Eric turned toward her as if he’d forgotten her presence. “Drudging the dead won’t fix problems in life.” A fresh round of gunshots hid his inflection.
“What does that even mean?” A bullet struck near Amethyst’s foot and she jumped. Army men and gang members slumped by in a blur. She should get back into the grotto. She should finish what they’d set out to do. People thrust themselves at each other, weapons clashing, voices shouting. It almost reminded her of a night club, only more feral.
“How can I be alive?” Judy lifted her hand and splayed her fingers. “Am I truly alive, Eric?”
“Yeah, how is that possible?” The “yeah” slang slipped off Amethyst’s tongue. After this, she really needed to get back to civilized people. A man tumbled in between them, half of his skull missing, blood washing into the ground. Bile rose in Amethyst’s throat and she slapped her knuckles to her mouth.
“There’s a lot to my potion I don’t understand,” Eric murmured as if the fighting didn’t make a ruckus. “It must be part of that. What did you do last, Amethyst?”
“I… killed someone. I thought about him dying and he did it. I didn’t save a life first.” It shouldn’t have worked, according to Eric’s rules. It had been longer than five minutes…more like ten.
“Your panic, all your troubles. Somehow you combined that, and when you killed someone, you got to save someone else. You saved my Judith.”
Clark wouldn’t have to mourn his mother any longer; Amethyst had brought her back. After they finished the senator, Clark could give his mother everything he’d always wanted to, and they could be a family, with Amethyst, of course. She’d given her husband the greatest gift.
“I can bring you back.” She lifted her hand toward Eric. “Clark can have both of his parents. I can bring back so many people.”
Eric narrowed his blackened eyes. “Playing with death too much can upset balance and life. I don’t know why I created the potion. I shouldn’t get to play a god’s role.”
“You were a foolish inventor,” Judy teased.
How could they joke? People died around them. That poor man had lost most of his head, and his leg still twitched where he sprawled nearby.
“Right now, I’m going to go save some gang members.” Amethyst headed away from them as they kissed. Disgusting. They were worse than fresh teens.
She would revive the gang as she’d promised. That would be it. Yet, her fingers tingled and that burn started in her chest, as though her body ached to kill someone else.
Amethyst adjusted herself on the seat of Eric’s sleek silver steamcycle, narrower than the others, with the front angled downward. A shield Eric had created out of his own special “unbreakable glass” covered the front, to protect the rider from wind and bugs.
She turned her head to study the other rides. Eric’s grotto had contained twenty of those steamcycles, so the others used the older cycles and a few had horses.
Below their hill lay the fort of cut logs. Somewhere within, Clark suffered. The fortress had to be the size of a city block, or a bit bigger. It could contain whipping posts and torture racks and—
Amethyst squeezed her eyes shut against an image of Clark bleeding beneath a cat o’ nine tails, and a new image drifted into her subconscious.
She lay on a bed with a mattress that crunched, hard things inside poking her back. The air smelled of cigar smoke and body odor, the gagging kind, not the sweetness Clark got when they were traveling. His stench should have offended her, but it had excited instead.
A man stood over her, his fist raised, the tiny black hairs dark despite his sunburn. “Kiss it, bitch!”
Amethyst wanted to shrink against her pillows, to tell him no, order him to leave, but different words left her mouth. “How long?”
How long for what?
He grinned, showing off his rotting teeth. “Until I tell you to stop.”
Amethyst climbed off the bed and sashayed toward him even though she wanted to flee to the door, to throw it open and run yelling into the hallway. What kind of room was it, the whitewashed walls stained and the chair in the corner broken? She sent her gaze toward the door, and a little boy stood in it, a child with Clark’s blond hair and blue eyes.
He was Clark. Amethyst shuddered as she knelt before the man and bent over to kiss his muddy, scuffed boots.
“You’re name ain’t Judy no more,” he snarled. “It’s Sarah. Ya hear?”
Amethyst jerked free and clutched her steamcycle’s handlebars tighter. That had been one of his mother’s memories. How had it gotten to her? Was it because she’d brought the woman back to life.
“Whenever you’re ready.” Jack Three’s voice came over the speaker in her helmet.
All of those people waited for her to tell them to attack. Who was she to lead them? Gang members weren’t like surly maids.
With the sun still rising, painting the sky with a magical palette, it might be a good time to attack, before everyone was prepared… or, it might be the worst possible moment. Clark would know.
All of it was for Clark.
She could ask Eric. He could see if the army was prepared. Or, they could just go for it. When had she ever been a girl who planned things?
“Attack,” Amethyst shouted into her helmet’s microphone. They roared their vehicles forward, so she followed. Staying behind wouldn’t help anything.
Clark sat on his cot in the darkness, rubbing his wrists. His calluses massaged the soreness. If he could see better, he knew his hands would look red, chafed, bruised. At least Captain Greenwood had released him for the night.
“Don’t want you helpless during training,” the kind man had growled. Clark snorted. He’d love to cuff that man to the wall and see how he endured.
Today, he’d get to eat his gruel by himself and not have a soldier ram it down his throat.
Something rumbled in the fort. What would training be like? No doubt Captain Greenwood would shove a gun to his head and threaten to blow up the Treasures. Didn’t anyone understand how much the vial made a man suffer?
Something else crashed. Shouts permeated the walls and Clark rubbed his forehead. Wouldn’t it be grand if his personal army barged into the closet to drag him out to the training grounds as their glorious, forced leader?
Someone kicked open the door and light from the hallway flooded the space. He leaned back, blinking, as pain tingled along his nerves.
“You Clark Treasure?” The light outlined a man in a black leather jacket, a red bandana tied across his forehead. Patches covered the knees of his denim slacks.
He couldn’t be part of the army. Captain Greenwood didn’t allow anyone to go without a uniform—he’d even forced Clark into one.
“Um, yeah.” He braced himself, and realized his muscles tingled. He hadn’t gotten to move enough. His body sloshed like jam. Whoever this was, if he attacked, Clark might not be able to fight him off.
“Come on,” the newcomer growled. “Once you’re out, we’ll blow this place to rubble.”
“Blow it up.” Clark’s lips stuck together from dryness.
“Top Hat Terry knows just what to do. We’ll rig the whole contraption and it’ll explode.”
Clark blinked again. He must have passed out and dreamt. Top Hat Terry was a gang member out in the desert, not someone at the fort.
The man grabbed his arm to pull him into the hallway. Gunshots sounded down the antechambers. Army men slumped along the walls, blood dripping onto the floor.
“Got him,” his captor shouted. “I got Treasure!” They burst through a door into a training courtyard. “Got Treasure!”
Two steamcycles zoomed over to them, skidding in the dirt to park. Clark leaned back, but the newcomer shoved him forward. The rider closest bounded off the back of the cycle and pulled off her helmet.
“Clark!” Amethyst dropped the helmet as she launched into his arms, clutching him around the neck as her lips explored his face.
“Am, what are you doing her
e?”
“Saving you.” She laughed, tugging him toward the cycle. “Get on. Now that we’ve got you, Top Hat Terry can blow up the fort.”
How would she know Top Hat Terry? He staggered onto the steamcycle while she ran back for her helmet.
hen had this become his life? Clark took a swig from the bottle of vodka, and realized he wanted more than that. Why not? He’d escaped from the army. Was there any factions of the army left alive in the west? Who cared?
He gulped deep from the clear bottle of fire. It burned down into his stomach. He reach for Amethyst, looping his arm around her waist, and yanked her against him, slanting his mouth over hers. Hadn’t she been drinking? She tasted sweet, like lemonade.
Amethyst, who would rather die than miss out on blackberry brandy.
The abandoned farm the gang had relocated to reverberated with music. Where had all the instruments come from? Who cared about that either? Clark took another gulp and lifted his bottle overhead to hoot with the others as a song ended. People hung from the rafters and leaned over the loft, clapping. More of the audience stomped on the rotting plank floor.
Maybe he’d pull Amethyst into the farm for another bottle. They could fuck in a corner with the others. Who cared about that? They were married. That had to be more than half of the people making out.
Another song started, the lead guitarist playing on a steam guitar. The drummer followed with a fast beat. A girl in low-cut leather pants lifted a microphone and screamed into it, throwing her head back. She leaned toward the guitarist so they could both sing, the steam-powered speakers shooting the music across the rickety farm.
I ain’t gonna stop,
Not till you give it all you got.
I never knew what you had goin’,
Till you crawled onto me,
Took me deep in your mouth.
It wasn’t what I wanted,
It was all I needed.
The girl stepped away from him, swinging her hips, and pointed the microphone toward the crowd.
All I ever wanted was to feel you deep inside,
So deep you’d lose your way.
All I wanted was a fighter,
Someone to defend my honor,
If I had any left.
She dragged out the last word into a scream and threw back her head again. Clark glanced at his wife to see if the lyrics embarrassed her. The last song had been about stealing, and she’d tapped her foot to the beat, grinning at him.
Amethyst kissed his mouth. “Are you my fighter?”
“Always, baby.” He bit her neck hard enough to know it would bruise come morning.
He’d always feared the worst if he was captured. He’d gotten to face that.
Screw the rest of the world.
Nothing could scare him anymore.
“Should we tell him now?” Judy leaned against Eric. Below their hill, the barn and farmhouse glowed with firelight. “I did just as I always promised you. If something happened, I would turn to Garth Treasure. I always let Clark know that.”
She wished Eric could really touch her, could be warm instead of frigid.
“You did well,” he whispered against her temple. “We’ll wait. Our boy doesn’t need distractions.”
Senator Horan couldn’t fathom how one family could tear his west apart. Everything he wanted, Garth Treasure took: the best mines, the most stock in the railroads, the expansive lands.
Garth had taken Georgette too, a pretty little piece of sturdy work. Senator Horan would’ve preferred her to his wife. At least Georgette knew how to take a bite out of the world. Even now, sitting on a stool with handcuffs binding her wrists, she looked ready to spit fire, with her eyes narrowed and her mouth scrunched. Garth sat beside her, far enough away they couldn’t touch, his eyes blazing and his body rigid.
Then, those boys. Senator Horan had always wanted a son. Instead, his wife had refused him one. He knew she took precautions against childbirth. She’d always called it disgusting, but he’d assumed he’d get his way. His mistresses had given him plenty, but that didn’t make them legal. He should’ve kept that first wife of his, but after she’d cheated, his mercenaries had taken care of her remains.
Sometimes, he could still picture her smile when he couldn’t sleep.
Garth’s boys. Right. Jeremiah, a strapping lad, perfect for hard work and breeding. The other, Zachariah, a perfect soldier. They sat cuffed near their parents, Jeremiah growling and Zachariah stone-faced.
Then, that other son. Clark. Why did the bastard have to be such a… bastard? He should’ve been honored to serve his country by belonging to the army.
“Why are we here?” Jeremiah’s pathetic little wife asked. The others had too much pride to speak.
Senator Horan snorted. “Why do you think?”
“This is ridiculous.” That came from Georgette. “We’ve done nothing wrong. It will be proven in a court of law. You cannot keep Clark against his will.”
“He doesn’t know his will. The army knows best.” Senator Horan drummed his fingers across his desk. “I am Hedlund.”
“The people are Hedlund,” Garth said, low.
“I want Clark Treasure,” Senator Horan interrupted. Enough of their insane chatter. What did their opinions matter? “He’s escaped, and who knows where Amethyst Treasure is? They’ll come for you.”
“Why would they?” Jeremiah snapped. “You should be searching for my sister. It’s your fault she’s gone!”
Clark Treasure was stupid enough to fall into the Senator’s grip. “They’ll come for you. When they do, they won’t be getting away again.”
“This is a trap.” Clark swung off his steamcycle and set his helmet on the seat. The Senator’s mansion should’ve been covered in guards. Instead, the windows appeared dark and no one stirred in the yard.
“We circle and attack.” Amethyst removed her helmet and shook out her two braids. The other gang members hung back, awaiting Clark’s word. Top Hat Terry had claimed Eric had helped guide them; his father must’ve spoken through Amethyst. She seemed fine for having taken the vial.
Clark had been nauseous for months as he’d pushed on, running, never daring to look back.
He would look forward now.
Clark tapped the whistle at his throat. According to Amethyst, who went by his father’s claim, the whistle would sound throughout the other modified helmets worn by the posse. He would sound for them when he needed to.
“We’ll go in first.” Clark held out his arm to her. The Senator would know they would come. The time for caring had past.
“And we kill them.” Amethyst grinned.
“We do what has to be done.” If someone had to die, so be it.
oldiers lined the hallways, their blue uniforms pressed and the badges across their chests as polished as their buttons. Without looking at the visitors, the soldiers tipped their rifles to the right, as if guiding Clark to the Senator.
“I think they’re threatening us,” Amethyst whispered.
He squeezed her hand, heading in the direction the soldiers indicated. At the end of the hallway, they tipped their weapons to the left instead, and he followed, his heart thumping harder as they massed behind him, blocking the exit. Maybe he should’ve forced Amethyst to stay behind, but the Treasures were more her family than his.
Paintings peeked out from behind the soldiers’ broad shoulders. Who were the men in army hats and medaled sashes? Fighters had created Hedlund from untamed land and Bromi tribes. Apart from destroying the Bromi, the first settlers had made something out of nothing. They grew crops to feed the masses back east and they raised livestock. Men had shed blood to live on the plains. Would Clark be ruining that by taking down the senator?
Eric shimmered into appearance beside him. “You’re doing the right thing, son.”
Amethyst turned toward the spirit. “They’re blocking us in.”
Clark squeezed her again, gazing forward. His father had been rubbed out for his inventions; n
ow those same inventions would destroy the man who’d put the hit on his life.
“Family is everything.” His mother’s words danced through his memory. He did this for family, not for the west. He couldn’t protect everything.
Two soldiers opened double doors and Clark led Amethyst into an office. The walls, a deep burgundy in color, closed in around him. Velvet curtains covered the windows, so the light came from lamps and a chandelier.
Senator Horan sat behind a long mahogany desk, his boots propped on the corner and his chair tipped backward, his hands folded over his belly. A smile curled around his lips to match his oiled mustache. The Treasures sat on stools around a long meeting table, their hands bound with silver cuffs.
Eric’s special cuffs that required a code to unhook, rather than a key.
“Amethyst,” Jeremiah exclaimed. “Are you hurt? Where have you been?”
“Well, now, boy. So glad you could make it.” Senator Horan peeled his boots off the desk and slammed them onto the hardwood floor in twin taps. “I really don’t know what to do with you. See, you keep running off on me. You don’t want to be a captain. Think of what a great raise that is. Zachariah,” he barked. “Tell Clark how honored he should be to become captain immediately upon joining.”
Zachariah stared forward. “It will take ten years for most.”
“See, here’s another problem,” Clark drawled. “I never up and joined.”
Senator Horan laughed as he swaggered across the room. “You’re just a mining boy. You don’t have a choice in the matter. None of us have a choice if the army wants us.”
A side door opened and Captain Greenwood strode in, swinging his arms and puffing. Clark glimpsed a set of stairs behind him before the door banged shut. Jolly good, he could take them both out.
“You destroyed my barracks,” Captain Greenwood hollered. “You killed my men. The president has been summoned. He’ll have your neck for this.”
Born of Treasure (Treasure Chronicles Book 2) Page 18