Otherborn (The Otherborn Series)

by Anna Silver

  But they were different now. They were changed. Maybe that love couldn’t cross over here fully with Rye. Maybe too much of it had been left behind in the Astral, with their memories. Not so for London. She could never retreat from the words she’d just spoken. She was laying herself open, stripping away all the hardened layers she had so carefully constructed around her heart, like the walls lining the Outroaders’ tunnels. A strategically erected mess, every scrap painstakingly placed to hold her shattered soul together.

  What’s more, she was taking Si’dah down right along with her. Because it wasn’t just London in love with Rye. As their Otherborn had invaded them like a runaway virus, their feelings had done the same. Si’dah’s love for Roanyk had infected London’s heart. And vice versa.

  In that instant, while she waited for someone to respond, London understood with unparalleled clarity that she would never escape the Other. They were too entwined, grafted together in mind and spirit like twin trees too weak to stand alone. Even their roots were knotted now, impossible to separate. They grew together, forever, or not at all.

  Rye spoke first. He didn’t respond to her feelings directly, didn’t profess true love or take her in his arms. He simply said, “Okay.”

  But that was enough for London.

  Tora shuffled her feet, sliding her hands into her back pockets. She looked up at them both and nodded once. If she’d been making a play for Rye’s heart, perhaps she realized that she’d lost. London didn’t know for sure, didn’t care. Now that it was out there, it would have to be brushed aside. Avery needed them, and dawn was on its way.

  “Okay, let’s go.” London smiled, confident that everything would finally start working out. Avery sent the moth. They would follow it, find her and figure out how to dismantle the Tycoons’ power. Then maybe they could go home. Wherever that was.

  But as she turned to move on, searching the night for a glimpse of green wing, the undeniable click of a gun cocking sounded behind them, followed by a familiar and oddly misplaced voice.

  “Not so fast, Lil’ Lo.”

  “How’d you find us?” London asked angrily. They stood at Ernesto’s mercy, too afraid to make a move. “Last I checked, this wasn’t Tigerian jurisdiction. And you weren’t a tracker.”

  “True ‘nough, true ‘nough. I ain’t a tracker, but he is.” Ernesto tossed a head of greasy hair over one shoulder.

  A large man stepped out of the trees from behind him.

  “Clark! How could you?” Tora gasped. “We saw you at the camp.”

  “You saw what they wanted you to see,” he said sadly. “They made us carry on as though the raid were over, sure it would lure you back. But they were always there, watching. We heard something, a snap, near the east end. I checked it out and found this.”

  Clark held out his hand. Resting inside his sweaty palm lay a gleaming, red plastic button. The one from Tora’s jacket.

  She looked down at her shoulder. Sure enough, it was gone. Tora looked to London and Rye and mouthed, “Sorry.”

  London knew she hated that button for a reason. The three of them stood in a row, arms behind their backs, while Clark worked on binding them at the wrist with plastic ties, going for Rye first—the only guy—then Tora.

  “Cinch ‘em tight,” their captor commanded. “’Specially this one. She’s feisty.” He ran the barrel of his revolver along London’s jaw.

  Rye spat on the gangster’s shoes, unable to do much else since his hands were bound and London was waiting at point-blank range to go next.

  But the gangster only smiled, revealing the signature gap between his teeth, and eyed London hungrily. “I must say, you are not lookin’ your best, Lil’ Lo. I’ve waited a long time to get you in bondage, but this ain’t exactly what I had in mind.” He laughed and London felt her stomach lurch. She could smell alcohol on his breath.

  “Mmm, mm, mm.” He shook his head. “Somebody done tore yo’ ass up.”

  “What’s a’matter, Ernesto?” she snarled. “You don’t like seconds?”

  He gave them a cock-eyed grin, the key-chains on his cap tinkling, and fingered one of the many bicycle chains around his neck. “What’d I tell you, Outroader? Feisty.”

  He looked at London. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll take you any way I can get you. Have you fixed up in no time, like a Tigerian princess. Scrap you out so fine…mm-mmm.”

  London rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to be part of your underground harem, Ernesto. Let us go.”

  “Can’t,” he sighed. “I got my orders. And these came straight from the top. Don’t know what you did this time, Lil’ Lo, but you been pissin’ off the wrong people, I know that.”

  “And what’s in it for you, huh? I thought the Tigerians bowed to no one ‘cept their own.”

  London was toying with him, keeping him talking and distracted while she tried to think of a plan. The only problem was, she needed to come up with something before Clark got those ties on her and she had only a few seconds left.

  “Oh, I’ll get mine. Don’t you worry your pretty lil’ head ‘bout that. I’ll get what’s comin’ to me, just like you.”

  London let her face wash grave. She looked at the gangster with as much brazen honesty as she could summon. “They’re gonna kill me, Ernesto, you know it.”

  “Ain’t my problem, Lo. It’s a shame, but it ain’t my problem.”

  She could see the genuineness of his words. They’d been partners in crime, he’d been her hook-up. And she was as good and loyal a patron as any. There’d been banter, and more than a small attraction on Ernesto’s side. She’d flirted pretty hard for those netbooks, among other things. He wouldn’t want to see her die, but he’d never turn his back on the gang. He was Tigerian, through and through. More Scrapper, more gangster than human.

  She felt Clark move behind her, the heat of him as he grabbed hastily at her hands.

  “Wait!” she said. “Ernesto, where’s your truck?”

  He gave her a suspicious look and shrugged. “Why?”

  London pulled one hand free of Clark’s sweaty grip and placed it on Ernesto’s waist, wrinkling his shirt in her fist. “This could be our last chance.”

  Ernesto wasn’t stupid, but he was a man. If she played it right, she knew she could get him off alone. After that, she’d try to make a break.

  He didn’t seem convinced, but he didn’t move either. “What your little boyfriend here gonna think of that?”

  London shrugged, nonchalant. “Don’t know, don’t care. Besides, he’s not my boyfriend, not anymore. If he ever was.”

  “London,” Rye said under his breath, barely containing his rage at watching her paw the filthy Scrapper. “Don’t do this. You don’t have to. We’ll find another way.”

  London took a deep breath and shook off the desire to listen to Rye’s reason. In order to convince Ernesto she was sincere, she would have to convince Rye, too. She squeezed at Ernesto’s waist, pulling him close. “Come on, baby. This has been a long time comin’. You know it. I know it. He knows it.” She tossed her head at Rye.

  Ernesto licked his lips. All those wasted nights behind the club with one douchebag or another were finally paying off. She knew how to play this game, how to read what they wanted and give it to them a little at a time. Seduction was easy—there was no heart in it. Love was not.

  “Look,” she continued, turning her face up to his, seeing him weaken. “All we need is a little time…alone. Just you and me. Then you can deliver me to whoever’s got the price on my head and collect your prize. But I promise you, whatever they’ve got to give won’t even compare to what I’ve got.”

  “What about the others?” he said, his voice rough with want.

  “Let Clark babysit ‘em. He can’t go back without you, can he? Your guys will crucify him if he turns up without you, King Scrapper. And he can’t last out here alone. He needs his camp, his filthy Outroaders. Give me five minutes, just five minutes, or you’ll never forgive yourself.”

>   She couldn’t believe he would even consider it, especially with how she must look, but one thing was becoming more and more evident. Ernesto had it for her bad. A lot worse than she ever realized. No wonder he gave her all those hook-ups.

  “Five minutes,” he breathed. “Behind those trees.”

  He looked at Clark. “You’ll be in range the whole time. You move, they move, I shoot. Got it?”

  Something like a growl emanated from Rye. “London, don’t!”

  But she ignored him and reached up to nibble at Ernesto’s lip instead, forcing back the bile that rose in her throat. She wouldn’t have much time since she hadn’t convinced him to go as far as the truck. She was going to have to think fast.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Brute Force

  London squeezed back the tears in her eyes. This was not, at all, going according to plan.

  She’d overestimated the time and the distance. But she’d underestimated her own weakness and Ernesto’s desire. He was small, as guys go, but he’d been in the gang a long time. He knew how to fight, and he was powerful. She didn’t have a plan, and she didn’t have the strength to push him off. She found that out right away. He’d taken her to the ground with one arm and now he had her pinned there beneath the force of his weight and will.

  He wasn’t going to be gentle.

  They were a few feet away from Rye and Tora, darkness and some clotted shrubbery their only cover. Ernesto panted like a dog in a heat wave as he tore at what remained of London’s tank top, pushing a hand up beneath her bra.

  The smell of his sweat choked her, salty and ripe. His chest fell heavy on her ribs, filling her with pain as he ground against her. He had one arm at her throat, gun in hand, while the other pulled wildly at her clothes, and she knew that, if she didn’t think fast, it would be over before she could stop it.

  She felt like such a dolt.

  She’d wooed him back here to try and save them and now she was only going to force them to be witness to her rape. Rye would never forgive her.

  “What’s a matter baby?” Ernesto whispered in her ear. “This not what you wanted? I thought you liked it rough.”

  London couldn’t help it. A small whimper escaped her lips, and she felt the hot, wet of tears rolling across her dirty face.

  Ernesto only laughed. And tore open her pants.

  She gasped with fear, pine needles digging their prickly points into her back like a dozen syringes. Through the blackness, she heard Rye’s voice as a slew of profanities poured from his lips. Then he called to her, “London! Fight him, London! Don’t let him get away with it!”

  Ernesto’s forearm pushed hard under London’s chin and she gagged from the pressure. He was fumbling with his own zipper now, taking the chance to goad her as he whispered nastily, “Sounds like loverboy’s upset, Lo. Maybe after, we can share a smoke. You and me…and loverboy.”

  London winced at his words, but he’d raised his body just enough to slip his hand between them and undo his fly, letting up on her throat considerably. She recognized the opportunity for what it was. The only one she was likely going to get.

  “No, thanks,” London growled through clenched teeth. “I quit.” Then she spit in the gangster’s face.

  He raised a hand to wipe her saliva off his left eye and cheek. “You bit—” But London cut him off with a bony knee to the groin, using as much force as she could gather pinned beneath him on the ground.

  He howled, slumping to her left, pushing her face hard into the ground as he did so. Dirt tasted in her mouth, gritting between her teeth, and leaves scratched at her eye. But it was all the release she needed. Her adrenaline spiked, and the taste of freedom ran with the twang of blood across her tongue. She shoved hard, embedding her other knee in his hip, and managed to just wriggle out from beneath him.

  London sprang up, scrambling for whatever distance she could put between them. “What’s a matter, baby?” She mimicked. “I thought you liked it rough.” The words tumbled out in a split second, but it was enough time for Ernesto to get to his knees, one hand grasping between his legs, raise the gun, and point it directly at her.

  London froze. Why did she have to be a smart ass? If she’d just run. But it was too late. If he took her now, it was going to be a hundred times worse than what he’d planned before.

  Wobbly, Ernesto stood. His weasely eyes were still watering with the pain. His greasy hair was plastered to his head where his cap had fallen off. “Feisty bitch,” he snapped. “I got a cure for that though.”

  He lowered the gun till it was centered on her right thigh. “Once I put a hole in that long leg a’ yours, you won’t be kickin’ no more. Then we can pick up where we left off.”

  “No!” Rye screamed.

  London looked over and her eyes met his through the trees. Her tank top was hanging in tatters and her bra was smudged and crooked across her chest. Despite the season’s heat, she was shaking in the night, and her face was filthy, bloody, and tear-streaked. But she sent him as much love with her eyes as she could. Because she knew, if Ernesto shot her, even just in the leg, she’d never make it. Her body didn’t have the strength for another major recovery. She’d bleed out before they got to wherever he was taking them, or infection would set in again. This time, there’d be no heroic Healers with magic shots to save the day.

  Ernesto grinned, took two steps forward and London squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the sting. But as his trigger finger started the final squeeze, a shadow in the night bulleted out of the overgrowth, lunging at him with the force of a wild animal, and knocked him sidelong.

  The gun sounded. London crumpled. And Ernesto’s scream fell into a hoarse gargle. Then silence.

  The shadow emerged from the tussle, but not the gangster.

  London glanced to her right, where Rye and Tora had stood under Clark’s watch, just in time to see the tracker fall before them, like cut timber.

  She looked up at the shadow before her, not sure whether to feel fear or relief. What new threat loomed there, ready to take Ernesto’s place. Another Tigerian perhaps? An angry Outroader?

  The hulking figure moved toward her, and London saw a face emerge from the darkness as moonlight spilled through a fork in the limbs above. Trembling, she let the tears come as she choked out, “Zen?”

  In an instant, he was on her, picking her up and checking her for wounds, panic in his voice. “Did it hit you? Are you shot?”

  “No,” she gulped. “I…I think it hit him.” She pointed to where Clark lay still at Tora and Rye’s feet.

  Kim stepped from the trees, a cocky grin on his broad, beautiful face. “It didn’t hit him; I did. With this.”

  He scooped up a giant acorn, the size of a golf ball, from the ground between Tora’s feet, fisting his hand around it, and dangled a long floppy rubber band from his other hand. “Cool, huh? I found it when we were staying with Harlan. I was using it to hold my hair back.”

  London almost laughed out loud, consumed with liberation. But as she hastily buttoned her pants, and pulled her torn tank across her chest, the shame of what nearly befell her came crashing down, washing away the joy she felt at seeing her friends again and knowing they were safe.

  Kim whipped a pocketknife out and sliced through Rye and Tora’s ties.

  “Something else you picked up at Harlan’s?” Tora asked, rubbing at her wrists.

  Kim shrugged. “You learn a thing or two growing up in Capital City. Lifting comes in handy when you’re out of ration tickets.”

  Rye jumped at London, wrapping his long arms around her. She buried her face in his smell and breathed deep. But she wouldn’t allow herself the luxury of another cry. Instead, she steeled herself against the rage and humiliation that surged through her, promising to never allow anything like what had nearly occurred to happen to her again. She’d be damned if she was going to be anybody’s victim.

  Kim tugged off the open button-down hanging over his plain white tee and handed it to her. Lond
on quickly put it on, shooting him a look of utmost gratitude. He flashed her a lopsided smile and turned away. They would never talk about what almost happened.

  Zen fished more plastic zip ties out of Clark’s pocket and bound Ernesto’s hands and feet. The gangster moaned but didn’t come to. He’d been knocked pretty hard by more than six feet of solid, adolescent muscle. And Zen had clutched at the bicycle chains on the way down, choking the air out of the gangster’s lungs to within an inch of his life. Already, his neck was purpling beneath the mound of blackened chain. He wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

  “I say we shoot him,” London offered dryly, but they ignored her.

  As for Clark, Zen wanted to bind him too, but Tora had a fit. “Leave him,” she insisted. “He was only here by force.”

  Rye took Ernesto’s gun, sliding it into the front of his pants. “Come on,” he tugged at London to go.

  “Wait,” she said. It sickened her to do it, to lay a hand on his filthy body, but she couldn’t pass up the chance. Rifling through Ernesto’s pockets, her fingers finally found what they were searching for. She pulled out the silvery keys, holding them up to the slivered moon, letting the light spark off their jagged edges as they jangled lightly in the air. “That’s one less truck they’ll be driving,” she said, before pocketing the keys herself and walking away.

  ~

  The night was gone, and with it, their cover and their guide. No more moth. Slowly, the sun was rising, filling the sky with a warm, easy light.

  “We have to stop,” London said at last, breathless. “I need a break.”

  They’d put as much space between them and Ernesto as possible in the last waning hours of moonlight, moving back around the outskirts of the camp in search of the gangster’s truck. It was an impulsive decision, but if they found Avery and rescued her, they’d likely need to make as quick a getaway as possible. They all agreed, it was worth the time spent now to save time later.