitting the ground with a wet thud.
“Shit!” I curse as I release the weave.
“Well I didn’t expect that,” Gray says with a chuckle. “Pretty nasty shit, Raven.”
I blow out a breath and roll my eyes at him, though I don’t respond. Frustration bubbles up inside of me, my mind flashing back to all the failed attempts with the rats, the failures with that stupid game board. This is just a puzzle I need to solve. Something I need to work out.
I take another deep breath and let it out, trying to focus. The soldiers have all fallen silent, their eyes wider than dinner plates, their skin paler than milk. I see them glancing from their exploded comrade, to me, and back again, the realization sinking in that their end is going to look a lot like that.
But I’d rather their end wasn’t like that. I’d like to imagine that quietly stilling their heart is painless. I’m positive it’s certainly less painful than being exploded. As I channel another flow, their muffled screaming takes on a very distinctive sound—“no, no, no.” A lance of guilt pricks my heart but I push it away, forcing myself to hear the hate in their words over, and over, and over again.
I try again, sending a weave into the second man, trying to be gentler than with the first. It doesn’t go well. And by the time I get to the fourth man in the line, the Latino soldier who called me a monster, I pause. He’s my last test subject. If I don’t get this right, I’m all out of chances and I’ll have to either wait until we find out where the Cleansers have another safe house or figure something else out.
I glance over at Gray and he’s set his plate down, all of the chicken legs finished. He’s wiping his hands on a rag and it’s such a weird time to be feeling something like this, but I’m overwhelmed by a feeling of love so strong, it makes my legs weak. I stretch out through the bond and feel Zane and Elliot out there, feeling their love for me. It’s bizarre to me that I’m indulging these sorts of feelings now, while I’m dealing out death like it’s Halloween candy.
But then, maybe it’s because I’m here, shedding blood like this, that my mind and heart gravitate toward those things that are good and pure—my boys. Our love. Maybe what I’m doing is so monstrous, I need to cling to those things that make me feel joyous, those things that make my heart fill with light.
“You’ve got this, Raven,” he says. “I believe in you.”
A gentle smile touches my lips. His words mean more to me than he knows. Trying to harden myself, I turn to see the soldier is looking at me with fear etched into his features. He shakes his head violently, his voice a muffled sound as he pleads for his life. Again, I have to push away the guilt over what I’m doing. I can’t afford to let myself stop and think about it. Besides, I’m already too far down this road to turn back now. In for a penny, in for a pound.
I channel a flow and avoid looking at the man who is thrashing and writhing against the bonds that hold him. This time, I try something different. I relax my muscles, stop straining myself, stop trying to focus so intently… basically, I just stop trying so damn hard. I let the Spirit flow through me, guiding the weave to him and into his body. I slide it through him and slip it around his heart.
The man’s body goes rigid and a strangled, choked sound escapes him. I picture his heart in my mind’s eye, picture the weave stretching open like a hand and grasping his heart. The fingers curl around it and I squeeze. I don’t let myself think about what I’m doing. I just do it, trusting my instincts to guide me.
A dim keening sound issues from the soldier and his face turns a deep shade of red, bordering on purple. I give my weave just a little goose of power and the soldier falls over. His eyes are wide and glassy, his face contorted into a rictus of pain. He’s not moving. He’s not breathing. He’s dead.
Without popping like a ketchup packet that’s been stepped on, the man is gone. Dead. Deceased.
“I did it,’ I mutter. “I actually did it.”
Giving my head a small shake, I close my eyes and concentrate for a moment, forcing myself to recall the weave I used. I take in its strength and everything I need to recreate it and commit it to memory.
I know I shouldn’t be celebrating the taking of a life, but the guilt is easily pushed away in favor of the excitement of having accomplished it. I was able to do it. As I stand here looking at the body, I’m suddenly swept up in Gray’s thick arms, and he’s laughing as he crushes me to him. I hold onto him, sharing in his laughter, knowing just how inappropriate of a reaction it is. But I can’t help it. I thought it was impossible, but I did it.
Gray sets me down and kisses my forehead. “You did,” he says. “I knew you would.”
It’s a relief, more than anything. Now that I’ve figured this out, I can do the job Dora needs me to do… so I can then go do the job I want to do. Villa is going to die. And he’s going to die soon.
“Let’s load up the prisoners and get out of here,” I say.
Gray nods. “Sounds good to me.”
As we head out of the barn, I cast a backwards glance at the bodies I’m leaving behind. It’s a mess in there, and part of me is tempted to let Villa find it just like this, wants him to see his men burst open like grapes that have been stepped on. But the more responsible, less vindictive part of me knows I can’t let them use this place again.
“Burn it all,” I say to Donovan, a Fire Elemental, as we pass. “Burn it to the ground.”
Chapter Thirteen
Raven
“So, it worked?” Dora asks.
I nod. “It did. It took me a minute to figure it out, but I did it.”
We’re sitting in the war room back in Meridian and Dora looks excited as she debriefs me on the mission. She looks so excited I’m halfway convinced she’s about ready to burst. I take a sip of my coffee and sit back in my seat, rubbing my eyes. It had been a long night and a long road back from the farmhouse and I’d like nothing more than to sleep. But things are starting to move quickly now, and there’s a lot that still needs to be done.