by Kyla Stone
The guard yanked the lion’s thin, silver chain. The beast jerked to a stop less than five feet from Amelia’s trembling form. It roared again, shook its magnificent mane, and settled back on its haunches with a low growl.
Amelia inhaled sharply, her chest heaving. There wasn’t enough oxygen in the auditorium, in the entire theater, in the world. That thing had nearly killed her. A single, lazy swipe of its clawed paw would have done the job well enough. Another shudder ripped through her body.
“Impressive, isn’t he?” Moruga’s eyes darkened. A pained expression crossed his face. For the first time, he went completely still. “My son named him Apollo. My son, Hector. He was thirteen. Did you know that? I sent him with Harrison, my most trusted soldier, to tag his first buildings. He never returned. Imagine my heartbreak. Imagine the grief I feel.” His jaw worked, his tongue sliding over his dry lips. “Imagine my rage.”
She bit her tongue, the taste of fear sharp and metallic as blood. This man wouldn’t hesitate to kill Silas. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill any of them. She had to do something, had to at least try. “It was an accident.”
Moruga whirled on her. “There are no accidents. Not when bullets are involved.”
She swallowed. “It was a terrible mistake. Please—”
“Enough,” Cleo said. “You’re boring me. Worse, you’re boring him.”
Moruga held out his hand, his skeletal fingers splayed. Cleo placed her gun in his palm and winked at Amelia.
Amelia’s heart punched into her throat. Tension crackled the air. No one dared to move. No one dared to speak.
Moruga considered the gun, turning it over in his hands. He flicked the safety on, then off, just like the lighter. His eyes burned like twin, smoldering coals. “There’s just one more thing I need to know. One pertinent little detail. Who actually pulled the trigger? Which one of you is the killer?”
Before anyone could speak, Jericho raised his head. His shoulders were straight, his back stiff. His dark eyes blazed bold and fearless. “I did. I killed your son.”
“No!” Silas shouted.
Amelia had no time to react, to think, to protest.
Moruga’s gaunt, hollowed-out face was like a living skull. “Thank you for your honesty.”
Tobias Voya Moruga shot Jericho in the head.
23
Micah
Jericho toppled forward. His body struck the floor with a horrific thud.
Micah stared, helpless and horrified.
Amelia screamed.
“No!” A black hole tunneled through the center of him. Jericho couldn’t be dead. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. In a second. In a heartbeat. Before he’d even registered what was happening, it was already done.
Jericho’s face was turned toward Micah. A single bead of blood trickled down his forehead. His eyes were open, unseeing. His mouth was opened in a startled wet O.
Jericho. The man who’d rescued him on the Grand Voyager. The man whose strength and skills and quick thinking had saved them all. He was tough and grim, hard and unrelenting. He was also fair and selfless, risking himself again and again to protect the group. Jericho was the only reason they were still alive.
Now he was dead.
Something broke open inside Micah. Grief crested over him in waves. He could barely hold it back. He yanked against the electric cuffs, desperate to get free, to do something, even though it was already too late. A painful zap of electricity shot up his arms. The cuffs didn’t give a millimeter.
“We have our own justice here,” Moruga said. “For your parts in my son’s murder, I sentence you all to die.”
Micah barely heard him over the roaring in his ears.
Jericho was dead. Soon, they would be, too. He was helpless. He bit the inside of his cheeks so hard that coppery blood flooded his mouth.
Silas was swearing, Finn and Celeste begging for their lives, Benjie whimpering. Beside him, Amelia wept quietly, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.
Micah was the one who believed, who trusted in faith and God and the goodness of others. But in this moment, his faith abandoned him. He prayed, his lips moving feverishly, but his prayers struck the opulent, cobalt blue ceiling. They fell back, unable to penetrate past the thousands of twinkling holo stars, as trapped in this place as they were.
Sykes pressed the muzzle of his gun against Gabriel’s forehead. Gabriel stiffened, unflinching. “We can take care of this right now.”
Micah stopped breathing.
“Do not sully my theater,” Moruga barked, whirling on Sykes. “Take them out back. Line them up and shoot them.”
“Happy to,” Sykes said, his pale eyes glittering with malice. “These pigs deserve a good slaughter.”
Cleo puffed a circle of white smoke. “Tobias, wait.”
He turned toward her, attentive to her every word. His lips peeled back from his teeth in a ghoulish smile. Micah stared at him, dread scrabbling up his spine. They were already facing certain death, but warning signals exploded in his brain like fireworks.
Things were about to get worse.
“These people murdered Hector,” Cleo said silkily. “Not just anyone. Your son.” She placed her hand on his arm and lowered her voice. Micah was close enough to hear every word. “What does the king of the Pyros, the prince of fire do to his enemies?”
Moruga traced the burn on her face, his fingers trailing from her lumpy forehead to her scarred cheeks to the damaged tissue of her jaw. His black eyes flashed with a fiendish delight. “You, my dear, are brilliant.”
She gave an impassive shrug and tapped ash from her cigar. “The punishment must fit the crime.”
“Gather the wood for a fire,” Moruga commanded Sykes with a flick of his wrist. His whole body was taut, thrumming with that dark, deadly energy. “And get them out of my sight. Tomorrow, they burn.”
The memory of blazing flames, scalding heat, and choking smoke seared his mind. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real.
Micah gagged. Vomit and spittle dripped off his chin.
“What about the girl?” Cleo asked darkly, pointing at Amelia.
Moruga rubbed his jaw with his skeletal hand. “If what they say about her is true … we’ll keep her alive. But throw her in with the rest for now.”
Horne smoothed his clothes and hair, regaining his composure. He cleared his throat loudly. “I’m happy to facilitate negotiations with the Sanctuary.” His pleasant, jocular tone sounded grotesque in the same room as Jericho’s crumpled body, the friends he’d just betrayed sentenced to burn at the stake.
“And him?” Cleo’s lips curled in open disdain as she hooked her thumb at Horne.
Moruga took out a crisp white handkerchief, polished the gun that had killed Jericho, and handed it back to Cleo. His attention roved restlessly over the auditorium, not even pausing on Horne as he determined the man’s fate. “I don’t care.”
He bounced on his heels, that dangerous, jittery energy vibrating off him, and strode down the short staircase at the far right side of the stage. Sykes and another guard flanked him as he sauntered up the aisle past thousands of plush seats to the auditorium exit.
Cleo turned to the hostages. She flashed that lethal smile, like she wished she could kill them all herself, with her own bare hands. “Li Jun, please place this man in cuffs and throw him in with the others to await their fate.”
Horne blanched. “We had a deal!”
The Chinese guard grabbed Horne’s arms. Horne tried unsuccessfully to yank his hands free as the guard slapped electronic cuffs on him.
“Now, wait just a minute!” he cried in desperation. “I kept our end of the deal! I did everything you asked!”
The lion ambled up to Horne and sniffed hungrily at his stomach. It growled deep in its chest. Horne froze. A dark stain appeared over his crotch and leaked down his pant legs.
Maybe Micah should feel vindicated that at least Horne would get his due, but he didn’t. He just felt si
ck. Sick with dread and fear and a bone-deep grief.
His mother always said God had a plan for everyone, a purpose for everything. Where was the purpose in this?
Cleo stroked the lion’s head, that predatory smile twisting her lips. She blew white smoke into Horne’s face. “What use do we have with a faithless traitor?” she asked sweetly. “If your friends can’t trust you, why should we?”
“You can’t do this!” Horne screamed.
Cleo ignored him. She signaled the guards, who dropped hoods over the hostages’ heads. One of the guards shoved a hood roughly over Micah’s face.
He was plunged into darkness. Strong hands grabbed him and hauled him to his feet.
“Please don’t do this to us! You don’t want to do this,” he cried through the thick fabric, hating the helpless pleading in his voice but pleading anyway.
He felt a presence hovering in front of him and smelled the sickly sweet scent of cigar smoke. Cleo leaned in close. When she spoke, her breath stirred the hood against his ear. “Enjoy the last day of your life.”
“Let me kill him!” Silas snarled. “I’ll rip out his guts with my bare hands!”
Micah seized his arm and held him back with all of his strength. Silas was lean but incredibly strong. His eyes were wild, his face contorted in savage rage.
Micah stood between Silas—between everyone—and Horne, who cowered in the corner, his hands clutching his head, weeping like the pathetic coward he was.
They were crammed into a single twenty-by-twenty room. The walls were white. The floor and ceiling were white. There was no furniture, no beds, no nothing. Just blinding whiteness everywhere.
A rectangle-shaped crack outlined a door on the far wall. A tiny, barely visible camera attached to the ceiling watched them silently. A drain in the opposite corner from the door served as a bathroom. There was no privacy. Micah was too numb and shell-shocked to care.
He had no idea where they were. They’d been led through cold and darkness and snow, bound and hooded, shuffling single file for probably five minutes, prodded with guns and tasers until they were forced up several sets of stairs, through a long, echoing corridor, and into this room.
Even if they knew where they were, it wouldn’t matter. There was no escape. No way out. And no one to come and rescue them.
“Let me at him!” Silas cried. “Get off me!”
He threw a punch at Micah. In his frenzied state, his arm flailed aimlessly. Micah easily ducked the blow.
“Stop this, Silas.” Amelia stood a few feet away. She was trembling, her arms wrapped around herself, her pale face streaked with tears. “Just stop!”
Micah glanced at Gabriel for help. But his brother looked ready to join in. He paced the narrow space like a caged tiger, his fists balled at his sides, his face dark with fury, his jaw muscles pulsing.
“Maybe you should just let Silas do it,” Celeste said wearily. She leaned against the wall next to the door, her wounded leg stretched out in front of her. The bandage over her thigh was stained red. Her features were pinched, her face ashen, a heavy line between her brows. “What more does he have to do to deserve death?”
“Why the hell are you protecting him?” Willow asked.
“He does deserve it.” If anyone deserved death, it was Horne. Jericho was dead because of him. They were all facing their own death because of his betrayal. He was a cringing, worthless coward. A murderer.
And yet. His gaze flickered to Benjie, who curled next to Finn, staring at them with stunned, unblinking eyes. Finn slumped against the wall, clutching his bloody shoulder, a stricken expression shadowing his face.
Benjie had witnessed enough violence today. They all had.
He bit the inside of his cheek. The sharp pain cleared his head. He forced himself to think, to calm down. He couldn’t let them do something they would regret. Be good. Be brave.
There was self-defense. And there was revenge. The difference between the two was murder. “But not here,” he said. “Not like this.”
“Fine!” Willow growled in frustration, but she grabbed Silas’s other arm and helped Micah shove him back against the wall. “Silas! That’s enough!”
Silas blinked as if coming out of a fugue. He stared at Willow, stunned to stillness.
“Listen to Micah,” she said more softly. “Please.”
The hardness in his face collapsed. “They killed him,” he whispered. Suddenly he looked much younger than he was, young and vulnerable and heart-broken. “They killed Jericho.”
“I know,” Willow said, her own face contorting. She shook her head, her hair falling away from her neck to reveal the angry red welt of the cigar burn. “I know.”
Micah’s heart wrenched. Waves of helplessness crashed over him. What could he do? He couldn’t do a thing to fix any of it. After everything they’d struggled and fought and suffered for, was it really going to end like this? With betrayal and hatred and death?
Silas jerked from their grasp. He spun with a vicious growl and punched the wall. He slammed his fists again and again, growling and grunting and hissing in pain. His knuckles split. Blood spattered everywhere.
“Silas! Stop!” Micah went to grab him again.
Willow seized his arm. “He needs to do this,” she said tightly.
“But—”
“Let him do it,” Amelia said, though she winced with every impact Silas’s fists made against the wall.
Finally, Micah nodded. He didn’t understand it, but Amelia and Willow seemed to. They both knew Silas better than he did. That was enough for him.
He backed away from Silas, who pummeled the wall like he could destroy it, like he could obliterate his grief and fear and panic if he could only punch hard enough.
In the far corner, Tyler Horne straightened. He rubbed the wetness from his face and smoothed his hair, raking it back into place. He cleared his throat. “I appreciate this, Micah. I’m sure once I get this misunderstanding straightened out, I’ll speak to Tobias on your behalf and—”
“Shut up!” Willow screamed, whirling on him. “Shut up! Shut up!”
“I didn’t do it for you.” Micah’s voice shook. “You betrayed us.”
“It wasn’t personal,” Horne whined.
“Jericho is dead because of you,” Amelia said. “We’re going to die because of you.”
Horne narrowed his eyes, suddenly indignant. “None of this would be happening if you’d banished Silas like I told you to. But none of you listened to me. You never do.”
“Enough!” Gabriel roared. He was shaking, his jaw tight, his dark eyes blazing. He strode past Micah, seized Horne, and lifted him off his feet.
Horne dangled, kicking ineffectively at Gabriel’s shins, his hands scrabbling desperately at Gabriel’s bulging arms. “Help me!”
“Gabriel—” Micah warned.
“I’ve got this.” Gabriel glanced back at him, their eyes meeting. “Trust me.”
He was angry, but his rage was restrained. He was controlled. And he was waiting for Micah’s permission. He wanted Micah’s approval. He wouldn’t kill Horne; Micah could see it in his eyes.
Micah wasn’t a killer, but he wasn’t a saint, either. His own righteous anger burned bright and hard in his chest. A little just punishment wouldn’t be the worst thing. Slowly, he nodded.
Gabriel dropped Horne. He sagged against the wall, batting ineffectively at his wrinkled jacket, the collar torn, unchastened and irate. “You savage monster, I always knew it was a mistake to free you—”
Gabriel punched him in the face, smashing in his nose with his fist. It was a single blow. But it was enough.
Horne’s head snapped back against the wall. His eyes rolled back in his head. He crumpled to the floor without a sound, unconscious. Blood streamed from his crooked nose and leaked into his lax, half-opened mouth.
Gabriel turned away in disgust, rubbing his bruised knuckles.
“Finally,” Celeste muttered.
“That asshole deserve
s so much worse,” Willow said.
“He does,” Micah said, his resolve coming back to him. “And he’ll get it. But not from us. We’re not murderers. And we’re not going to let scum like him turn us into something we’re not.”
“You’re right,” Gabriel said, surprising him.
Even Willow nodded. “He’s lucky we’re not like him, the slimy—”
“Lo Lo,” Benjie said, his voice quavering. “What’s wrong with Mister Finn?”
Willow rushed to Finn and Benjie. She knelt and hugged her brother. She pressed her forehead against his for a long moment. Then she turned to Finn. “How badly is he hurt?”
“He can hear you, you know,” Finn mumbled. “He is right here.”
“Finn, you big oaf,” Willow said. “How badly are you hurt?”
“Never…better.”
She rolled her eyes. “Why did I even ask?”
Micah crouched next to them with a twinge of guilt. They should have attended to Finn right away, but Silas’s attack on Horne had demanded their immediate attention. “Let’s check you out.”
Together, he and Willow carefully lifted Finn’s jacket, sweater, and T-shirt. Finn sucked in his breath. His skin was ashen. “There are easier ways to get me naked, you know.”
“Hush,” Willow muttered, her face flushing.
“Next time…” Finn said shakily, still managing to wink, “just ask me.”
“Stop moving,” Micah said.
The bullet had bitten into Finn’s upper shoulder. The wound was a small, puckered hole. Blood leaked down his arm, but less than he expected.
His own back and shoulder suddenly ached with phantom pain. The memory pulsed through him: the hoverboard park in the ritzy neighborhood, the cruel smirk of the bully who’d shoved him from the top of a concrete ramp, the agonizing pain as his right shoulder blade was shredded to the bone. He’d been twelve. Gabriel had cradled him in his arms, carrying him the twenty-eight blocks home.
He glanced at Gabriel, who still paced, grimacing and rubbing his bruised knuckles. Gabriel had protected him back then. He was still protecting them now.