by Allie Marell
She didn’t care. He said the intruders had gone for now. And here, doing this with her, Santar was safe and all hers, for a little while longer.
“Don’t leave me.” She clung to his shoulders, moulding her body to his as he took her, quick and hard and she fell to pieces in his arms.
He followed her into oblivion with a guttural groan deep in his throat. Thrusting until there was nothing left and she fell back onto the hard wood. He slumped over her, panting hot breath into the curve of her neck.
Andra lay very still, listening to his heart beating counterpoint to the ticking of the kitchen clock, marking time they may not have. He’d offered back General Jo. Done what she wanted. But now that seemed more like a sad goodbye than the expected victory.
Her eyes were blurring with tears. Santar was tilting his head, studying her with far too much focus as reality gradually seeped back into her muddled senses.
“I fear I’ve brought you to tears again.” He hauled her up and against him, circling her with his arms. “Am I doing this all wrong?”
“No,” she whispered, into the cashmere sweater. “I’m crying because you’re doing everything right. And because I’m scared for you. Don’t go up on the moors tonight. Not in his weather, please.”
“I left evidence. The instruments I can at least recover.”
“If they were able to home in on the weapon, then isn’t it likely they’ll have found the wreck, too? What difference will it make going up there now?” She lifted her face. Wiped away the tears. This had been only a temporary distraction. She still had to save him from himself.
“It’s likely.”
“Then we’ll go on up in the morning. When it’s light and the walkers are out. If these people hunting you are as secretive as you say, they won’t want to make a scene. Won’t it be safer with people about?”
“It would be safer if we both left. I cannot leave you here alone, now that they know where you live. Run with me.”
“I can’t, Santar. There’s Emma and Oliver. I have a life here, my house, the animals...”
“Then I have no option but to stay and protect you.”
“Look, let’s talk about it in the morning.” Her head was spinning. She had no answers for his crazy suggestion that she run away with him, even if to him it made perfect sense. Keep it real and hope that for tonight, they were safe.
“I will not leave you in danger.”
“Okay. I get that, but this is all too much right now.” She pushed him lightly away. “You go upstairs and clean up and I’ll start dinner. It’s only chicken and fries, but we can crack open a few beers and forget about the world outside for a while. What do you say?”
“Chicken and fries? Beer? Meat, starch, and a brewed beverage? Sounds good.”
“You have a way with words, Santar.”
“It was said to make you smile. Andra, I know you will not leave, so know that I’m here to protect you.”
“Thank you.” Her voice wobbled dangerously. She watched him walk from the room and imagined him walking out of her life forever, taking all this angst, all his problems. The sound of his voice, the touch of his hand.
Stop him running and she trapped him here, where he’d be a sitting duck for those who meant him harm. She couldn’t go with him. Couldn’t just leave all this and run. That’s not how life worked.
Standing frozen in place, listening for the click of the bathroom door, she had no idea how she was going to let him go. She only knew that she must.
Chapter 17
Oh yes, he knows how this works. How many times had he been the officer charged with chasing down rogue absconders rambling about former lives. Insisting they needed to go home?
So hard and cold, he felt no pity for traitors to the Order. Knew exactly what would happen to the repeat offenders when he hauled them back to base to receive their just reward.
Slipping from the bed in the dim morning light, Santar pads silently to the door, observing the sleeping woman snuggled under the heavy winter quilt from a safe vantage point. Rich brown hair spills across the pillow. The feel of her skin, the uniquely female dips and curves, the wistful sighs and almost pain-filled moans, are all imprinted as new memories he’s making here on Earth.
In sleep her expression is serene, her eyelids fluttering with dreams, her mouth relaxed in a half-smile. Like a female with no cares in the world.
He likes to think he put that smile there, taking her fast and slow through the long night. Bringing her to sobbing ecstasy and mutual pleasure. Maybe he did. He pads to the bathroom to shower and prepare for a day of decisions that have no correct answer.
Run again and he leaves her vulnerable to the clean-up crews sent to erase all trace of his movements here on Earth. Including all he crossed paths with. Stay and Andra becomes a target, like him.
Either way, they both lose.
If she will not run with him, then he can’t leave her.
Let her sleep. Her world of visiting the sick and hoping for miracles. Of aliens from distant planets barging into her life, will return soon enough.
His head is pounding with delayed shock from the crash, his critical thinking facilities only at half strength. What he needs right now is a long cold shower to force his brain into thinking straight and forming a coherent survival plan.
This glimpse of a new life with his unexpected rescuer intrigues him more than it should. A small seed of longing’s taken root deep inside of him, whispering that perhaps he could live this life, with her.
Reality, as always, begs to differ.
She won’t run with him. Does not understand the danger. And he can’t leave her.
From the window in the corridor outside the bedroom, he surveys the front of the cottage, the lane leading to another larger property higher up the hill. In the night, the snow ceased falling. The early morning sun is spreading orange and yellow fingers of light across the pristine snow. The landscape eerily quiet under the muffling blanket of white.
No vehicle ruts in the lane. The rear of the property looks the same. From the smaller bedroom window, the snow’s marred only by a line of small imprints that might have been the cat or another roaming predator and smaller surface marks in the form of bird feet.
Safe enough to spend a few precious moments resetting his inner calm and recharging his confused brain.
He gasps at the first frigid spray from the shower. Steels himself and brings his full attention to the sting of the needle-sharp jets, the hiss of the water. Time has no meaning when he’s in this zone of utter concentration, and when he steps from the spray and walks to the bedroom, naked and towelling off his hair, the bed is empty, the duvet thrown back.
Sniffing, he catches the rich scent of the coffee these Earth people seem so enamoured of. After their broken night, they’ll both need the stimulant. As he dresses, he calculates his chances of an urgent visit to Mrs Chapman’s residential facility. The disappearance of his weapon changed everything. Nothing else was taken, the lock opened and closed with ease. Whoever took it, knew what they were looking for. Knew the weapon would lead them to him.
Fully awake now, he dresses in yesterday’s clothes and listens for Andra pottering about downstairs. He frowns. The house is too quiet. Andra should have heard him exit the bathroom. And where is the dog? The beast has barely left his side since he arrived. The backpack’s missing, too. He distinctly remembers dropping it in the corner of the room.
If she still does not trust he will willingly return the toy, he will not blame her. It hardly seems to matter now his escape has been compromised.
He cares nothing for himself. The bigger problem now is keeping Andra safe.
The bedroom overlooks the front of the house and while he was in the shower, someone has taken a vehicle up or down the lane branching off to Moor Cottage. Deep ruts mar the undulating snow. Andra’s phone is on the stand beside the bed. He glances at the time. Mekata! Has he really spent half of an Earth hour meditating in the shower while
she was out here all alone?
Barefoot, he takes the stairs at a run, half expecting to fall over the dog running to greet him. Still no Jess or any sign of the cat. The sitting room door is closed and when he looks from the kitchen window to check the rear of the house, his heart constricts painfully in his chest.
Footprints. Deep and heavy, making a line to the back door.
Too late to berate himself for not forcing her to leave with him last night. Think. He’s listening, using what’s left of the enhanced hearing that at operational strength would have picked out a single breath, the slightest twitch or rustle underfoot. He hears only the chiming of the tall clock in the sitting room and resists throwing open the door. Did they close it last night? The details elude him, but his training has not been forgotten. He still holds the element of surprise.
Snatching a knife from the block on the counter, he settles it comfortably in his palm. If they harm the dog, he’ll bring down the black pits of hell on their unworthy heads. His face hardens to a grim mask. If they harm Andra, he’ll kill them all.
He stands at the door, holding his breath, wishing he could stop his heart the better to listen for sound. Some beings have that skill, but it’s beyond the bounds of the humanoid form. He uses the pounding as a point of calm, counting out the heavy beats. Making himself stop, listen and think as he was trained to do.
Finally, he hears the tiniest chink of a cup hitting the wooden side table. So there is someone inside and it might still be the dog accidentally trapped. But then wouldn’t the beast be howling the house down to effect escape?
The knife feels inadequate in his grip against the threat of guns and energy weapons. It’s all he has since Andra appears to keep no such weapons of her own. Whoever’s inside will be expecting him to open the door. Be waiting for him on the other side. He considers the window. Remembers the sturdy locks and the tiny panes of glass enclosed by a criss-cross of rigid metal.
This is the only way in.
If they’ve found him, then it’s time to strike a bargain. His life for hers. He’s reaching for the door when he hears a familiar voice. One he thought never to hear again.
And in his head, the floodgates open. Memories flow through in a torrent of flashing images and light, broken words and terrifying sound.
The door swings open to reveal a different man in black, half hidden by the wood. The opening frames another, standing rigid behind the two-seater chair, arms crossed over his chest, a hand-gun weapon in one gloved fist.
Andra’s sitting in the centre of the chair, rigid and still, her face devoid of colour. Her head snaps around suddenly, and there’s a warning in her eyes.
Or is that an accusation?
He’s shaking, every muscle hard and tight. Their eyes meet and what he sees is apology. He wants to roar out that this is not her fault. Never her fault.
How can she know what she’s up against?
The Christmas tree lights send pools of flashing colour chasing along the white walls. A cup steams gently on the table before the fire. Another cup sits on a smaller table beside the single high-backed chair positioned so the occupant is invisible from where he stands. Andra shakes her head, a tiny movement meant to stop him entering the room, but she’s there. He’s going in.
There is someone in the chair. A gnarled hand rests casually on the arm. A heavy, flat-topped ring hangs from a bony finger. The intruder heaves in a wheezing breath and lifts the hand, beckoning him in.
“Hello, William.”
The greeting hits him like a hammer blow. Santar’s vision dims and he’s thrown back through the years to a young boy waking, panting and terrified from a nightmare so real, he’s screaming for his mother, for anyone to come and save him. But his voice is a mocking echo in a black void. No one comes running to his rescue. He sees only a man, a ghost-like image wavering in the blinding light, watching and oblivious to his plight.
An invisible force tears the boy from his bed, sucking him into the light. The curtains flutter behind him. The last thing he remembers is a voice, calling him by name, asking for forgiveness.
Sorry, the voice said. I’m really sorry, William. But it was you, or her. I have to save her.
Hello, William. The same voice greets him now, older and cracked by age.
Santar’s grip tightens on the knife.
“No!” Andra finds her voice. Jumps from the chair, dodging past the henchman, to run to him. The men in black lunge at her. She’s too focussed on her goal.
And then she’s in his arms, pressing so close she’s almost a part of him.
“No, Santar. They have guns. They’ll kill you.”
The creature coughs, a hacking, grating sound that never seems to end. After a few, gasping breaths, it speaks.
“Sit, both of you. I have things to say.” The voice is deceptively gentle, belying the unmistakable note of command. A creature used to being obeyed.
“If this is a termination, then let the female go. She is not involved.”
“We are not here for a termination. You are worth more alive, SA NT AR12, than as a corpse.”
“You’re The Harvester.” He knows it. He’s always known it. “All those years ago, it was you.” The knowledge sharpens into focus amidst the swirling thoughts, the rush of memory. Without this woman clinging to his side, he’d have already thrown away his life on one last glorious charge. If he was to step over into the afterlife, the old male was coming too.
Harvesters could die as well as any being.
And this death was long overdue.
“Some call me by that name, yes. Sit, if you want to live to see your mother again.”
“You think to command me, old creature?” Santar’s pride refuses to capitulate, even though his good sense screams comply, do as he says and Andra might at least live through this.
The mention of his mother is like a blade to his heart, unbalancing him when he needs to be strong.
“Take the female.” The creature sounds almost bored. As if he’d expected defiance but knows he holds the upper hand.
“I’m going.” Andra wriggles from Santar’s hold, the barrels of two guns pointing at her face. She begs him with her eyes not to do anything foolish as a man in black hooks an arm around her throat, pressing the gun to her temple.
The knife falls from Santar’s fingers. His life for hers. An easy bargain to make. Raising his palms in surrender, he waits, his heart clenching with hate for the creature who stole his life.
If they take him back, he dies. If he fights, Andra dies.
“So what now?” He might have killed the vile creature without Andra in the mix. The voice is frail, the skin on the spindly hand mottled and wafer thin. No longer the same Harvester who ripped younglings from their families to sell to the highest bidders.
And the human threat from the henchmen in black? No problem for a crack warrior of Centrum Command.
“You need answers, William?” The hand points to a vacant chair. “Fight me and you’ll die never knowing. Come, now I never took you for a coward. You were one of my finest conquests.”
“Listen to him, Santar.” Andra’s voice wobbles dangerously. “We have no choice.”
As he edges forward towards the chair, the creature comes into full view. Surprisingly human, like some ancient who’s outlived his allotted years. A dark hat shades his eyes, further obscured by blacked out lenses. Sparse white hair straggles over the man’s cheeks and his frail frame hunches over a walking stick planted on the rug before him.
“It’s been a long time, William.” The old male watches him sit, raking him from head to toe as if taking inventory of the warrior he made. He nods, a satisfied smile quirking his thin red lips. Santar’s gaze falls to the man’s lap.
The toy. General Jo lies negligently on the man’s bony knees and curiosity gets the better of him. Why was it so important? He needs to know. If the male has a need to unburden, then let him. Santar is more than happy to postpone his glorious demise fighting
for freedom in exchange for knowing exactly what happened that night they took him from his bed.
So he is William Chapman. And the revelation renders him almost immobile.
“Not long enough,” he says in answer to the man’s question. “How much are they paying you to take me back?”
“The rewards are good.” The man thinks about it for a moment. “Even better for rogue retrieval, as you well know.”
“I did my duty with no thought of reward. You on the other hand...”
“Took bright young lives from their loving families and handed them over to the Grand Order of Centrum Command for a generous reward. At the time, it seemed like a fine bargain.”
“At the time? So what’s changed? Grown a conscience, have you?” Vainly, Santar seeks to read the male’s expression, his body language. So still, the creature might already be a corpse, giving nothing away. His bodyguards stand like statues, one guarding the man, the other Andra.
“I loved your mother. Did you know that?”
“You’re not fit to speak her name.” The room is suddenly full of disconcerting undercurrents Santar does not want to face.
“She was a brave female. The bravest I’ve known. This is why I was merciful.”
Despite the danger, Andra is listening intently to the creature’s speech. Pride begs Santar to fight, to ignore the man’s honeyed words. Another part of him has to know the rest. How desperately he has to know.
“I’m listening.”
Andra’s chest heaves in relief at his temporary capitulation. He will at least die knowing the whole story. The old man will give him that.
Chapter 18
For one horrible moment Andra imagined Santar making one last stand and going down in a hail of bullets in her sitting room. Right in front of the gaily flashing Christmas tree.
And where was Jess? She hadn’t seen or heard from the dog at all this morning and could only think the worst.