Blood and Metal

by Nina Croft

  Something slammed into her arm, but she ignored the pain, kept going.

  Was he dead? Icy cold locked her muscles as a haze of crimson veiled her vision, and she made a conscious effort to push back the darkness.

  He couldn’t be dead.

  He groaned, his eyes blinked, and the tightness eased from her limbs.

  Someone grabbed her from behind. She fought, pulled free, and whirled around. Then lunged for the man’s throat. His blood filled her mouth, and she swallowed. No time for feeding, she ripped out his jugular and pushed the body away. Lunged for another as a blast caught her in the center of her chest, and she crashed into a man directly behind her.

  The blast didn’t knock her out, but she was stunned and hung loosely from the man’s grip, unable to make her arms and legs obey her. A second man pulled her hands behind her back, and she felt the coolness of metal as he snapped the cuffs around her wrists.

  Fergal pushed himself to his feet so he stood only a foot away—close enough. A circle of men surrounded them. They’d stopped shooting now that they were both unarmed, but they watched him warily.

  This was it.

  Fergal looked into her eyes. Her gaze slid down his body to his right arm. It was a silver, razor-sharp blade. She raised her gaze to his face and stared into his eyes.

  I love you.

  The words whispered through her mind. Had she said them or Fergal?

  She raised her chin, baring the line of her throat.

  This was the end, and still she couldn’t regret what had happened, only regret what they would never have.

  She waited, very still. It was only seconds, but they seemed to go on forever, and still he didn’t move. A scream rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down. That would give her away.

  Her eyes dropped to his side. The blade was gone, and once again his arm was just an arm. Her gaze flashed back to his face, and she saw her own hopelessness reflected there.

  “I can’t,” he whispered.

  He’d failed her.

  He’d stood there ready to do what was needed. But at the last minute, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t kill her. Was physically incapable of slicing her head from her body.

  He loved her.

  Despair flashed in her dark eyes. Then fear that now she would burn.

  He wouldn’t, couldn’t let that happen.

  Hard hands grabbed him from behind and cuffed his wrists, but he didn’t try to fight them. The fight was over. They’d lost. He’d lost.

  His stomach roiled with nausea, and his head ached viciously. He was frantically trying to rebuild the feedback loop. The surge had been too strong and unexpected—it had shattered the loop, opened him up to the others in his head. Now he closed his eyes and forced himself to concentrate. Within seconds, the pain receded and the roar subsided to a hum.

  When he opened his eyes, nothing had changed. A man gripped each of Daisy’s arms. Her hair had come loose at some point in the fight so it hung down her back. She was so beautiful, his chest ached.

  Her eyes were filled with resignation and forgiveness.

  She’d given up, accepted what was to happen, and she didn’t blame him. She was closing herself down, shutting herself off from the outside world. Her eyes glazed over as she turned inward.

  “Daisy!”

  She blinked as he shouted her name. Shaking her head, a frown formed between her eyes.

  Off to the side, what was obviously the leader of the guards was talking into his comm unit. He looked up at them and spoke to the men holding Daisy.

  “Take the girl to the courtyard as planned.”

  Daisy stiffened in the grip of the two men but showed no other response to the words.

  Dawn was only minutes away.

  “And take him back to his cell.”

  “No,” Fergal said.

  A frown flickered across the man’s face, but he didn’t respond, just nodded to the guards holding him.

  Fergal thought furiously, trying to reason through the pain and humming in his head. Every cell in his body rejected the idea of what he was about to do, but they were already trying to drag Daisy away. Her gaze locked onto his, and she fought then.

  “No, wait. Listen to me,” Fergal shouted.

  The man turned back slowly and took a step toward him. He stood looking at Fergal for moment, then he drew back his fist and punched him hard in the belly. Fergal doubled over as pain flooded his body. He forced himself to straighten, and the guard hit him again. The man didn’t like him too much—hardly surprising since at least ten of his people were dead or seriously wounded.

  Fergal gritted his teeth. “Tell Hatcher”—he took a deep breath and avoided looking at Daisy—“tell High Priest Hatcher that I have news about his son.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed.

  “If you don’t tell him, I’m guessing you’ll be in trouble, so I suggest you comm him right now. And tell him I’ll only speak if the woman comes with me.”

  For a moment, he thought it wasn’t going to work. The man frowned and stepped away, turning his back on Fergal while he spoke quietly into the comm unit. Fergal risked a glance at Daisy. Her brows were drawn together in a frown, as if she couldn’t work out what he was doing.

  That wouldn’t last. Soon she would know who he was. How would she look at him then? Certainly not with love.

  The guard glanced back. His eyes weren’t friendly, but he gave a curt nod. “We’re to take them to the high priest.”

  There was a lot of grumbling among the guards, but they hustled him toward Daisy and marched them side by side out of the prison complex and along the same route they had taken earlier.

  Fergal cast her a sideways glance. She must have sensed it, because she’d been staring straight ahead, but now she turned slightly so she could look into his face. Her eyes were clear, no tinge of crimson, and he relaxed the tiniest bit.

  He was trying to think through what he needed to do while maintaining the feedback loop in the background and all the time wondering how Daisy would react to what he was about to say.

  Not yet.

  She’d hear it soon enough.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. He noticed a ragged burn through her shirt where she must have taken a laser shot.

  “I’m fine. Maybe a little…confused. What’s happening, Fergal? Why aren’t I outside tied to a stake? Not that I’m complaining. I just don’t understand.”

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill you. Not if there’s a chance.”

  Her brows drew together. “And is there? A chance, I mean.”

  He was about to answer, but the guard behind him rammed a laser pistol between his shoulder blades. “Quiet.”

  He gave a small nod and turned back to face the front. They were climbing the staircase that led to the private residence now.

  Shit, he was so not ready for this.

  He’d loved his father once, and that never really went away, however much he might want it to. The need for his father’s approval had lingered inside him.

  He was going to test that to the limit.

  What if he revealed the truth, asked his father for Daisy’s life, and the old bastard went ahead and killed her anyway? It would be over—that last little hope that his father wasn’t part monster.

  And what would he do next? He had an idea, but if he went ahead, Daisy definitely would hate him for eternity. Actually, he’d hate himself.

  But she would be alive.

  And maybe there was a way he could redeem the situation. He could still feel the hum in his brain, filtering through the loop. A thousand minds waking, aligning with his. His to command. And at the small price of blowing up his brain.

  They halted before the double doors. The head guard spoke into his comm unit, and the door opened from the inside. Someone shoved Fergal from behind, and he stumbled, awkward with his hands still tied behind his back.

  They were in a conference room, empty but for a table and chairs. Taking a
step closer to Daisy, he waited. Maybe Hatcher had no interest in the son he hadn’t seen for nearly forty years.

  But after five minutes a door in the far wall opened, and Hatcher stepped through.

  Fergal had avoided looking too closely at the last meeting, scared of what he might see or feel.

  Hatcher was tall, on a level with Fergal. He had the same gray eyes, but the older man was thinner, his body skinny beneath the long black robes, his face hollowed with shadows beneath eyes that still gleamed with a true believer’s zeal.

  He was alone this time. Maybe he didn’t want any witnesses to what he was about to hear. Did he suspect? From the expression in his eyes, Fergal guessed not.

  They ran over Fergal with a detached curiosity.

  “Chain the girl to the wall,” he told the guards.

  They dragged Daisy to the edge of the room. One kept her covered with his pistol while the other unlocked her right wrist, slid the cuff through a ring on the wall at waist height, and snapped it back on her wrist.

  She stood up straight, her head rose, and she glanced between the two of them. Was she seeing the similarities that were so obvious to him now? He didn’t think so. There was still a little frown between her brows.

  “Now, leave but stay outside,” Hatcher told the guards. “If either of them tries to escape, kill them—and do it properly this time.”

  “What about the man?” the head guard asked, clearly not happy with Fergal on the loose.

  “The cuffs will be sufficient.”

  Obviously, they didn’t know about the cyborg thing, hadn’t seen his hand shift back in the prison. That might work for him. The guards didn’t look happy, but they gave him a warning look and left the room, closing the door behind them.

  Fergal opened his mouth to speak, but Hatcher waved a hand to quiet him. His other hand went to the cross he wore around his neck, big but plain silver. Holding it out in front of him, he glided toward where Daisy hung from the wall. She watched him warily, a pulse fluttering in her throat. Her gaze flashed to him then back to Hatcher, but she didn’t speak.

  Fergal stepped forward to protest, but Daisy stopped him with a small shake of her head. When Beauchamp had pressed his cross to her skin there had been no effect. Beauchamp was obviously not a true believer. He suspected, however much he hated the idea, that wasn’t the case with Hatcher. He had always believed in what he did.

  The priest stopped, still an arm’s length from Daisy. He studied her for a moment and pressed the cross against the white skin beneath her collarbone. Daisy flinched but didn’t make a sound as the air filled with the stench of singed flesh.

  Finally, he pulled the cross free, leaving the perfect brand on her pale skin.

  “Interesting,” Hatcher murmured almost to himself.

  Daisy curled her lip, revealing the tip of one fang, and Fergal shot her a warning look. The less she appeared to be any sort of threat, the more likely he could talk them out of this. It didn’t help that crimson sparks flickered in her dark eyes.

  “Daisy!”

  She licked her lips and nodded. “I’m good. Say what you need to say. I don’t like the company.”

  He’d forgotten that she had almost as much reason to hate Hatcher as he did. And none of the other conflicting emotions. He turned to Hatcher. “She doesn’t like you. I’m guessing the feeling is mutual.”

  “I have no feelings for this creature. Just a job to eradicate evil where I find it.”

  Daisy growled. “Slit your own throat then, old man.”

  Fergal ran a hand through his short hair. This was not helping. “Shut up, Daisy.”

  She flashed him a look. “No. He killed Janey and Tris. He’s the evil one here.”

  Fergal sighed. He wasn’t going to argue with her. Obviously, she hadn’t figured out who Hatcher was to him yet. Time to get all the sordid details out in the open.

  Maybe Hatcher thought it was time to move things along as well. He turned from Daisy and waved Fergal to one of the seats at the table. Fergal took the seat. The truth was he was feeling a little shaky. He could do with some of Rico’s whiskey right now.

  Hatcher took the seat opposite him. The silence seemed to draw out. He could hear Daisy’s slow steady breaths, feel the focus of her gaze on them.

  “You told the guards you had information about my son,” Hatcher said. “Well?”

  Fergal stared into his father’s face as he spoke. “If I give you the information, will you promise not to kill her?”

  Hatcher cast a glance at Daisy. “How can I kill her when she’s already dead?”

  Fergal gritted his teeth. “Well, promise not to make her any more dead than she is right now.”

  Hatcher pursed his thin lips. “If you know of my son, you must know that we aren’t exactly…close.”

  And there was the understatement of the millennium. “I know you haven’t set eyes on him since he was twelve.”

  He ignored Daisy’s indrawn breath and kept his focus on Hatcher. The priest was studying him, something flickering behind his cold eyes. “Tell me.”

  The moment of fucking truth. “Don’t you recognize me…Father?”

  For a minute, the room seemed to freeze in time. No one moved. Fergal held himself very still.

  Hatcher pushed himself slowly to his feet. He paced the room, his fingers rubbing at the silver cross as he kept his gaze averted from Fergal. Finally, he came back to stand across from him and stare down.

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Hatcher said. “It’s been nearly forty years. Maybe you met my son, he told you his sordid story, and you hope to use it for your gain. To save a monster.” He nodded to Daisy.

  “Take a good look at me. I have your eyes.” Fergal rose to his feet. They were identical in height, and he stared into silver eyes so like his own. “Or would you like me to show you the scars on my back from the last beating you gave me? Or tell you about the time we stood over my mother’s dead body after she killed herself because of you.”

  “Enough!” Hatcher turned away, his whole body rigid.

  Fergal waited but couldn’t resist a quick glance at Daisy, needing to see what was in her face.

  Pity.

  She pitied him.

  Well, that wasn’t hate, at least. Then again, it wasn’t love, either.

  “She was an abomination. You both were. I needed to beat the evil out of you.”

  Fergal allowed himself a small smile that he knew wouldn’t be reflected in his eyes. They were so close now. His right arm tingled. He knew he could shift, pierce Hatcher through the eye before he could shout out and alert the guards. But he couldn’t do it—something held him back. He tried to tell himself that it was because they would never get out alive, but there was more to it than that.

  All the same, he was filled with the need to make this man suffer as his mother had suffered. Also, there was one thing he could do, one lie he could tell, that might make his father value him more—see him less of an abomination—and piss off the old man at the same time.

  “Actually,” he said, “she wasn’t an abomination. Neither of us were. What a lot of wasted effort on your part.”

  Hatcher’s knuckles whitened where he gripped the silver cross against his chest. “What are you talking about? I saw the evidence.”

  “You smothered the fucking evidence, you murdering bastard. But in fact, it might have been evidence of something, but certainly not that my mother was genetically modified.”

  “I saw your sister. She was an abomination.”

  “My half sister,” Fergal said gently and waited while Hatcher tossed that comment over in his mind.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Wasn’t I clear enough for you? My baby sister wasn’t your child. Any genetically altered DNA was not from my mother. Your wife.”

  “You can’t know that. You were only eight when she died. She would never have revealed such things to you.”

  “But I was a somewhat prec
ocious eight-year-old. Having your sister smothered by your father can have the effect of making you grow up fast.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  But Fergal knew that he did. “What—that she would be unfaithful to you? You think you gave her everything she needed? You were a cold-blooded bastard who was hardly ever there for her.”

  “I was doing God’s work.”

  “Slaughtering innocents? My mother told me the truth the day before she killed herself. She expected me to tell you. She said once you knew, you’d be good to me again—you’d stop trying to beat the evil out of me.”

  Hatcher still clutched the cross, but there was a fine tremor in his fingers now. “She would have told me.”

  “Maybe she believed you wouldn’t have been too happy with her being unfaithful. Maybe she didn’t dare risk revealing it even to me until she’d decided to kill herself. Until you drove her to it.”

  “So you are pure?”

  Fergal let out a short, bitter laugh. “Hardly. But my DNA is 100 percent human.” That was a total lie—who knew how much of him was human now? Not a lot, he was guessing.

  Hatcher seemed almost in a daze. He took a step toward Fergal, who backed away instinctively—he didn’t want the old bastard touching him. The thought made his skin crawl.

  Hatcher shook his head. “I need…” Without another word, he swung around and strode to the door at the back of the room. Fergal caught a brief glimpse of more guards before the door swung shut behind his father.

  He turned to Daisy. She was watching him, her expression wary.

  “So?” he asked.

  Chapter Twenty

  Daisy’s mind was numb. So were her hands. She wiggled her fingers, trying to get the blood flowing, then took stock of her injuries. The laser burn on her arm was almost healed, but the place where Hatcher had pressed the cross to her flesh still stung. She glanced down; the cross was a red brand on her white skin. Quite pretty, really.