Winter's Storm: Retribution (Winter's Saga #2)

by Karen Luellen

  WINTER’S STORM

  Retribution

  Book 2 of Winter’s Saga

  By

  Karen Luellen

  Winter’s Storm—Retribution

  By Karen Luellen

  Published by Karen Luellen

  Copyright 2011 Karen Luellen

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the author and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Growling.

  An angry, guttural growl echoed from the darkened hospital room.

  Glowing yellow eyes only a few yards away locked on Farrow Schone and in that instant, she knew it could smell her blood, hear her heart racing, and see the pulse in her exposed neck.

  Farrow had never felt more like a piece of meat than she did right then.

  Oh, crap! She thought and began backing slowly away from the opening of the door, but as she did, the creature crouched low and coiled its legs tightly under its muscular body, ready to spring.

  Farrow could see now it was some kind of wild dog—a wolf or coyote, maybe.

  …whatever it was, it was huge, and pissed-off.

  Its piercing eyes were mesmerizing, hypnotic.

  Its snarling muzzle exposed flesh-tearing teeth glistening wet with saliva.

  There was no way she was going to be allowed anywhere near the people in that room.

  Not wanting to cause a scene or get mauled, Farrow made a hasty exit.

  Her orders were only to put eyes on the Winters and determine who was alive and who wasn’t. Dr. Williams was going to be livid to know they all survived. Farrow was also to collect Gavil and catch a flight back to Germany where she had no doubt all hell was going to break loose.

  Part 1

  Germany’s Creed

  One week after the rescue of

  Dr. Margo Winter

  Location:

  Dr. Kenneth Williams’ training camp called “The Facility” in Furth, Germany

  1 Creed

  October 10th

  Black laces, measured perfectly, slipped like silk through the metal holes of his military boots. Practiced fingers gripped each cross section and worked their way up the tongue until the top most position when both ends were tugged taught. He wrapped them once around, tied a quick double knotted bow and tucked the excess lace into the top of the boot.

  Creed Young stood and swept his large hands over the wrinkles that had quickly formed in his freshly pressed military fatigues. His olive green T-shirt stretched tightly across his wide chest, barely containing his massive physique. His chiseled face was stoic, marble and expressionless as he reached to retrieve his beret.

  This was the day for which he had been trained. This was the day of his Retribution. In all the years he lived at the Facility, he had watched many Retribution Matches. Watched the two metas sent into the arena together and ordered to “Kill, or be killed.” The battles were brutal. Even for the audience filled with hard-core metahumans trained to believe weakness needed to be stomped out. The Matches brought out the primal, vicious and evil. This wasn’t just a friendly competition to see who would come out on top. This was survival of the fittest in its most primitive sense. This was Darwinism deformed, but it was Creed’s way of life; all he’d ever known. And today was his day.

  From outside he heard the roar of the bloodthirsty crowd. His opponent must be hearing this, too. He wondered who was chosen to enter the arena with him. What was he thinking? How did he feel about the terms of the battle? How determined was he to win? When it came down to it, Creed wondered if he would be able to kill his opponent, as required by the rules of the event.

  In the mirror, the eighteen-year-old stared at his reflection and tightened his jaw. Creed struggled with this part of his discipline. He struggled simply obeying an order just because it had been handed down. Every other meta just did as they were told. They were unquestioning, unthinking and uninhibited by their thoughts.

  Creed was different from the others, and he knew it. The hard part was making sure no one else knew it. He was skilled at disguising his thoughts and feelings with an expressionless face. He knew the consequences of being different. Over the years he witnessed several cases where perfectly viable metahumans were removed from the Facility for lesser infractions than individual mindedness. And they were never seen again.

  But Creed made sure that didn’t happen to him. He kept his thoughts to himself. Outwardly, he looked like the perfect meta specimen. He stood six feet, two inches and weighed in at two hundred fifty pounds. He could bench press nine hundred fifty pounds. He was solid muscle, responsive, accurate and a highly trained martial artist and weapons expert. More than just physical agility, he also had mental agility. To call Creed “intelligent” would be an understatement. To call him “deadly” would be accurate.

  The crowd’s roars echoed louder off the cement walls of the locker room in which Creed stood. It was time to begin; time for Retribution.

  One deep breath was all he allowed himself before he turned toward the door and marched across the room, opened it and jogged down the hall.

  Stepping into the arena was mind-blowing. This was the first time he had seen it from this point of view. Previously, he was in the stands where the rowdy crowd stood now. Life was very different from this vantage point. It was terrifying, surreal and eerily energizing. He stood bracing himself against the blaring lights, the deafening crowd and the vibrations of adrenaline cutting his body like ice.

  Then he saw his opponent.

  Oh no...no, no, no is all he kept thinking as realization sunk in. There, across the arena, stood his own flesh and blood. He had been pitted against his brother, Gavil.

  Memories flooded Creed as he watched his brother’s mouth twitch slightly in what was most definitely a smile. Powerful memories of his brother’s numerous “lessons” that left Creed bloody and broken on the ground, ripped through his body. Time and again the two boys, who had been told they came from the same donor parents, had come to blows. Nothing Creed ever did was good enough for Gavil.

  Then, as puberty sneaked up, it was Creed whose body transformed so dramatically. Creed, who had grown up as his older brother’s punching bag, was taller, stronger, faster and smarter than Gavil now.

  Gavil would have none of it, though. He continued to torment Creed with vicious beatings until the day a year ago when Creed had enough. It was a taunting like any other. Gavil was snickering as he covered Creed’s dinner in sand and laughed and ridiculed him, just as he had countless times before. But something was different that night.

  Something snapped inside Creed. He attacked Gavil and beat him to a whimpering, bloody pulp.

  The boys had not spoken since and seemed to mutually work to avoid each other on the campus. Their paths didn’t usually cross because Gavil was two years older than Creed and slept in a different part of the men’s dormitory.

  Creed felt avenged and empty at the same time. He knew nothing of his life outside The Facility. Gavil was his only connection to the world beyond the compound. He only knew they were born overseas, in the Americas. All Creed remembered, though, was life here in their German compound.

  But Gavil was two years older and had more memories of when they were brought here. Creed always wanted to know what happened. Who were their parents? Why did they give the brothers up? Did th
ey have a family somewhere? He wanted a brother to love, instead he had Gavil and he couldn’t stop himself from feeling only hatred for him.

  These thoughts churned through Creed’s mind as he watched his brother casually stretch as if preparing himself for an easy run. A deep, bellowing horn blew, sucking all the noise from the crowd as if in a vacuum. Commander Oldham’s familiar voice echoed around the silent faces.

  “Welcome! We’re here to witness the Retribution of two worthy metas. Twenty-year-old Gavil Young is defender and eighteen-year-old Creed Young is the new-comer. As some of you may know, this Retribution is especially interesting because not only are the two opponents similarly matched in abilities, but they are also blood brothers,” Commander Oldham’s voice rose appropriately for the juicy announcement and the audience responded. Screams of wild excitement crashed like waves over Creed.

  “It’s time to begin. Retribution-ers, you know the rules. This is hand-to-hand combat only. No weapons, no reprieve, no mercy. To the death! Begin!”

  Creed hadn’t taken his eyes off his brother since the moment he first saw him. So, it came as no surprise when Gavil ran to attack even before Commander Oldham’s order to “begin.” The younger brother stood in the ready position and calculated his response. One quick movement to the side and Creed stood watching his brother fly by, trying to stop his momentum, before crashing into the wall of the fighter’s pit.

  Gavil face was pale with rage. He stopped for a moment and shook his hands, rolled his neck and sneered, “Hey there baby brother. I was kinda hoping it would be you in here with me. Seems like a good day for you to die,” Gavil curled his thin lips at his brother. “Well, as good as any other.”

  “Gavil, we don’t have to do this. We could both concede and walk away with our lives.” Creed’s mind was racing with possible options.

  “Concede!” Gavil spat the word like it was venom on his tongue. “You want me to concede to you? Maybe I hit you one too many times in the head, boy. Why don’t you just lay down right here on the ground? I’ll make this quick for you, for old time’s sake.” He was inching toward Creed. Slipping snake-like closer to his little brother until the Young men stood an arm’s length from each other. The crowd was shrieking wildly in anticipation. “You better take my offer. It’s the only mercy you’re gonna get.”

  “Gavil, don’t do this,” urged Creed. “You know what happened last time we fought. We don’t have to…”

  But he didn’t have time to finish his sentence before Gavil’s hand flashed up and under Creed’s jaw, stabbing his pressure points with deliberate skill and malice. Creed’s nerves shot pain into his ears and pierced his brain. Instinctively, he slapped his brother’s hand away and leaped back, recuperating from the excruciating jolt. Gavil smirked, loving how easy it was to trick his sucker of a brother.

  “Are you ready to fight now, Bleedy Creedy?” Gavil sneered, throwing out that hurtful nickname he’d given his little brother for all the injuries he caused him throughout the years.

  “So be it.” Creed locked his jaw and ran full-speed not at his brother, but at the arena wall beside him. Curiosity and surprise were the only two facial expressions Gavil had time to register before he realized what Creed was doing. He ran straight up the wall, used the momentum to flip backward and caught Gavil by the neck with his legs on his way down. Creed landed on top of his brother, knee at his throat.

  The audience gasped in wild admiration.

  Gavil glared up at his brother, spat phlegm into his face and rolled out from under his knee. He jumped to his feet and charged, head down shoving Creed against the wall and though it looked like a kind of brotherly embrace, there was nothing tender about this. Instead, there was something sinister about the way Gavil’s hand slipped to his boot.

  Still locked together in a powerful struggle, Creed began punching his brother in the stomach. Each time, Gavil was lifted off the ground with the velocity of impact.

  Audience members facing his back would later swear they saw it; just glints of light reflecting off a slice of metal that Gavil had retrieved from his boot. Angered murmurs rose in surprise and disapproval. Though they had been taught to feed off the weak, they had some semblance of warped integrity.

  No one ever brought weapons to a Retribution Match. It was supposed to be hand-to-hand combat, to the death. Heck, even a monkey could be taught to use a weapon. Metas were different—above, more. And though bloody and vicious, their society was built on very strict rules of conduct.

  Creed’s anger was ice as he punched his brother. Not even the sound of the crowd roaring with frenzied excitement reached Creed’s ears.

  Then it happened.

  Gavil pushed himself away from his brother just long enough to reposition the metal in his hand, and delivered a strategic and powerful punch into his brother’s kidney, burying the shard deep into the tender skin below the ribs.

  Creed wailed in shock and anguish as Gavil continued to beat that same pierced spot with blow after blow. All the years of fury and hatred for his perfect little brother, his archrival, came spilling through clenched teeth as he hammered Creed cutting him deeper and deeper.

  Creed slipped to the floor and curled into fetal position. Pain traced the lines of his face just as much from the metallic shard as from his brother’s vicious and absolute betrayal.

  It was in that moment that everything became crisp and clear. The crowd roaring, the scent of his own blood—sweet and coppery, grainy dirt from the arena’s floor caking to his sweat soaked skin, a deep scuff on his brother’s black boot inches away from his face—everything. And in that moment Creed discovered something about himself.

  He could separate himself from his pain.

  As he lay there, he no longer felt the weapon embedded in his side. He didn’t feel winded or strained at all.

  He felt—nothing.

  As though he found a light switch in the dark, Creed simply reached out and turned off the pain.

  Gavil was more interested in the crowd’s cheers than his dying brother, so he stood with his back to Creed, arms raised in triumph. It was only the gasps of the audience that made him turn to see his opponent coolly stand, and assume the ready, fighting position.

  What the hell? Gavil’s mind screamed.

  His eyes shot a look at his brother’s shirt and confirmed what he already knew: He stabbed his brother and beat the weapon into his skin. Blood soaked the entire side of his fatigues and even was seeping down to the waistline of his pants.

  What the hell was going on? I won this fight! He shouldn’t be standing! Hell, he shouldn’t even be breathing!

  “You are no longer my brother, Gavil,” Creed growled softly enough to be heard only by his intended recipient.

  Stunned silence was all Gavil could give in retort but it didn’t really matter, Creed was on him with the speed and determination of a panther on its prey.

  The crowd seemed to have lost their thirst for blood as they sat in shocked silence watching the bloody figure of a meta delivering strike after furious strike.

  Within seconds, Gavil was face down in the dirt, screaming as his arms were yanked impossibly back and behind him. Creed stood holding the helpless appendages and placed his foot strategically on his brother’s head. One stomp and Gavil’s neck would snap like a twig.

  “Finish him!” boomed a voice over the loud speaker. It was Commander Oldham. He ran the Facility with an iron fist. His word was law.

  A hushed rumble radiated from the awestruck metahumans watching the drama unfold.

  Creed didn’t move.

  “Creed Young, you know the rules. ‘Kill, or be killed!’ Finish him, now!”

  With one quick motion, Creed let go of Gavil’s arms and stepped away.

  “No, sir!” His voice had no hint of fear or pain. Instead, there was strength and absolution. “I will not kill him, and he cannot kill me.”

  The anxious audience waited to see what would happen next. This had never happened. Never
had someone refused to finalize victory.

  “Guards, escort the Young brothers to detention immediately! They will be dealt with there.” Commander Oldham’s voice was full of anger. The spectators were very sure this was the last they would see of the two fighters.

  Friendships were few and far between in the Facility, but Creed had a loyal following and many more who admired him from a distance. It was these metas who stood in the crowd and started clapping a slow and synchronized clap. Others joined in, until nearly the entire arena boomed in unison.

  Six armed meta guards entered the arena. Two of them dragged Gavil’s limp, beaten body away, and the other four surrounded Creed motioning him to move. Creed glanced up at the crowd’s obvious display of support and allowed a quick smile. No matter what, he knew he’d done the right thing.

  2 Consequences

  He fully expected to be killed for his disobedience.

  But he wasn’t.

  Instead, he was taken to the Facility’s surgeons who tended to his injuries; the most serious was the damage to his kidney.

  He vaguely remembered lying on the operating table and hearing the weapon clink into a metallic specimen bowl after the surgeon removed it from his kidney. He remembered wondering why they were bothering fixing him up if they were just going to kill him anyway.

  Even as he lay in recovery, staring at the sterile white curtain surrounding his bed, he wondered about his fate. Not that he was scared. Not at all. Instead, he felt numb and distant. This was all feeling like it was happening to someone else and he was just standing in the back of the room aware of the events, but unaffected by them.

  He remembered wondering if they had a medic taking care of Gavil, too. And if so, was he in a room nearby?