“No, dummy. Not your emotions, your—you know.”
He caught up to her. “My what? You can’t even say it.”
“No way.” She snorted laughter, then wiped her nose. “You’ll make fun of me.”
“Come on,” he said, grabbing for her. “Say it. My what?”
She spoke in a giddy whisper. “Your…switch.”
Michael burst into laughter. “Where did you get that?”
“Shut up.”
She dunked his head into the water. When he came up, gasping and sputtering, he felt Arielle’s lips against his own. A quick kiss, but then she pulled away, appearing amazed and slightly stunned.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she said.
Michael drifted toward her. “Doing what, exactly?” he asked.
She put her arms around him, her fragile collarbones poking out of the water. Eyes open wide, mouth slightly parted, she looked afraid.
“I want to. Tonight,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, studying his reaction. For several seconds, neither blinked.
“It’s my turn with you,” she said. “But first, I want you to make the water even hotter.”
“How hot?”
“Scalding.” She smiled mischievously.
Michael took her hand and guided her toward the waterfall, where the crashing of its current lifted a thick mist into the air. Then he spoke the command, letting it pass soundlessly from his mind to hers. A moment later, the temperature rose until the mist became like steam, making them sweat. It wasn’t real, of course, but their minds made it as real as anything a person could be said to perceive.
“We can’t tell anyone,” Arielle said. “They won’t understand.”
“I know.”
He kissed her.
She spoke with her lips against his cheek. “Not here,” she said. “The cabin.”
He led her out of the water, and they walked hand in hand to the cabin, where they made love on a pile of blankets that smelled like mold. Michael wrapped her in the covers when they were finished, sensing her body temperature had dropped. He kissed her, and she smiled up at him.
“Come back to me,” she said, trembling so hard she was practically shaking. Her eyes glistened with fresh tears.
“I will,” he said.
Chapter 34
Two weeks went by in what felt like a fraction of that time. Before Michael left, on the morning of his exile, Eli and Ian confronted him in the garage.
Eli blocked the door with his massive frame, even crossing his arms over his chest like he was challenging Michael to try to get past him. Michael wouldn’t have dared.
Ian spoke next. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell us what the hell’s going on. No more keeping us in the dark.”
“You know already.” Glaring at his friends, Michael dropped his pack.
“Tell us where,” Ian said. “We might need to come get you from the East. Ever think of that?”
Michael stared at his motorcycle where it leaned on its kickstand. “I’m not going East,” he said.
Eli and Ian glanced at each other in confusion.
“I’m going West to H. Targin Kole Diplomatic Station 127—also known as Camp Brazen. That information stays between us.”
Michael had recently become aware of this particular labor camp just east of the Line, where Kole kept captured soldiers from the NDR—men worth imprisoning, but who were considered too dangerous to be housed within WDPRA limits. The location served him well; it sat within just a few hundred miles of the Line, but it was over a thousand miles away from enemy territory. It made it easy to defend and less likely to become a major target.
Eli threw his arms up in frustration. “That place is a prison camp. What in the spiteful wrath do you expect to do there?”
Through his teeth, Ian hissed. “Isn’t it obvious? This is a recruiting mission.”
Eli squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. He violently shook his head. Michael wanted to smile at his friend’s theatrical gestures. He was going to miss the big guy.
“No way,” Eli said, approaching Michael with a sad expression, like he wanted to hug him and not let go. “It’s a suicide mission is what it is. Did you tell Arielle what you’re up to?”
“She knows,” Michael said. “And it’s not a suicide mission.”
“Might as well be,” Ian said before storming out, making sure to slam the door behind him.
Eli threw his arms around Michael. “Don’t get caught, buddy. Watch your ass, okay?”
“I will, big guy,” Michael said, awkwardly patting Eli’s broad back. “See you in a few months.”
The town gathered to see Michael off, even those who despised him. A few brought signs labeling him a rapist and murderer, but those were soon taken away by other townspeople and destroyed on the spot. Michael got on his motorcycle, surrounded by his friends. Blake, Midas, Reggie, Dominic, Eli, Peter, and Ian all stepped forth from the crowd to wish him a safe journey. So did Rocio, Sally, and Fran.
Dominic put his hand on Michael’s shoulder and squeezed hard, almost threateningly so.
“You get your ass back here in one piece,” he said.
“I will,” Michael said. “Remember what you promised.”
“I won’t let her out of my sight.”
Michael hugged him “Thank you.”
Reggie pulled Michael’s backup pistol out of his side bag, then inspected it. “This one’ll jam up on you after a while. Here. Take mine.”
Reggie pulled his own—a shiny .357 magnum with a black grip—out of his side holster. He held it out to Michael grip forward.
“Your Smith & Wesson,” Michael said, holding his hands up. “I can’t take that.”
“You can, and you will.”
Michael took the revolver, savoring its weight and heft. The gun was worth more than his motorcycle. Ian and Eli had also brought gifts. Eli gave him his prized pair of aviator sunglasses, and Ian presented him with his favorite hunting knife. Where he was going, he wouldn’t need any of these things. He took them anyway and graciously thanked his friends.
Arielle was the last person to wish him luck. She kissed him deeply with tears in her eyes.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” Michael reassured her.
“You better.”
Wearing the sunglasses Eli had given him, Michael started up the motorcycle and rode out of the box canyon, the sun warming his face, the cool air rushing past his ears. A thought briefly entered his mind before he pushed it away for good.
Charlotte hadn’t wished him farewell.
Not being there had been her gift to him.
“Exile,” Warren said, lowering the binoculars.
His lips were dried and cracked because he couldn’t stop licking them. Next to him, Dietrich injected himself with yet another shot of Selarix. The rush overwhelmed him—if his mind had been dark before, it was now like the sun had risen, illuminating every niche and crevice.
They had been hiding in the mountains for weeks, watching the people of Gulch go about their daily lives. Now and then, patrols came around to sweep the area, but Dietrich and Warren had figured out ways to avoid them. The drug protected them from being sniffed out by telepaths. It also sped up Dietrich’s mind and strengthened his ability, making them both undetectable.
Except now they couldn’t stop taking it.
“Go easy on that stuff,” Warren said.
“Shut your mouth, please. I know what I’m doing.”
Something was going on at the mouth of the canyon, where the town’s main road led out into the mountains. They had just watched Michael Cairne embrace a series of people, including a pretty blonde girl whom he’d kissed for several seconds before turning toward the road beyond. His pack looked big enough for a month-long journey.
Two boys—one husky and blond and the other skinny and angry looking—talked to Michael for a couple of minutes. Dietrich desperat
ely wanted to hear what they were saying, but he knew better than to use his ability.
Damn. The urge to use it was strong, too. He was tired of waiting around in the woods with this hillbilly who never shut up and constantly cursed the people who had wronged him like it was the world’s fault he was a lowlife piece of shit.
Dietrich studied Michael’s gear as the boy rode off. It was obvious he planned to be gone for a long time. But where would he go? And if he were being outcast, why was half the town hugging him?
“We need better intel,” Dietrich said. “Even if we have to torture one of your people to get it.”
“They’re not my people anymore,” Warren muttered.
“We need to find out where Michael Cairne is going and exactly how long he’ll be gone.”
Warren licked his lips, then smiled. “I know just the right person.”
Inside one of the abandoned houses in the Hollows, Charlotte peered through a grimy window. She held William close to her, watching Michael speed away on his motorcycle.
“Mama, can we go now?” William whined.
“Sure, baby.”
He limped to the front door and eased it open, allowing sunlight to spill across the scuffed floorboards and chipped walls. Charlotte stayed by the window a moment longer, studying the dust Michael’s wheels had lifted into the morning air.
“Bye, Mike,” she said before following her son out the door.
CONTINUED IN DESCENDANT
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Descendant
Book 2 of Bloodcrier
Episode IV
Empire of Ashes
Have I not hideous death within my view,
Retaining but a quantity of life,
Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax
Resolveth from his figure ‘gainst the fire?
King John, Act V, scene 4
William Shakespeare
1
William ditched his mother as soon as he could to play with the bicycle Dominic had given him for his birthday. Now that he was nine years old—Dominic had explained this to him—he should have his own set of wheels, just like the older boys had theirs.
His mother had disagreed—no surprise there—so William had been stashing the bicycle in the woods, knowing he would lose it if she found it. Lately, her paranoia had reached new heights. Whenever he left the house, she would grow visibly upset, as if she thought William would never come back. But why would he abandon his momma? She was the only person who loved him. Her and maybe Dominic.
William rode toward the pond, where he figured he would find Aidan and his friends. As he approached, he saw four of them, including Aidan, smacking each other with long sticks. They called it stickboxing, and it was something the older telepaths did during training. They’d blindfold themselves, try to sense where the other fighter’s stick would land. William had never done it. The boys had never allowed him to try because of his foot, and beating him would be too easy. But William was a telepath and they weren’t, which meant he could be on a much more level playing field.
He felt for the knife in his pocket.
It was a switchblade, closed at the moment, but he envisioned the shining blade snapping open in his hand. The look of terror on Aidan’s face when William would flash it at him. He’d found the knife in Michael’s house while delivering tomatoes one Saturday afternoon. He had slipped it into his pocket without a second thought.
“Hey, it’s the cripple,” Aidan said. “Coming to watch us fight?”
William limped across the grass. With each step, he pictured himself becoming more and more like Michael Cairne—tall, confident, and in total control of the power in his brain that yearned to be unleashed. Today would be William’s day of release.
“I want to fight you,” William said, stopping a few feet away from Aidan.
“Oh boy, look at the cripple. He wants to fight.”
The boys laughed and began to limp around, eyes crossed, their mouths hanging open like idiots. William’s face grew hot until finally he reached into his pocket, pulled out the knife, and snapped it open the way he’d been practicing. A quick flick of his wrist was all it took.
“Give me a stick and fight me, Aidan. Unless you’re too scared.”
Aidan and his friends froze, staring at the blade. They didn’t know William was a telepath, but he would show them. He would get his hands on a stick, and he would show them.
“You’re a crazy cripple,” Aidan said. “You know that?”
“Stop calling me a cripple.”
“Put the knife down.”
“No,” William said. “Fight me.”
“Hell no.”
“You’re afraid,” William said, his voice low and his eyes peering up dangerously from beneath his brows. Somehow, he could sense Aidan’s fear. It was like a cold breeze radiating off the boy’s body.
“Yeah right.” Aidan dismissed him, turning to one of his friends. “Barney, get that stick and take him down.”
Barney, a wiry boy with a gap between his two front teeth, sneered at William and started stalking over.
“Not you, Barney,” William said. “I want to fight Aidan.”
Barney kept coming.
“Not you.” William’s voice rose into a shout. “Get back.”
Barney fell back on his butt. His mouth gaped open as if someone had just given him a squashy. The other boys froze, stunned.
“I want you to pick up that stick and toss it to me,” William said. He glowered at Aidan, pointing the blade at him like he wanted to carve him up. “Then pick up another one and fight me. I’m gonna show you what it feels like to hurt.”
Blinking stupidly, Aidan stared. His jaw hung off to one side in confusion, like he wanted to speak but had forgotten how.
“Now,” William said.
“A-all right. Fine.”
Aidan tossed William a stick before picking up one of his own. William put the knife away, and he breathed deeply to get ready.
Aidan bared his teeth in anger before whipping the stick at William’s face. The sensation of having it strike him reminded William of times his mother had slapped him unexpectedly for being bad. It made him angry to feel like he was being punished. He didn’t deserve it, not from these idiots.
Aidan approached him, stick held horizontally in both hands. Aidan’s friends surrounded them, clapping or cheering or both. They leaned inward, aggressively, as if they all wanted a piece of William and couldn’t wait for their chance.
“I’ll kill you,” William said. His mouth was dry. Dust crunched between his teeth. He tightened his grip on the stick. “I’ll kill your spiteful ass.”
He went to jab the stick at Aidan, who easily countered it. He sent William spinning, then whipped him across the back, sending him down to his knees. William rose, swinging the stick. He did so half-heartedly, not surprised when Aidan blocked him as easily as if he were brushing his sandy-blond hair. This was much harder than William had expected.
“Is that the best you can do, cripple?” Aiden taunted.
The next blow sent William toppling face-first to the ground. While he was down, Aidan slapped the stick across William’s back. The pain was like shattered ice exploding across his flesh, then that same ice morphed into fire.
That was against the rules. Combatants weren’t supposed to hit their opponents when they were on the ground. Aidan wanted him to suffer, but William was going to make Aidan suffer instead.
With an angry shout, William grabbed his stick and swung hard, catching Aidan in the jaw. William felt the bone give wa
y, actually felt the sickening shift of it from one side of Aiden’s face to the other.
Aidan’s knees gave out. He fell like a wilting flower, one hand rising to his quivering jaw. He managed to prop himself up with his other arm for a moment before the pain flattened him against the ground. A moment later, he started squealing.
“What’d you do that for?” one of Aidan’s friends shouted, making fists out of his hands. He shuffled toward William. The others followed. Soon, they were all throwing punches before William could swing the stick.
William squeezed his eyes shut, letting waves of hatred pour over him—toward these boys, his mother, his bad foot. If he couldn’t be normal like the others, then he could hate everything that was normal…everything and everyone who wasn’t broken like him. The rage filled him, elevated him, until he felt taller than these boys.
“Kick his crippled ass,” one shouted.
Their voices grew distant. His rage drowned them out. Even the pain wasn’t so bad anymore. But the hatred—it grew.
“Step on his foot. The bad one.”
They were trying to hurt his devil’s foot. If it were true his foot had come from the devil, maybe a part of his mind had come from the devil as well.
William sucked in a breath that was mostly dust and heat. Then, in the loudest voice he could muster, he shouted, “Get back.”
They fell like leaves in the wind, their bodies rolling across the ground. William got up, grabbed the stick, and began to strike them—one after another—with all his might. He went for their faces, fingers, groins.
When Aidan and his friends were all bloodied and sobbing like little girls, William dropped the stick and stood over them. His laughter began as a low chuckle, then exploded out of him, his hands gripping his belly, his entire body bending forward at the suddenness of his glee, as if their misery were the funniest joke ever told.
Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series Page 41