by Bella Jacobs
The building directly across the alley from ours is condemned, a sagging heap of metal and cinder block with smashed windows and graffiti-streaked walls that hint at habitation by local homeless. Now, floodlights blast the structure from the sidewalk below, a deterrent to future squatters that casts the graffiti in pools of light, like works of art spotlighted at a gallery.
Fuck all sluts dead scrawled in red beneath a swirled gang tag is especially attention-grabbing, making me sigh.
“Charming, huh?” Sierra grunts. “Seems like men would have more appreciation for sluts. That’s what they want, right? Willing women on their backs for them, taking dick without putting up a fight?”
“I don’t know,” I say, voice still rough from all the dragon fire. “I don’t think men know what they want. Women, either. I think a lot of people are just…confused.”
“Asleep,” Sierra says. “They’re asleep at the wheel, getting jerked around by unconscious shit that makes them miserable to co-exist with, and the rest of us pay the price for it.” She leans against the spindly balcony railing, facing me. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Unconscious shit. Things people around here might be doing without knowing they’re doing it.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“Luke,” she says, gaze flicking to the door behind us before returning to my face. “I’m pretty sure he’s lab-made. I didn’t want to say anything until I was—”
“It’s okay. I know. We know,” I correct, too tired to worry about Sierra feeling left out of the loop. “Not one-hundred percent certain, but we’ve strongly suspected for a while.”
Sierra sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, chewing as she nods. “Okay… And he’s still here because…?”
“He’s still here because he bears the mark and hasn’t done anything to prove he isn’t on our side.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
She rocks back on her heels. “Listen, I’m all for protecting the rights of lab-made shifters. I’ve risked my life for the cause more than once, but this isn’t…” She trails off with a rough sigh, her brows furrowing into a squiggle of worry. “He could be one of Highborn’s, Wren. He could have been the one who led them to our camp. Maybe not on purpose, but if he’s a Gen Mod they could have tech in him that—”
“Creedence scanned him for tech when the L.A. pack dropped him off. He came up clean. And he saved Dust’s life,” I remind her. “He risked his life to save my mate, when that was never what he signed up for. He didn’t have to be a hero, but he was.”
Her gaze softens. “Yes, he was a hero today, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t also a spy. Maybe a spy without even knowing it if they’ve got a DNA protocol rigged to run in him when they pull a trigger.”
“He was made at least fifteen years ago,” I say. “They didn’t have those kinds of protocols back then.”
Sierra shrugs. “Doesn’t mean he couldn’t have been modified since.”
“If he was going to kill us, don’t you think he would have done it by now?”
“No. Not if he’s the failsafe, the last trigger to pull if all their other plans go to shit.”
I drive a hand through my nearly dry hair with a sigh. Even after my shower, it smells like smoke. Ash. With an undernote of charred flesh that makes me want to get back in the shower and scrub and scrub until the reminder of how much blood is on my hands is gone.
But it will never be gone. The fact that I killed in self-defense may keep my soul clean, but my heart will never be the same. Something died in me tonight, something innocent and hopeful that I’ll never get back again.
“I want to know how they found us as much as you do,” I say. “Believe me, I do. But I’m not going to rush into laying blame where it doesn’t belong. Luke’s done everything in his power to prepare me to fight our enemies, and we were there for over a month before we were discovered. That makes me think it must have been something else. Maybe Highborn caught us on a satellite feed or—”
“I respect your sense of fairness, mama.” Sierra shakes her head. “But this isn’t the time for it. It’s time to take extreme measures to keep you and your mates safe and apologize for hurting people’s feelings later. Pardon my French, but seriously, it’s time to grow the fuck up, Wren,” Sierra says, knocking the breath out of me.
I barely bite back the “fuck you,” on the tip of my tongue.
“I’m working on it, Sierra, believe me,” I say instead, forcing the words through a clenched jaw. Two people lashing out from fear and anger won’t make this better. Still, my tone isn’t gentle. “There are other factors aside from immediate safety. I need four mates to have a real shot at taking down Atlas. There’s a whisper-thin chance I might pull it off with three, but blasting through a few hundred versions of the future showed me how highly unlikely that is. I need Luke.”
Her lips part on another argument—the cold fire in her eyes leaves no doubt it’s going to be another argument—when the screech of the window opening in the adjoining room makes us both flinch.
A beat later, Kite sticks his head out into the night air and motions us in. “Hey, you two. Get in here. You should see this. It’s all over the news.”
“Be right there,” Sierra says, before adding to me in a whisper. “We’ll talk more later. I’m not going to let you Pollyanna anyone into an early grave, especially yourself.”
Before I can respond, she spins on her heel, heading back inside.
Taking a moment to unclench my fists and jaw, I follow her, emerging into the adjoining room as Creedence kicks up the volume on the ancient television chained to the wall.
An aerial shot of a forest on fire—our forest—fills the screen.
Chapter 36
Wren
“Is it about us?” My fingers curl around the neck of the scratchy black T-shirt Creedence brought back for me to put on after my shower. “Have they shown photos?”
If our pictures are on the air, we need to get out of the city, to a place where there are fewer people to report they’ve spotted the motley crew the authorities are looking for.
“No,” Kite says. My shoulders relax away from my ears, only to shoot back up again as he adds, “It’s Highborn. Looks like he cracked.”
Before I can ask for clarification, a female newscaster’s disembodied voice speaks over the footage of trees collapsing in a shower of sparks. “According to official statements from the U.S. government the forest fire raging just south of the border is being blamed on a drug enforcement agency mission gone awry. But sources close to Dr. Highborn, the controversial head of the Elysium Institute, infamous for their aggressive treatment of Meltdown viruses in children, say otherwise.”
Eyes wide, I turn back to Kite, but he just motions to the screen. Apparently, he’s heard this part of the story before. I wonder how many stations are covering the fire.
And if Atlas watches the news…
“Just minutes after the fire outside of Columbia Falls, Montana was reported to the authorities,” the newscaster continues, “two doctors with ties to Dr. Highborn received phone calls from the physician, who alleged to be on the mountain when the fire broke out. Dr. Highborn accused the U.S. government of an elaborate conspiracy to conceal the existence of supernatural creatures, alleges to have received taxpayer money to fund illegal and unethical experiments on U.S. citizens without their consent, and insists he’s being targeted by a supernatural being of, quote, ‘unimaginable power, who will kill us all,’ end quote.”
This time my “what the hell?” glance lands on Creedence, who responds with an “I know, right? What the fuck?” arch of his brows. When I glance back at the screen, the view of burning trees has been replaced by a photograph of Dr. Highborn, wearing a suit and looking benignly dignified, that quickly crossfades to a picture of a fifty-something woman with pretty, gray-blond curls and a warm smile.
“These calls came only hours after the body of Dr. Highborn’s wi
fe of thirty years, Beatrice Highborn, was discovered in the family pool,” the anchor continues, sending a flash of pain through my chest. “It appears to have been a suicide, but the authorities haven’t ruled out foul play. We can only speculate as to how the death of his wife contributed to the doctor’s mental state tonight.”
The camera cuts to a shot of a twenty-something Latina reporter in a brown sock cap and a red windbreaker, backlit by the flickering forest behind her.
She presses a hand to her ear, nodding as she maintains eye contact with the camera. “Looks like we’ve received audio of Dr. Highborn’s phone call to Dr. Lillian Craven of Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City.” She nods again, buying time as she processes whatever the voices in her earbud are telling her. “We’ll play that for you now.”
The camera lingers on the woman’s tense features for another beat before the screen is filled with a graphic whipped up for the occasion. On one side of the screen are photos of Dr. Highborn and Dr. Craven, a tiny woman with gray hair and thick glasses, who is at least eighty if she’s a day.
But when she speaks, her voice is surprisingly youthful, easily understood without following the transcript scrolling up the screen.
Highborn: Are you recording? Are we good?
Craven: Yes, I’m recording, Martin, but I beg you to slow down and think about what you’re doing. There are some things you can’t take back, no matter how hard you try. And you never know who’s listening. You know that better than anyone.
Highborn: That’s why I called you, Lili. I remembered what you said, about being too old to be afraid. Do you remember?
Craven: Of course, but that doesn’t mean I—
Highborn: Beatrice is dead. By now, Wendy, too, I’m sure.
Craven: Oh, no…*soft choked sound* Oh, Martin, I’m so sorry. So terribly sorry.
Highborn: I failed the test. Lost the game. That’s all it is to him, a game. Murdering the people I loved was just…entertainment, a way to break the monotony. *sobbing sounds*
Craven: *unintelligible words* *hushing sounds*
Highborn: And now I have no reason to be afraid, either. There’s nothing worth fighting for. I sent the happily ever after package. Just now. From my email.
Craven: Of course you did. That’s what that monster doesn’t understand. We need more than the blood pumping through our veins, we need a reason for our hearts to keep beating.
Highborn: *choked sound* I don’t. Not anymore. There were both so good. So innocent. I loved them so much.
Craven: And they loved you, Martin. Go in peace, friend. I’ll do what I can to make sure this isn’t buried.
Highborn: I sent the package to everyone, Lili. Half the Pentagon is getting an in-depth briefing on everything we know about Atlas. Every colleague in my contacts list, all my friends overseas. There’s not a blanket big enough to cover it up. The truth is coming out. By the end of the week, the entire world will know what they’re up against.
Craven: I hope so. I’ve always thought, if we could all just stand together…
Highborn: They’re here. I have to go. Happily ever after, Lili. I’m going.
Craven: I know.
The call cuts off, and the anchor reappears, her haunted expression sending a chill down my spine even before she says, “A body believed to be that of Dr. Highborn was discovered earlier this evening as firefighters brought the worst of the Columbia Fall’s peak fire under control. The doctor appears to have died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.”
My heart jerks hard in my chest.
He’s dead. The man who nearly killed Dust, destroyed Carrie Ann, and hurt so many people—human and shifter, alike—is gone. Forever.
So why am I more frightened than I was five minutes ago?
The woman on the screen lifts her chin as if bracing herself for what’s coming next. “The recording you just heard was turned over to the FBI by Dr. Craven, who also emailed the file to news outlets across the United States, Canada, and Europe.” Her throat works above the zipper of her windbreaker. “And we… Just minutes ago, we received word that Dr. Craven’s body was discovered at eight-thirty-eight eastern time on the sidewalk outside her Madison Avenue apartment building, an apparent victim of suicide after a leap from her twenty-fifth story window.”
Kite curses beneath his breath, and Creedence mutters, “Suicide, my ass.”
“Stay tuned for developments in this story, as well as a list of road closures caused by the peak fire,” the anchor continues, recovering her composure. “Despite heavy rains earlier today, flames continue to spread east, and the fire department warns of possible evacuation orders for citizens of both Columbia Falls and Kalispell.”
Kite mutes the television and turns to lean against the wall beside it. “He’s gone. Why don’t I feel better?”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” I murmur, nibbling the pad of my thumb. “Why turn on Highborn? I agree that Atlas seems to enjoy hurting people for sport, but why take out an ally? Highborn got close to killing us. Twice.”
“Maybe close isn’t good enough for Atlas,” Creedence offers.
“Maybe he’s crazy.” Luke, who’s been even more stoic than usual since we checked into our rooms, motions toward the screen from his seat at the foot of the sagging bed. “Maybe he lashed out in anger, killing the guy’s family before he thought it through.”
I shake my head. “That doesn’t feel right. I mean, yes, from what I know about his history, I’d say Atlas is out of his mind, but he’s not impulsive. And he wants us dead. That’s his first priority, so why would he—”
“But what if it’s not?” Luke asks. “At least, not killing all of us. That night on the reservation, and tonight on the compound, no one was shooting at you, Wren.”
I blink, surprised to be “Wren” not “Princess,” but try not to show it.
“He’s right,” Creedence offers. “At least tonight. I wasn’t with you when the fighting started in the lodge.”
“Maybe he’s right about the shooting, but the Gen Mods weren’t pulling any punches,” I say. “They were swarming me tonight. And one almost ripped my throat out at the lodge. He would have if I hadn’t caught fire and forced him to back off.”
“But we can withstand a lot of damage from each other,” Kite says. “That’s why my mom and all the other old timers were so upset when the Rule of Tooth and Claw went out the window. Silver bullets have a way higher mortality rate than even the most brutal hand-to-hand injuries.” He motions toward the other room. “Like with Dust. If he’d taken claws in the gut, he’d already be up and about right now.”
“I am up…” The soft voice from the doorway sends my heart pinging around in my chest like a freshly launched pinball.
I turn, hurrying to where Dust is leaning weakly against the doorframe. “What are you doing? You shouldn’t be out of bed. You’ll reopen the wound.” I reach for him, intending to wrap an arm around his waist and help him back to the other room, but he captures my hand, holding it with surprising strength.
“I’m fine. Thanks to you,” he says, holding my gaze as a wave of love and gratitude washes over me, bringing tears to my eyes.
“No thanks needed,” I whisper. “I love you so much, and I’m so glad to see you awake again, but I need you to lie down. Okay? I won’t risk losing you because you’re too stubborn to give yourself time to heal.”
“I don’t need time. I need that file Highborn sent to his friends,” Dust says, the jut of his jaw making it clear that getting him back in bed isn’t going to be easy. “I have a contact in the Pentagon. I need to get to a secure computer and reach out, see if he has access.”
“Agreed.” Creedence bounces up from his chair. “And I can help. I picked up a surprise for you while I was at urgent care. A little something I thought we might need before you’re back in fighting shape.” He opens the closet door and pulls out a folded wheelchair he pops open with a jerk of his arms. “There.” He grins. “Ready
to roll when you are, Captain.”
“I get to be captain again?” Dust asks with a wry twist of his lips.
“You do,” Creedence says. “Almost dying comes with certain privileges. At least until you piss me off again.” He nods toward the door. “Should we head out? Or do you want to get pretty first?”
Dust grins. “Just let me put my suit coat on over my sweatpants.”
“No,” I protest. “Even with the wheelchair, it’s too soon. You should rest. At least for the night.”
“We might not have the night,” Sierra says, speaking up for the first time since the newscast ended. “There’s another option no one’s mentioned. What if Atlas took out Highborn because he doesn’t need him anymore?” Her gaze shifts to me, landing with an almost audible snap. “Because he’s already got us exactly where he wants us?”
“Doubtful,” Dust says, before Sierra’s ‘Luke is a traitor’ argument can become a matter of public discussion. “Highborn wouldn’t have attacked us without Atlas’s approval. Atlas wanted us dead before we could cross the border, not safe on the other side, making plans to get even closer to his stronghold.”
“Agreed again,” Creedence says. “We’re under the radar now, and the dirt in the file might help us stay that way. Ready to roll, Dust?”
“Fine. Then I’m coming with you.” I grab my new jean jacket off the back of the chair across from Sierra’s at the small dining table.
“Me, too,” Luke says, surprising me again. He grabs his gun off the bedside table, tucking it into the back of his pants.
I cut a quick glance Sierra’s way, but she isn’t looking at me. She’s staring out the window at the building across the street with a brooding expression. But she’s keeping her mouth shut, which is good. I’m not ready to confront Luke yet, not when Dust is too weak to walk, and we don’t have our next move sorted out.