by Kay Camden
I don’t catch up until the forest edge where he’s stopped in the shadows to watch the house. Across a dewy clipped field sits a modern mansion, built outward instead of upward, a sprawl of clean white brick and walls of pristine glass, darkened by the house’s sleeping innards. It won’t be for long though. Even if rich people can sleep in, their staff won’t. And if they live on the grounds like they do at Rex’s house, then someone’s bound to be starting breakfast right now.
This is stupid on steroids. As if reading my mind, Rex pops a pill and swallows it dry. Because that’s going to make this go so much better. The only person on this land I want to kill right now is him. I’ll take his phone, his car key, and finish off the list myself.
He takes off across the field. I brace myself for flying bullets, for his prone bloodied corpse. Once he steps under the closest eave, I follow in a sprint, not taking my chances against no cover and the rising sun and those black windows that could light up at any moment. We find a side door unlocked. Which probably means someone is up and about, but Rex moves ahead like he owns the place. In an inner hallway he looks straight at me for the first time since I called him a coward. It dawns on me then, what this is. He’s out to prove he’s not a coward. To me and to himself. And he’s totally missed the point.
Inner coward. That’s what I should’ve said. Emotional coward. I’m tempted to grab him and write it on his arm in the warrior markings right now, but I notice how faded they are. I check mine. Also faded. I don’t know how much a problem that is, if it’s a breach in our protection, or if it’s just a missed formality. My family just told me to do it. They never told me why.
Too much hesitation earns me a jab in the shoulder from Rex. I restrain myself from jabbing his jerk ass back. He motions above us, asking if the cloud of hate is here. I nod. I don’t even need to search for it this time. It’s already extending toward me, hungry for me, anxious for a path to affect more minds and spread like a disease. It thinks I’m here to enable it, not capture and cage it.
I draw a sleeping stone from my pocket and hook it into the cloud, black magic rooting me into wooden floorboard and concrete foundation and into soil like a toxin. Once it’s filled me to the brim, I give a nod to Rex. Go, genius, and pray to the elements your people are in their rooms and not sitting down for breakfast. I can’t be sure how this would work on people not already asleep or drowsy. It seems there’d be a bit more fuss.
He leads me to a first door—empty of people. Another—also empty, but the bed is unmade and the lamp on the side table is on so we cross the threshold. He closes the door and ducks into the bathroom. Out he drags a limp man with shaving cream on half his face and a wicked cut on the other side probably created when my spell took hold. Convenient for me, though. I use the blood to draw the symbol on his forehead and mine. Pure liquid hate and anger cascades into me; I can’t breathe until I’ve gathered it, squashed it onto the mass I already carry. Rex binds the man’s wrists and ankles and leaves him on the bathroom floor, turning off the bedside lamp as we leave the room.
After the third victim, I stumble under the weight of the darkness I’m gathering. Finished with the fourth, I actually fall to my knees. Rex’s face is close to mine when he lifts me, and I can’t admit the new degree of my anger toward him. It’s combined with the rest of it, been corrupted, powered beyond possibility, too strong to stomach. So I close my eyes and think about that first time he signed. His shy smile, the real one, turning toward the cover of the unseeing car door. How he shivers when I pet his head. His dimple.
My eyes focus on his. He asks, You good?
I nod.
He locates more unconscious bodies, and I pack more hate onto the mass I already own. We’ve finished the final person when Rex lays a quick hand on my shoulder to hold me still, one ear tilted toward the window. He walks against the wall to peek out onto the yard two stories below us. Shit, he says, counting on his fingers, raising the final number of seven to me.
The clump of hate inside me pulses, both hot and cold, liquid but hardening, turning me inside out. I’m swollen with it, nausea spooling up so fast I’m afraid if I give in to it I’ll vomit out my life itself. And thinking about it makes it worse. The act of holding back the nausea is too much—a tendril of the hateful mass escapes, leaking from its container. Contaminant spreads, numbing my chest, lighting a new thought in my brain: why not just kill all seven? It would be easy. They deserve it.
No—that’s not me. It’s that mass of hate speaking. And yes it would be easy, but Rex and I don’t do easy. We do right.
I point out the window, needing confirmation. Seven people outside? All awake?
He’s too busy checking the ammo in his .45 to answer. And if seven of them are coming from the front lawn, how many are coming from the rear? It’s growing harder to keep my balance and not give in to the disaster I’ve accepted inside my body with no idea how to handle it. I can’t rest until we get out of here though, so I take off, sensing him follow. Out a rear window the morning sun has woken the eastern lawn with a slant of light. Four—no, five—long lean shadows gather near the back door.
Moores? I fingerspell to Rex, hoping he’ll see it as a question.
He shakes his head. Points out the window, then to the front of the house, holds up his hand formed like an O. Okay, so zero Moores left. All we need to do is escape.
Chapter 26
Rex
Three go down before Sloane makes me stop shooting. She’s not doing the saint act anymore. She looks more like she’s about to jerk the .45 out of my hand and use it on me. “Okay, how else do you plan on getting out of here?”
Perfectly accurate shots that disable but don’t kill, that’s how, and I didn’t even see her unholster that Glock. A knee here, a butt cheek there, overcoming distance with a handgun like she’s enabled some cheats. Then I spot a familiar face.
I was wrong about there being no Moores left.
She’s caught me looking at the guy. I’m trying to remember where he fits into my family tree and how many extra years I’ll add to my sentence if I kill him. He’s older than my father by a generation or more, probably has some sick amount of power he’s spent a lifetime gathering. He’s not from this household though, so he was either here for a visit or he’s come just for us. Well, Rex, decision time. Kill him, blame it on Sloane. Disable him so Sloane can do her thing and run. Or just shoot myself in the head right now and never have to think about anything ever again.
She elbows me. By now the ones we haven’t taken down will have entered the house, made it up the stairs. I do some quick math: three left, plus the Moore. I hold up three fingers which she shakes her head to, holding up four of her own to correct me. I hold up one more. In the moment it takes to register on her face, I know I could just pretend I counted wrong, that yeah, he’s just another guy, and oops, headshot, totally didn’t mean that, but what’s done is done so let’s beat it outta here. But I can’t lie to her, not now, not ever. So I fingerspell, Moore.
An emotion I’ve never seen on her fills her eyes: defeat. Along with exhaustion that slumps her head and shoulders, sends her swaying toward the wall. I grab her arm, stick the .45 in my waistband and get hold of her other arm. Give her a shake so she looks into my eyes. She’s nearly limp, fading under the consumption of the dark matter—it’s evident in her pupils, now even more impossibly massive, and the heat of the amulet against my skin shielding me from the walking mass of radioactive hate she’s drawn inside herself.
“I’ll just kill him, then.”
She shakes her head so weakly I fear I’ve just caused her to use up the last bit of her real human strength.
“Okay, then one more. You can do one more.” I release her.
She pops out her mag for a reload, but her hands are shaking so much she drops it and the Glock on the floor. I catch her before she goes down with it. She’s coughing as I get her upright
; she pushes me away to puke against the wall. I’m not going to look. I know what it is. And I think I’m on my own here because she’ll be a liability more than a help until I can get her out of here so she can figure out how to cope with this or get rid of it.
One of the stairs creaks from down the hall. I take a spot next to the doorway and take out the first guy with an elbow to the face. As he falls I clasp his head and twist—whoops, shouldn’t do that. Too late though. I look at Sloane—she’s reloaded, sitting with the Glock rested on an upright knee, aiming at the doorway.
“Rex, I’m willing to talk.” It comes from the hall outside. “Off the record. Your household doesn’t have to know.”
I laugh—not sure why. Nothing’s funny here. “There is no record, fucker. But send the rest in, because we aren’t done yet.”
“We?” It’s not a word but an assault. Proof of his ill intent. An offer of truce followed by shots fired. Is every single member of my family this two-faced?
“I wasn’t planning to kill you, but I’m kind of thinking I’d love to feed your face to the wolves.”
“You’re under Bevan control, Rex. Those aren’t even your words.”
“Don’t be butthurt because I’ve broken my shackles. I do have a mind of my own. Maybe if you’d seen that sooner, I wouldn’t need to kill so many of you.”
The plaster creaks behind me, his weight transferred from the floorboard into the wall.
“I’m trying to help you.”
“Póg mo thóin.”
He sighs deeply, almost resigned. Without knowing how many of the remaining guys are standing out there, I can’t exactly round the door frame and grab him. But I need to get him to Sloane so she can do her work. I need to get Sloane out of here.
I look at her and shrug. Mentally, I’m spent. There’s no brain power left for anything. Physically, we should’ve slept a long time ago. There was a reason I brought us straight here, but I don’t remember it anymore. A moth flutters through the door—in my jacked-up state I’ve aimed for it. Sloane gasps. She hits the floor on her belly, and I follow just as the wall explodes with gunfire.
I army-crawl toward her, drag her behind a sofa. When the shooting ends, I raise my head. Dust fills the slant of morning light coming through the window, but no one has entered. I inhale plaster particulate and something metallic. She’s latched her arm onto mine. I pry her free. The action is hot, slippery. My brain connects that metallic smell to the warmth running down her arm and her other hand pressing against her side where a stain of darkness spreads in her shirt.
She makes a grab for me as I stand, ripping my shirt. I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I unload into the wall they shot up. Eject. Reload. Go through the door. Unload again. None of the bodies are the one I’m looking for. I check the stairs, catch him rounding the corner one flight down. I hop the banister and jump. If she’s dying, I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t kiss her one last time. Didn’t hold her while she left me.
His hands are up when he spins to face me. “Rex, be sensible. The power you’re throwing away—”
I shoot him in the chest, the head. Why the shithead isn’t armed is beyond me. So used to having servants do his dirty work has left him stupidly vulnerable. And now dead.
Two flights up. One long hall. I skid to a stop on my knees beside her. She’s not a girl but a limp thing in a puddle. I turn her face toward me but find nothing there but closed eyes and skin too pale. She’s rolled up her shirt, bunched it against the seeping wound but there’s been no pressure against it since she passed out.
I take off my shirt and ball it, hold it against the wound. Five minutes. Is that enough? No fucking idea.
“Sloane?” Don’t be stupid, Rex. She can’t hear you, dead or alive.
We have to get out of here. I start to haul her up but stop fast when I see blood bubble from the wound. Above it, the stretchy fabric of her bra. Well that’s perfect. So I wad my shirt again and shove it underneath. Cutting the shoulder strap with my knife allows me to shift it directly over the wound. I get my shoulders underneath her and fireman-carry her down the stairs and out into the hot sun. If they see us and shoot us dead, there will be nothing I can do about it.
Another stage clear. This one though? Not worth it.
*
We get out via the main driveway and front gate left unlocked for whatever stupid reason. The R5 is a dream when I see it on the side of the road. So jacked with endorphins, I’m nearly floating. I’m sure they’re making me hallucinate too. The door is solid in my hand when I open it. The seat catches Sloane’s body like I expect. I stand beside the car and glance around at the vacant road, the forest imprisoned by the signature Moore iron fence. My vision shimmers with sun flares—probably not a good thing. Now what’s more important, escape or first aid? Escape won’t matter if she dies, so I dig out the kit she brought. Flush the wound, bandage it tight. I tuck floppy arms into the seat harness, adjust lifeless legs in the floorboard, try to position a useless neck against the seat so she doesn’t get whiplash from this stupid car. She’s a breathing lifeless body, and I don’t know what else to do so I get behind the wheel and hit the gas.
Fifty miles later she blinks awake and covers her eyes with her arm. My relief nearly swerves us off the road. I grope for her sunglasses and hand them over. She gropes for my hand and holds on tight. The constriction in my throat that’s been slowly cutting off airflow since I strapped her into the car returns muscle control to me, and I swallow down the scream I’ve been trying to contain for miles.
She twists, lifting her arm to check her wound. I hate how she whimpers. If I had something sharp, I’d stab it right in my throat so I’d have my own pain to deal with and not have to think about hers.
“Don’t—” I jerk my hand from hers to stop her. “I wouldn’t mess with it. Wait until we stop.”
I’ve passed three motels. The farther we get, the safer we’ll be. But the next one is ours. A double dose of my upper has gotten me this far, but it won’t last much longer. I’m afraid to see what kind of exhaustion will assault me when it wears off.
Since I’m not going to ask Sloane to affect some money to get two gored-up teenagers a motel room, I find a hose on the back of a gas station and spray myself off. The cutting cold water is both a refresher and a penance. By the time some guy tells me to get lost, I’m clean enough.
In the motel room she showers first, with the light off, the door open just a crack to allow a sliver of light in. I sit on the foot of the bed because I don’t know what else to do. I keep my phone out of her reach because I don’t want to talk about what just happened and how it was all my fault. We both already know that, and I’d rather not go there any more than I already am in my own head. I couldn’t handle any more.
And when I swallow a downer and she snuggles against my back, I put it far, far away. This lesson could’ve been learned a much harder way. Her wound is now thoroughly cleaned and bandaged, but a couple inches to the left would’ve turned it fatal. I need to remember to keep an extra bullet on hand for myself in case that lesson ever pays out.
*
We sleep twelve hours then get back on the road. Her wound has become a scratch. I don’t hate her for it, I admire her. Okay, maybe I hate her a little. She’s now wearing the pink sunglasses and forming her hands into blinders beside her face. I’m too busy trying to figure out how to kill the sun for her to notice the car behind us until it’s become so desperate for attention it’s glued itself to my bumper. The same car that has been following us for a long time. A really long time.
I check the hood emblem: Tesla. The driver: that’s my brother. But there’s something off about his face.
I drift to the shoulder. Before I get out, I check my phone to see how many calls and texts I missed. It’s dead. Ah, this is going to be fun.
When we meet between the cars, I forget how to form words. On
e black eye, a cheek bruised purple, a split lip crusted with a bloody scab. Not Aaron, my studious, thesis-writing, doesn’t-want-to-get-too-involved brother but a mirror of my own post-fight face. He leans to check the inside of the car. “Where’s Sloane?”
I point in there, since I still can’t find my voice.
“She okay?”
I nod, aware I’m staring, mouth open like a reject. I snap it closed.
“There’s a kill order on you, Rex.”
Because it’s too hard to figure the reason for the state of his face and keep up with the conversation I say, “What?”
“It’s not just her anymore. They’ve ordered everyone to kill you both on sight.”
He and I turn to Sloane’s door popping open, her stumbling out to puke in the weeds. I need to stop feeding her fried fast food. Find an organic market somewhere. Maybe that’s all this is. She’s a mountain-raised, veggie-loving farm girl who just quit clean food cold turkey and is now being force-fed meals sold on the interstate.
“Did you hear me?”
I turn to face him again, see the black eye, the bruise, the lip, like I didn’t just see it all a second ago. “Holy oak, Aaron, what—?”
“Your uncle Jared and some friends paid me a little visit. I fed him a few lies and got off easy. Listen, Rex, this is getting serious. I don’t know what your timeline is, but you need to cut it in half or more. You can’t take all summer to finish this. I’m not even sure you have weeks.”
Sloane pulls one of my black T-shirts out of the car and lays it over her head to block the sun. She’s cramming mint leaves into her mouth as she hikes into the woods beside us, weaving between the tree trunks.
“It takes as long as it takes.”
“They’re pulling guys from all over. They expect you at every house. They’re flying people in from Europe as we speak.”