Reaping Day: Book Three of the Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  Except that didn’t explain why one of the said disgruntled hallway goers pulled open the door to medical one room over and uttered a hissed, “Shut up!” at his friend.

  Jarek swallowed and looked around the area by his dim bedside light for options, coldly dismissing the quickening of his heart and the nervous energy that came with it.

  It was probably nothing. He sure as hell hoped it was nothing, because if it was anything else, he was screwed. There was nothing to work with, no impromptu weapon to be found, and even if there had been, his shoulder wasn’t in any condition to allow him to fight.

  It was probably nothing.

  But as the first dark silhouette appeared in the doorway, some deep-seated instinct told him that “nothing” was coming, and it was coming to hurt him. Maybe it was the way the figure paused and gestured back to whoever was behind him. Maybe it was just the vaguely familiar stout bulldog outline.

  Well, no reason to lay quiet and wait.

  Jarek put on his best top of the morning to you tone. “Mr. Rodgers, as I live and breathe. What brings you here in the creepy-ass dead of night?”

  The silhouette had gone rigid at the sound of his voice, but it quickly recovered and prowled toward him. Another figure slipped into the room behind him, and then a third as the leading shadow drew close enough to the dim light for Jarek to see he’d called the leader’s identity correctly.

  “We’ve got something to say to you, Slater,” Rodgers the angry bulldog said.

  Crap.

  He knew that tone—the tone that clearly designated their “something” probably involved a pillowcase and a bar of soap, or, if he was lucky, maybe just good ol’ fashioned fists.

  For whatever reason—and there were admittedly plenty to pick from—they had serious beef with him. They had him cornered, trapped, defenseless. He wasn’t going anywhere, and they knew it. But that didn’t mean he had to give them the satisfaction of admitting his insides were turning to cold gravy.

  Instead, he tilted his head toward the bedside table that was empty but for a cup of water and the earpiece he’d slipped out for the night. “You can add your get well soons to the pile. Otherwise, maybe you should come back in the morning. Pretty sure we’re outside of visiting hours, and there aren’t enough hours left in the world for the beauty sleep I’m needing.”

  Rodgers was close enough in the dim light now for Jarek to make out his cold grin. “You never stop do you?”

  Night Raider Number Two drew up beside him, and Jarek recognized the guy who’d damn near zapped him with a stun gun the previous morning.

  “Of course he doesn’t,” Stun Gun said. “He’s the fucking Soldier of Charity, didn’t you hear?”

  The third guy—tall, thin and leery—Jarek didn’t recognize as he stepped up on Rodgers’ other side, but that hardly mattered now. He didn’t seem interested in adding to the interaction—not in any way that involved words and not fists, at least.

  “I might be way off base, guys,” Jarek said, “but I feel like I’m picking up on a little bit of hostility. Anyone care to let me in on what gives?”

  “What gives,” Rodgers said, sliding Jarek’s bedside table aside and stepping into unmistakable intimidation territory (and, coincidentally, within handy cock-punching distance of Jarek’s good hand if things went that way), “is that we’ve had enough of your bullshit.”

  Jarek suppressed the desire to coil defensively up to the head of the bed as Stun Gun crossed around to his injured side and Leery moved to the foot of the bed.

  “Yeah …” Jarek said, fighting the urge to try to watch them all at once and instead focusing solely on Rodgers. “I get a lot of that. You might need to be more specific. Was that the bullshit where I pulled a dozen Resistance fighters out of the shit at the port? Or maybe the part where I faced the strongest raknoth on the planet in single combat so none of you ninnies would have to worry your pretty little—”

  The world exploded in a bright dance of swirling stars and pain. As quickly as it blazed into existence, the flare receded to a local throb that informed him Stun Gun had just given him a cold clock on the side of the head.

  “Yeah,” came Rodgers’ voice through Jarek’s hazy surroundings, “you’re a real hero of the people.”

  “A hero who lords it over the rest of us mere mortals,” Stun Gun said.

  “A hero who abandons his post and does whatever the hell he wants without the slightest thought of how it might affect the rest of us,” Rodgers said.

  Stun Gun leaned in closer and planted a thumb over Jarek’s shoulder bandages. “A hero who wouldn’t be worth the dirt on our boots without his big fancy exo.”

  He could take them, a small voice whispered in the back of Jarek’s mind. Even with one arm out of commission. A sucker punch to Stun Gun’s nose straight into an elbow to Rodgers’ waiting groin. A chest kick for Leery, and then to his feet, where he could administer follow-up kicks and knees as required to shut these indignant ass-wipes up for good.

  His injured arm might just fall off along the way, but he could do it. He’d won worse fights before, hadn’t he?

  Maybe so. But what was the point?

  He’d fucked up. He already knew that. Fighting these guys wasn’t going to fix anything. Beating them, assuming he even could, wouldn’t make them wrong.

  “Fine.” He plopped his head to the pillow and stared at Rogers, feeling more tired than he could remember having ever felt. “You’re right. Is that what you wanna hear? You’re right about everything. So take your fucking shot. Or don’t. Just get on with it.”

  Judging from the look on Rogers’ face, he’d been hoping for a bit more spunk, or fear, or whatever else from Jarek. Whatever disappointment he felt, though, was quickly replaced with cool smugness as he traded a look with his co-conspirators and regained his wobbly confidence.

  Rogers grabbed Jarek’s throat and cocked a fist to strike. “You asked for it, hero.”

  Jarek watched with an odd mixture of dread, selective apathy, and, as he thought of the ashes of Katashina, maybe just a sprinkle of sick, twisted eagerness.

  “The next time you boys decide to pull some harebrained payback bullshit,” came a voice from the doorway, “you might wanna at least check the corners before you go on attacking your own men.”

  Alaric. Thank the cowboy gods. But what did he mean, check the corn—

  A low growl rumbled in the darkness off to the right. Rodgers’ grip on Jarek tightened for a second. Then a pair of scarlet fiery orbs appeared in the darkness, and Rodgers released him and staggered back with a strangled yelp.

  Alaric flipped the switch by the door, and bright light flooded the room, revealing Drogan in a seat against the far wall, watching them with a flat expression under his glowing eyes.

  “I’d like to speak to Slater alone if you boys’ll leave us to it.” Alaric stepped aside to clear the doorway for them, looking utterly unperturbed by the scene he’d walked in on.

  Jarek’s would-be attackers looked as one from Alaric to Drogan to Jarek and, finally, to one another. Then, by some unspoken agreement, they all scampered for the doorway.

  One of them—Stun Gun, Jarek thought—didn’t resist the urge to audibly mutter, “Fucking raknoth-lovers.”

  And then they were gone, and Alaric shifted his calm gaze to Drogan. “You too.”

  Drogan looked for a few seconds as if he might implore Alaric to make him move, but then he stood, the red fire draining from his eyes, and, with a shrug, strode out of the room.

  “Might not wanna go far,” Alaric added over his shoulder.

  Jarek refrained from pointing out that keeping the raknoth anywhere nearby kind of ruined the point of asking him to leave in the first place anyway. It wasn’t like Drogan couldn’t hear them from a room or two over.

  Somehow, the detail didn’t seem so important as Alaric finally turned to Jarek and skewered him with a stern glare.

  “And what brings you here at this creepy hour?” Jarek a
sked, fighting the urge to squirm.

  “I had business nearby. And you’re welcome by the way.”

  “Yeah …” Jarek touched lightly at the aching right side of his face and winced at the fresh pulse of pain. “I never was the most popular kid in class.”

  Alaric broke eye contact to fish into his coat pocket, no doubt going for a wad of his favorite chew. “I can’t imagine why.”

  Jarek quietly watched Alaric go about his masticatory ritual. “I suppose you’re pretty pissed with me right now too,” he finally said.

  “Well, what the hell else would you expect?” Alaric jammed a pinch of green leaves into his mouth. “What were you thinking, shirking a direct order? What did you expect me to do about that?”

  Jarek shook his head. “I don’t know.” He nodded toward the doorway where his personal protesters had fled. “They’re not wrong. I’d be lying if I said I took the time to even think about it.”

  He waited for Alaric to attack, to hop onto the back of his admission and dig in, but the commander only stood there, steadily chewing, watching Jarek as if he were waiting for him to continue.

  Jarek dropped Alaric’s stare and fixed his gaze on the uninteresting blanket covering his lower body. “I made the wrong call.”

  Silence.

  “I made the wrong call, and people died.”

  Silence.

  Finally, he looked back up at Alaric. “I fucked up, okay? You think I don’t know that? Come on, let me have it. Tell me I’m an arrogant prick, that I don’t deserve the suit.”

  Alaric only chewed on in maddening silence.

  “Tell me, goddammit!”

  He hadn’t meant to yell—hadn’t meant to say anything at all. It was exactly what Alaric wanted, he knew.

  Jarek didn’t play on this side of head games—didn’t bend and break under the weight of the shit he’d accepted a long time ago might happen as he fought for survival. He sure as hell didn’t lose control and wallow in self-doubt.

  And yet here he was.

  He looked away from Alaric, refusing to go on.

  Alaric let out a heavy sigh. “Dammit. I’d be tempted to knock some sense into you myself if you didn’t look so damned pathetic right now.”

  “Yeah … Well, join the club.”

  “Screw Rodgers and his buddies.” Alaric shook his head. “You’re too damn far up your own ass to even understand why I’m angry, aren’t you?”

  “Uh, maybe?”

  Jarek was genuinely unsure at this point.

  Alaric closed the gap to Jarek’s bedside in four sweeping steps, looking like he may or may not pistol whip Jarek at the end of the line.

  “It’s not obedient yes men we need here, son. If we’re gonna take on a whole group of things that can do this”—he pointed to Jarek’s shoulder—“we need leaders. Strong ones. Ones who can inspire by example, who look before they leap and actually give half a rat’s ass about the men and women fighting beside them.” He jabbed a hard finger into Jarek’s chest. “Leaders who don’t pull the shit you just pulled. Do you understand me?”

  On any other day, coming from any other person, those probably would have been nut-punching words. Now though, coming from Alaric, and with all the unsavory weight of his recent failures sitting at the back of his throat, Jarek felt like he was the one on the receiving end of said punch.

  So he gave Alaric a nod and kept his mouth shut.

  “Well hallelujah, then.” Alaric shook his head and sighed.

  Jarek waited a few seconds to be sure he was done. Then, “That business you mentioned a minute ago … Seth?”

  Alaric’s jaw tightened, and he glanced at the door before speaking. “We’ll discuss your punishment after you’ve recovered enough to be useful.”

  “Guess that means the penalty’s not death, huh?”

  “Not this time.”

  He knew Alaric was joking—or mostly joking, at least—but that didn’t keep his insides, or specific parts of his outsides, from shriveling a bit at the commander’s stern glare.

  Apparently satisfied he’d met his glare wattage quota for the night, Alaric turned to leave.

  He paused at the doorway and spoke without looking back. “It was a good call, speaking to Seth about bridging the gap between our camp and Krogoth’s.” Slowly, he looked over his shoulder to meet Jarek’s eyes. “Unlike some people in this room, I’m not above occasionally listening to reason.”

  And with that, he was gone, leaving Jarek alone with nothing but a heaping pile of guilt and a large side of shame.

  Drogan stalked back into the room less than a minute after Alaric left, which suggested that he hadn’t gone far at all and, consequently, that he’d probably heard Jarek’s chastising loud and clear. If he had though, he hid the smug smile Jarek expected quite well.

  “Sleep,” Drogan said, switching off the main lights and disappearing back into his dark corner. A scrape and the faint groan of metal accommodating a heavy load told Jarek Drogan had settled back in his chair. “I will see to it your recovery is not interfered with.”

  Jarek showed the dark ceiling a bitter smile. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about me, Stumpy?”

  “You may yet prove useful in this fight,” came Drogan’s reply from the darkness.

  “Aw shucks, buddy.” Jarek brushed the throbbing right side of his head. “But, much as I appreciate the sappy sentiment, I can’t help pointing out you could have acted a bit sooner back there.”

  When Drogan spoke, Jarek had the impression the raknoth was smiling. “You appeared to have the situation reasonably under control.”

  “Oh yeah. Clearly.” Jarek frowned at the darkness. “And not that I don’t also appreciate the shitty bodyguard act and everything, but what are you doing hanging here instead of Camp Krogoth?”

  Hesitant silence. Then, “The Zar is … less than pleased with my recent actions.”

  “Oh yeah? You’re telling me your boss isn’t a fan of his guys going rogue either?”

  “Indeed.”

  Jarek considered that. “Huh. You never really struck me as the cower from the angry master type.”

  A faint growl rumbled from the darkness. “I thought it best not to provoke him with my continued presence. This is hardly the time to allow pride to disrupt our ranks.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  Jarek couldn’t really argue with that. Hell, he could probably even stand to learn a lesson or two from Drogan. The guy did have at least a few thousand years of experience on him, after all.

  Silence stretched between them. Maybe it was the residual nerves from his near brush with a prison-style beat down, or maybe it was just the discontent Alaric’s words had left roiling in his stomach, but Jarek felt compelled to fill it.

  “Well look at us, Stumps. Just two pals on the outs with our own—”

  “Will you silence your tongue and do something productive?” Drogan snapped. “Sleep. Heal. The sooner you can fight, the sooner you can help me destroy Kul’Gada and the others.”

  “Definitely. That’s a plan. Just facing down the galaxy-conquering monsters, you know. Two pals, side-by-si—”

  Drogan growled, louder than before.

  “Fine,” Jarek said. “Have it your way, grumpy. Grumpy Stumpy.”

  The growl grew until Jarek could feel it in his own chest.

  “All right, all right.”

  Jarek shifted around until he found a semi-comfortable—or at least less uncomfortable—position, then he closed his eyes and settled in to wait with his heavy thoughts for the sleep that probably wouldn’t come.

  Sixteen

  Being cooped up at Pryce’s with the Enochians, Rachel decided, wasn’t so bad once she’d made it through the initial sorry I sort of tried to murder you awkwardness with Alton. To his credit, or maybe just further against hers, Alton made it about as easy as it could’ve been. Whether it was his own guilty conscience telling him he’d kind of deserved it all along or he was just a better actor than sh
e’d feared, he seemed to approach the entire affair with a calm attitude of hey, shit happens … but it’d better not happen again.

  Which was fair enough, she supposed.

  Forgiveness was one thing, and possibly an unobtainable thing at that, but agreeing to at least not pull something like that again …

  After everything that had happened, she could do that much.

  That said, she’d done her best to avoid Alton since, and he’d made a point to accommodate her efforts. And now, after a long day of enchanting and a few hours of deep, dreamless sleep, Rachel didn’t lament stepping out of Pryce’s to stretch her legs—even if it was alongside Alton and the Enochians.

  For reasons unknown, Krogoth had apparently had some change of heart through the night and agreed to finally have a proper conference with the Resistance commanders. Soon, the council would be meeting with him and whichever other raknoth clan leaders were willing to play ball at this point to discuss next moves now that Gada was irrefutably here and coming for them.

  Rachel wasn’t so sure Krogoth agreeing to talk really changed anything about the fundamental relationship between his forces and the Resistance—or that she felt any differently about the entire alliance herself, even after the business with Alton. But, at the very least, it probably wasn’t a negative development where their mutual survival was concerned.

  Stupid as it might’ve been, though, Rachel was a bit more preoccupied with the thought of facing Jarek at the moment.

  She hadn’t responded to his message yesterday, nor had he tried to reach her again. Left to her own devices, she might have tried to put off seeing him on this particular visit to HQ, but when Haldin had asked if she minded him tagging along to see their wounded wise-ass …

  Well, if she could face Alton, she could face Jarek.

  When they stepped into medical, Rachel was ready for the sight of ghastly wounds and Drogan’s saliva cup and syringe. Or so she thought.

  Ready or not, the sight of Jarek indelicately jamming a syringe tip between his staples and squirting raknoth spit into the wound he’d made a gruesome mess of turned Rachel’s stomach over.