Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series

by Richard Denoncourt

  Blake was meditating when the driver’s voice brought him back to his physical surroundings, the interior of the truck’s cargo area dark and packed with silent soldiers.

  “We’re here.”

  He took out the last bottle of cough syrup he owned and gulped down a mouthful, silently thanking Midas the way he always did, despite the bitter taste.

  They parked the trucks, got out, and split into two groups—one led by Blake and Peter, the other by Dominic and Ian—to flank the southern and northern sides of the central building.

  Once they reached the edge of the forest, only a few yards from the street rounding the complex, Dominic’s voice entered their minds.

  No snipers above, but I see one body that looks like it fell from the rooftop.

  He’s inside, Blake responded. Expect an enemy force from within the buildings. They’ll be on Selarix. Watch the windows and stick to the walls.

  Glass shattered as dozens of windows were broken in the two buildings overlooking the parking lot. Snipers parked in the frames, their barrels poking through as they took aim. From around the southern and northern ends of the complex, armored cars appeared, using the wraparound street to close in.

  We’ll take the ones coming in from the south, Blake sent. Dominic and Ian, take the ones from the north. Avoid the parking lot for now. Stick to the trees.

  Soon, the battle began. Grenades were thrown at the street, where Blake sensed Dominic and Ian at the edge of the forest. They took out one of the three armored cars, flipping it onto its side. Something didn’t feel right.

  Blake ordered his men to follow a similar strategy to take out the vehicles. He avoided any smoke the wind might blow in his direction, already feeling a coughing spell working its way up from his lungs. He suppressed it as long as he could, firing past the trees at the soldiers taking cover behind the armored vehicle.

  A hissing noise rose in the distance. It was Dominic using the flamethrower. More explosions followed. Blake watched as the armored cars were systemically taken out. He couldn’t help but feel they were a distraction meant to slow them down, rather than a fighting force meant to eliminate them.

  The real battle would take place inside the main building. There were probably a hundred soldiers in there. If the trap had been set up the way Blake imagined it—the way he would have done it—then Michael was probably running through the hospital toward Arielle without any real threat of being killed.

  Not yet, anyway.

  But Blake and his men would never make it to Michael or Arielle. Entering the hospital was a death sentence. The snipers weren’t guarding the facility—they were delaying their enemies just a bit more.

  Once the vehicles and the soldiers on the street were taken out, Blake ordered his men to hang back. He shared what he suspected with Dominic, Peter, and Ian.

  We can’t just wait out here, Dominic sent.

  Enemy snipers fired into the forest, a useless attempt. It would be even more useless for Blake and his soldiers to try to take them down from here, not to mention crossing out into the open with the enemy in a protected, elevated position.

  We’re at a standstill, Blake sent. We walk into that building, and we’re dead men. That’s if we even make it past the parking lot.

  We can go around, Peter sent.

  The other entry points will be blocked and heavily guarded. The only option is to reach out to Michael. Have him try to neutralize as many of these men as possible.

  They’re on Selarix, Dominic responded. I can’t even sense them up in the windows.

  Selarix won’t stand in Michael’s way. Not if he’s having an episode.

  We would all drop dead if that’s the case.

  Then so be it, Blake said. Tell the men to abort. Send them back to the trucks. Have them get the hell out of here. The three of you, come to me. We’ll do what we can on our own.

  This isn’t the time for Dreamscape bullshit, Dominic sent.

  Blake could sense his frustration. If this isn’t the time, then there never was one. Do it.

  34

  Warren was a mess of greasy, knotted hair. Around his red-veined eyes, caked dirt had gathered in the wrinkles of his face, resembling tribal adornments. He leaned over the steering wheel as he drove, knuckles white in a paranoid grip.

  The Selarix he’d injected at the start of the drive made his mind impenetrable. Not that Charlotte could use telepathy around William, but it still fiercely pissed her off that he would close himself in such a way.

  Still, she didn’t blame him. After everything he’d been through, he’d probably never trust a telepath again—if he had ever trusted one to begin with.

  “This road will take us into one of the dead cities,” Charlotte said. “We might be able to camp there.”

  “I know where it takes us,” Warren said. “And I’ll decide where we set camp, woman. From now on, you let me call the shots. You got it?”

  “Relax. They’re not coming after us.”

  “And just how do you know that? You can’t feel them coming with the boy here.”

  “I know that because I’m not stupid,” she said. “Why would they care about us?”

  “Shut up, woman,” he roared. “I won’t tell you again.”

  William was silent in the backseat. A glance at the rearview mirror revealed the frightened way he’d raised his shoulders around his neck.

  Charlotte rarely felt sorry for the boy, but seeing him that way, pressed against the door like he wanted nothing more than to be on the other side of it, filled her with rage. He’d been through enough in his short life, especially over the past few months. It was time for them to be free of all the madness.

  Warren’s hunting rifle lay across his lap, the stock against the door with the barrel pointed at the radio dials. Charlotte would never be able to grab and turn it quickly enough to aim and fire a successful shot.

  But it was still a weapon in other ways.

  Studying the landscape to the truck’s left, she spotted a lone scarecrow in a field littered with the sunbaked remains of some long-forgotten harvest.

  “He’s aiming at us!”

  She thrust her finger at the scarecrow.

  Warren’s arms jerked, the truck swerving as he ducked to avoid a bullet.

  Charlotte grabbed the hunting rifle. When she had it in a firm grip—one hand on the barrel, the other on the stock—she used all the upper-body strength she could muster to hammer the heavy end against Warren’s jaw.

  She managed two thrusts before Warren was able to block a third, his right hand wresting the gun out of her grip. The truck swerved off the road and bounced across a field, shattering the remains of a wooden fence.

  “Momma!”

  Ignoring William as the boy’s body was flung from side to side, Charlotte focused on reclaiming the rifle. Warren was stronger, the fresh dose of Selarix probably enhancing his strength and focus. She brought out her claws instead.

  Warren screamed as Charlotte raked her nails across his face. She went for his eyes.

  The truck came to a sudden halt, her body slamming against the dashboard.

  Half-blind now, one eyelid covered in blood, Warren aimed his rifle the proper way, seconds from tearing a hole in her chest.

  The gun went off, the bullet shattering the windshield. But he had missed. William had lunged between the front seats at the last second, pushing the barrel out of harm’s way.

  Ears ringing, Charlotte slid against the door, using one foot to push the rifle against the dashboard. With the other, she kicked Warren in the head—once, twice, and finally a third time.

  When he was clearly disoriented, Charlotte pulled the rifle from his relaxed grip and opened the passenger door. She tumbled out of the truck. The back door swung open, William jumping out after her.

  She heard a click as Warren opened the driver’s side door. Readying the rifle, Charlotte took a deep breath. Aimed past the open door. Fired.

  The slug caught him in the shou
lder, propelling him forward. She wasted no time in rounding the front of the truck.

  Warren was on his knees, left hand clutching his wounded right shoulder.

  “You spiteful bitch!”

  He snarled, teeth bared. As Charlotte aimed the rifle at his hideous, bloodied face, she promised herself this would be the last time any man called her a bitch.

  The shot ripped off half of Warren’s face. He toppled onto his side, hands clenching and unclenching a few times before his nervous system finally went dark.

  “Now who’s the bitch?” Charlotte sneered.

  William came around the truck a moment later. He limped over to Warren’s body, and what he did next surprised Charlotte.

  “That’s it, baby,” she soothed, watching as her son kicked Warren’s corpse again and again. Finally, he let out a long, soft sigh, sounding as if a demon within him had been exorcised, and got back into the truck.

  Freedom was theirs.

  Finally.

  35

  They had known he would come.

  Red arrows had been spray-painted on the walls, directing Michael where to go. He saw them clearly by the light of electric lanterns set in intervals along the hallways. Frantically, he ran, feeling Arielle’s heartbeat slowing in the periphery of his consciousness.

  There had been zero attempt to disguise the trap. Dietrich’s map—and his condescending little note—had erased any question right from the start. They knew he would come for her. Knew what would happen inside this facility. But they didn’t know everything.

  Explosions boomed outside the building, grenades going off.

  Blake and Dominic had arrived. They would be dead before sundown.

  “Michael Cairne.”

  The voice boomed over speakers once used to address doctors, nurses, and patients. It was a familiar voice—one Michael had listened to hundreds of times growing up in the People’s Republic.

  “You came,” Harris Kole said, sounding delighted. “Don’t bother responding. This is a recording. Though I very much wish we could have met in person, man to man. I’ve heard you’ve matured into quite the soldier, exactly the type I had intended you to be, though it pains me that you fight for the wrong side…”

  Still following the arrows, Michael took the staircases two steps at a time. Kole’s voice heightened his rage, bringing it nearly to a boil. He struggled to keep it at bay, to hold on to the pulse of Arielle’s waning heartbeat.

  “Your mother didn’t want this life for you. Fighting. Bloodshed. War. But she would have been proud of your strength and dedication to the people you love. I know I’m proud—proud as only a father can be.”

  Michael tripped over a step, falling against the stairs. He picked himself back up and searched the ceiling, locating one of the speakers. Aiming his pistol—hands shaking now—he managed to shoot it out before breaking into a sprint down the next hallway.

  Kole was getting to him. Exactly as intended.

  “I can’t say I loved your mother, Michael, but I still think of her often. She was the one I came back to again and again. A beautiful woman with an unusually strong will that matched my own. My lust for her was unparalleled. When they told me she was carrying another child, I knew it was mine—that this one would be different from all the other failures. I was right.”

  Closer. Michael was so close.

  The arrows brought him to a dead end. The word “STAIRS” had been spray-painted on the wall in front of him. It was part of the trap, meant to slow him down, to toy with his emotions.

  Kole was his father—his real father, through natural means. He’d raped Michael’s mother, more than once.

  Pushing the thought out of his mind, he closed his eyes, searching for Arielle’s presence.

  “Now, I’m going to be a grandfather…”

  “Shut up!”

  His eyes flying open as he screamed the words, Michael shot out the nearest speaker. He could still hear the voice echoing down a distant hallway.

  “I’ll take care of the child, Michael…”

  He focused, closing his eyes again. Arielle’s condition made it tough to pinpoint her mental presence. He tried harder, battling the anger clouding his mind, finally locating her in the western wing of the fourth floor.

  Two floors up.

  He ran back to the stairs.

  “Not because I owe it to you, but because this is my chance to do it right. Like my father did. If it’s a boy, my kingdom will have a rightful heir to the throne. If it’s a girl…well, she won’t last long, but she’ll be a treasure trove of information and genetic material—an important piece to a puzzle you’re about to help me solve…”

  Breathless, Michael arrived at the corridor where Arielle’s heartbeat pulsed in a room at the far end. He could see it through a set of broad windows—a wide-open area where a few machines once used to monitor newborn babies were scattered throughout.

  A sign hung above a set of swinging doors.

  N.I.C.U - Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.

  “This is where I leave you, son. But I promise you one thing—your sacrifice today will be for the greater good of—”

  Michael shot out the speaker, then ran to the doors and slammed through them.

  The machines in this room were all wrong. They weren’t relics from the past; these looked brand new. They had never been intended for babies. They were hybrid monstrosities involving cameras and sensors he could barely make sense of, encased in pillars of glass.

  Harris Kole’s monitoring devices.

  He shot one but the bullet bounced off. The glass was bulletproof.

  Crossing the room, Michael tossed his pistol away.

  Arielle lay at the far end, in a medical cot beneath the window, her ashen face turned toward the light. She’d been hooked up to an IV bag and monitoring machine that emitted a slow, electronic beat.

  Michael ran to her side and took one of her cold hands into his own, hoping to transfer a bit of warmth into her body.

  She gazed weakly at him.

  “Mi…” she started to say, but the effort caused her to drift off.

  “Stay with me. Arielle. Don’t go.”

  He noticed a few spots of blood on the blanket covering her lower body. Tossing the blanket aside, he bit back an agonized moan.

  She wore a medical gown that exposed her bare legs. It did little to hide the bloody mess that had been made of her belly—the result of a hastily conducted surgery meant to extract the unborn fetus with little care for her long-term survival. A metallic smell rose from the wound, sickening him.

  His rage began to boil. It reached the brim, about to spill over.

  Not yet.

  “They…put our baby…in a machine,” she said.

  Michael shushed her. “Let me take away the pain.”

  “Alive…all that matters.”

  Closing his eyes, Michael used every ounce of will he possessed to lift Arielle’s mind out of the dark depths in which it struggled to stay afloat. He took it to a place of his own design, far away from this hospital ward.

  He heard water lapping gently by his feet, felt sunlight warming his face.

  When he opened his eyes again, Arielle was standing in front of him.

  36

  Arielle smiled sadly.

  Dressed in a sky-blue sundress he’d seen her wear many times, there was no trace of blood or sign of the wound sustained by her physical body. The midday sun hung above the canyon, illuminating strands of her blonde hair and bringing out the pale color in her eyes.

  They came together, Arielle sinking into Michael’s arms. He clenched his teeth to keep from sobbing.

  “It’ll be all right,” she soothed, yet Michael’s body continued to tremble in her arms. “Don’t cry.”

  She pulled back, then wiped tears from his face.

  “Arielle, I’m so sorry. I wish I’d never come here. You don’t deserve this.”

  His body was racked with sobs he could barely contain. She took h
im in his arms again, and Michael wept like a small child.

  “Our baby is safe, Michael. They won’t let him die. Or her. I never saw the gender. They put me under before they…”

  “Shh… Don’t think about that. We’re here. Together.”

  He pressed his lips to hers, then kissed the rest of her face, Arielle closed her eyes, her smile widening, as each kiss left Michael’s tears behind to shine on her cheeks and forehead. Yet she cried no tears of her own. She looked hopeful.

  “Find our baby. Promise me, Michael. Don’t let today be the end. Don’t give them what they want.”

  “I… I’ll try, Arielle. I promise. I won’t let them win.”

  She glanced out at the shimmering water.

  “I wish we could stay here forever.”

  “Me too,” Michael said, stroking her hair. “I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you, too.”

  “I love you so much.”

  She kissed his lips. “I love you, too.”

  They held each other a minute longer, Michael sobbing softly. Finally, she pulled back and gazed into his eyes.

  “I’m ready. I want it to happen here, with you.”

  He nodded, sniffling. “Okay.”

  Arielle led him by the hand into the water. He kissed her one last time.

  “You know what to do,” she said.

  He nodded. “I’ll make things right. I promise.”

  “Be strong.”

  “I will.”

  Michael pinched her nose, cradling her with his other arm, then gently lowered her into the water like a priest performing a baptism.

  There was no struggle. He held her down, weeping and cursing, his shouts echoing off the canyon walls. A stream of air rose from Arielle’s mouth, bubbling across the surface, yet her eyes remained shut, her arms moving only to grip Michael’s arms and keep herself in place.

  When the bubbles ceased to rise, Arielle’s body perfectly still, Michael let her drift across the surface. Gradually, she began to dissipate, like snow melting in water, until there was no trace of her left.

  Michael headed toward the shore. He was knee-deep when he sensed a disturbance in the air by the shack.