Progenitor

by Cassandra Chandler

  “Please, don’t let it be him,” she whispered.

  If she was remembering right, he didn’t have much time left. She could tell that it was night outside, even though her bedroom didn’t have any windows. At least now, everyone could stop worrying about Roy and trying to integrate her with the pack. They could focus on helping Brock.

  Someone was walking toward her room. She heard them even with the carpet muffling the sound, her senses hyper-aware. Two pairs of footsteps, but one heartbeat—or hearts that beat so in synch that she couldn’t tell them apart. Dexter and Porter.

  They tapped at the door lightly.

  “Megan?” one said. “Can we come in?”

  “Of course,” she responded.

  Dexter opened the door and crossed into the room. Porter followed after him. She could tell them apart now, after being so close to Porter while Brock was borrowing him. After kissing him, too.

  She blushed at the thought.

  She’d been kissing Brock. He’d just happened to be using Dexter or Porter’s lips while they were doing it.

  Both men were smiling now. Surely if something terrible had happened, they wouldn’t be smiling.

  Porter stared at the bed for a moment, still neatly made, then said, “We see you didn’t get any sleep.”

  “I couldn’t,” Meg said. “Is everyone all right?”

  “In a sense.” Porter nodded toward the door. “Walk with us.”

  Meg balked. As much as she knew that she should trust them, that they’d risked their lives to help her, they still unnerved her. Why were they both together again?

  “Meg,” Dexter said. “Please.”

  She swallowed hard, and for once, there was no collar squeezing against her throat when she did. Because of them.

  She nodded and headed toward Dexter, following him as he walked down the hall. Porter fell in step beside her.

  “Where is Vaughn?” Meg asked.

  He had cut himself while trying to get her collar off. While Porter had inspected the wound, Vaughn had been trying to say something about his blood and the collar, but Dexter had cut him off. She wasn’t sure why.

  “Vaughn is down in the ship with Eli,” Porter said. “They’re monitoring Malcolm and Bradley.”

  “Did something happen?” she asked.

  Porter smirked. “You could say that.”

  Dexter let out a snort. Whatever the joke was, she wasn’t in on it, but somehow, she didn’t mind. Just witnessing this pair—this unique being—showing amusement in front of her felt like they were sharing something special with her. Letting their guard down.

  “We want to hear more about this ‘mindblindness’ you mentioned earlier when you were debriefing us,” Porter said. “Not just for the Dweller Database, but for our research.”

  Dexter glanced back at them over his shoulder. “Porter is obsessed with learning everything we can about dwellers.”

  “It’s professional curiosity,” Porter said.

  Meg shook her head. “I’m confused. I thought you were the same person, but you’re talking like there’s two of you.”

  “When we occupy our individual forms, different aspects of our personality come to the forefront,” Porter said. “It’s quite fascinating.”

  “You even study yourselves, don’t you?” Meg smiled at Porter, hoping that her teasing tone wouldn’t upset him.

  He actually laughed. “As a matter of fact, we do.”

  “Did Vaughn make the security updates you talked about?” Meg asked. “Roy was able to learn so much about you and the base from the collar and from Marcus and Tessa. Now that he’s lost all of his access, he’ll be furious. He won’t be thinking straight and might come here.”

  She couldn’t imagine Roy not coming to the ranch, even if he knew it was a suicide mission. He was too obsessed with killing Brock, with destroying the Blades with his own claws.

  “It’s under control,” Dexter said.

  “But we appreciate your concern,” Porter added.

  Dexter stopped ahead of them. He was standing to the side of a door just like the one that led to her room.

  Meg paused next to him. “I don’t understand. Am I moving?”

  “No,” Dexter said. “And neither are we.”

  Porter stood on the opposite side of the door, his hands clasped in front of him. “Understand that we’ll do our best to preserve your privacy.”

  “But if we detect any threats, we will deal with them immediately…and permanently,” Dexter said.

  “We like you, Megan,” Porter went on. “And our progenitor… Brock cares for you, deeply. Don’t betray his trust.”

  “Or ours,” Dexter added.

  “I won’t.” She didn’t understand what was going on, but she knew that she would never betray Brock. Not now that she had a choice. Not ever.

  Back in the Boom Room, she’d been willing to die rather than hurt him or any of the Blades. She still was. They all felt like part of her pack.

  Porter nodded toward the door. She wasn’t sure what else to do, so she stepped forward. Dexter reached out and grabbed her elbow.

  “And just in case we’re misreading you,” he said, “You should know that Brock was the very first Blade. He studied with us. He taught us, trained with us.” Dexter leaned closer. “And he is every bit as deadly as we are.”

  Meg shrank back from him. As much as he’d said dying had changed him, she could still see a coldness in his eyes that sent a shiver through her.

  He smiled—a carefree expression that only made her unease worse—and let go of her arm, then stepped back to his position by the door. Both he and Porter stared ahead at the opposite wall, waiting.

  Brock had told her that his body barely functioned. Why were Dexter and Porter warning her like this? Unless something had changed. Unless…

  Unless Brock is on the other side of this door.

  Her heart started to hammer in her chest. She took a deep breath as she gripped the doorknob, letting it out as she opened the door. As soon as she was inside, she closed it behind her. Dexter and Porter were no doubt listening with their enhanced senses, but she could at least pretend that she and Brock were alone together.

  Together. We’re going to really be together.

  She stepped further into a room that was almost identical to hers. She walked toward the bed, but it was as untouched as her own. If Brock was here, where was he?

  A deep voice came from the across the room. “Vaughn, you never cease to amaze me.”

  She could see light spilling out from the open bathroom door, but not whoever was inside. He sounded similar to Porter, but his voice was lighter and had a rasp to it.

  “I’ve never been so glad that you keep clothes in all the bases that fit the whole range of our Blades. That guy Damien in Europa must have a neck like a tree trunk,” the man said. “I can’t believe it, but his clothes are actually a little tight.”

  The light switched off, leaving the bedroom lit only by a small lamp on her side of the bed. She heard footsteps approaching.

  “It’s weird to have all these muscles. Dad must be proud of you and Porter’s work putting weight on me.” The man walked out of the bathroom, his black T-shirt still above his head as he pulled it on. It was covering his face, but she could see most of his arms and his torso.

  His biceps were huge, as was his massive chest. Rows of taut abs stacked themselves on his stomach. His waist was narrow, and led to muscular hips, hugged by black pants that let her know the rest of him was just as built.

  Big guys weren’t usually her thing, but this one… Something about him made her skin tingle and her fingers ache.

  Probably the scars.

  He was covered with them. Claw marks, bites, patches of shining red burns. The skin of his abdomen looked like something had tried to dig a hole right through his body—and succeeded. There were more wounds than she could count, and all of them looked absolutely lethal.

  This man had been through countless
battles. She didn’t know how anyone could have survived that kind of damage. Any pack would bow to him as alpha.

  She made a choking noise. She couldn’t help it. Heat blossomed deep in her belly, an explosion of arousal unlike anything she’d felt before.

  Guilt followed right on its heels. Where was Brock?

  The man spun away from her, dragging the shirt down over his back, but not before she could see that it was just as decorated as his front.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded, his voice rough.

  “Dexter and Porter brought me,” she said.

  “You’re kidding.” He let out a sigh. “Of course they did.”

  He ran his hand through short, spiky dark hair that was laced with patches of stark white. Then he quickly dropped his arm so that it was out of sight, blocked by his body. It was like he didn’t want her seeing his skin.

  She wanted to see him. All of him.

  She felt a pull stronger than anything she’d ever felt before. Stronger than her pull toward Brock—at least, when he’d been borrowing someone else’s form.

  How strong would that attraction be when he was in his own body?

  “They said…” They hadn’t really said that Brock would be in the room, but they’d made her think so. Even though he was huge, this man looked like he could be Brock. More than that, he felt like Brock.

  All of the other replicants she’d seen were about the same size and shape. She’d assumed Brock would match them.

  But he was the progenitor, as they kept saying. Maybe he was different.

  “Brock?” She took a step toward him, but he turned away.

  “Don’t come any closer.”

  She hesitated, but only for a moment. Everyone here had been telling her to express herself—to assert herself. To be clear about what she wanted. And she’d never wanted anything as much as she wanted to be with Brock.

  “I didn’t want us to meet like this,” he said. “I’m not ready.”

  “Ready…”

  “For you to see.”

  “See what?” she asked.

  “Me.”

  She caught a glimpse of his profile as he briefly glanced at her over his raised shoulder—the right side of his face. His eyes were as dark as Dexter and Porter’s, but didn’t seem to absorb the light the way theirs did.

  “Brock, please. I’ve waited so long. I feel like I’ve been waiting for you forever.”

  “Me, too.”

  It’s really him.

  The heat building in her spread through her limbs, swept over her chest and face, made her ache to touch him and be touched. She dared to take a step closer.

  “You’ve already shared so much of yourself with me,” Meg said. “But I want more. I want to share everything about you.”

  It felt greedy and selfish, but it was true. He was pulling away from her, though. She had to find a way to reach him.

  “If you’re worried about your scars, don’t be,” she said. “Ever since I joined the pack, scars have become compelling. Beautiful. It’s the same for all werewolves. They’re the marks of what a person has endured—what they can endure for their survival. For their loved ones. They’re a sign of strength, of your ability to lead.”

  “To lead?” Brock snorted. “I led the others to this. I’ve been so hell bent on proving that dwellers and humans can coexist, I never even thought about the cost to those around me. Because I didn’t really think of them as people.”

  “Your replicants?”

  “My brothers.” He shook his head, pressing his fists against the wall. “I’ve been using them, justifying it by focusing on what was different about us. The way they think. They way they feel and react. The way they do whatever I want.”

  “Not always.”

  He laughed. “Yeah. They seem to be doing their own thing more and more often lately.”

  She took a few more steps closer, but he turned away, keeping his back to her.

  “Please don’t,” he said.

  He was already cornered. She didn’t want to push him farther away, so she stayed where she was, but kept trying to reach him with her words.

  “Vaughn told me that he follows you because he believes in your vision,” she said. “I do, too. All of your Blades must. Otherwise, they would just be hunters.”

  “Hunters.” He fairly spat the word. “That’s what started all this.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My mom—the woman who raised me—she was a hunter. She was there when I was born. Eli had to convince her not to kill me, even though I seemed human. In her mind, ‘the only good dweller is a dead dweller’. Jesus, if she could see her family now. Tessa a werewolf. And me…”

  “You’ve all just done what you needed to survive.”

  “We could have survived other ways,” he said. “Had normal lives.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” Meg took another step closer, the soft carpet muffling her footsteps.

  “I thought Mom and Tessa were alive. I split the first time when I was eighteen. We were on our way home, going to a surprise party that Tessa was cooking up for me. Probably had unicorns or ponies all over the decorations.”

  “Tessa and unicorns…” Meg let out a little laugh, hoping to ease some of the tension emanating from him. “That’s not something I ever thought to put together.”

  “She was only twelve. And crazy about them.” He shook his head. “We had a normal life. She had a chance to be normal. But then this happened.” He looked down at his chest, the fabric of his T-shirt straining as his shoulders moved. “I happened. And I ripped it all away from us.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she said.

  “Wasn’t it?”

  “You can’t help how you were born. You didn’t ask for this.”

  “None of us did. And yet, I’m at the center of it all. All the pain and hurt.”

  “Brock.” Meg shook her head sharply and stepped closer. Close enough to touch him.

  His shoulders were hunched up, almost touching his ears. He didn’t turn toward her, but he didn’t try to get farther away, either.

  “Dad took me and ran, knowing Mom would kill me and DP,” Brock said. “I kept thinking if we could show her that we could do good, that we could help people, that she’d be able to accept us. We could be a family again. That’s why I started the Blades.”

  “What happened?”

  “My biological father happened,” Brock said. “He found them. He killed Mom and… He took Tessa. She was only sixteen, and being raised by that thing. He called her his daughter, then tried to turn her into his mate. She won’t tell us everything that happened while she was with the Hive Father, but what little I know is a worse nightmare than anything we’ve faced.”

  Brock shook his head. “And in the end, none of it really mattered. Mom wouldn’t care about any of the work we’ve done. If she had the chance, she’d kill us all.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “I can,” he said. “When she looked at me, she never saw a son. Only a monster. And now… Now, that’s all I see, too.”

  “Brock…” Meg reached out with shaking hands that she rested on his shoulders.

  He took a deep breath, then blew it out forcefully. Slowly, he turned toward her. She let her hands fall away.

  As his shoulders dropped, she saw that the skin on the right side of his neck was covered in a mix of smooth red patches and raised clusters of white scar tissue that trailed up from beneath his shirt. It took her a moment to sort out that there were both burn scars and teeth marks. She wasn’t sure which had happened first.

  It looked like something had sunk its fangs into him and then torn out his throat. The burns ran up along his jaw, drawing her gaze to the four ragged claw marks that ran from his left temple down to his chin, streaking across the entire left side of his face.

  They hadn’t healed smooth or even turned back to a more normal color. Deep channels of dark red made the furrows stand out in
contrast to his otherwise pale skin.

  One of the claw marks crossed over his left eye, which was completely white. Even the pupil was eerily clouded.

  “Oh my God.” The words rushed from her before she could stop them. “How did you survive?”

  “It wasn’t me. It was them.” He paused, and when he spoke again, the rasp to his voice was more pronounced. “And they didn’t.”

  “These are all scars from the others dying?” she said.

  “Yeah.” He ran his fingers along the thin line of white that circled his neck—his latest scar. “I never thought I’d have a death mark from Vaughn.”

  The silence between them stretched on for what felt like a long time. She didn’t want to push him, so she waited for him to speak.

  “Fire salamanders are like alpacas.” Brock rubbed the burn scars on the right side of his neck. “One minute, they seem docile and harmless, and the next they’re spitting napalm on you.” He pointed to the ugly bite marks on both sides of his neck. “Then you’ve got your whacked out vampires, manticores, and…”

  His fingertips barely touched the edge of the rows of scars on his face. He dropped his hand to his side and turned away, hiding the jagged wounds.

  Her stomach clenched and roiled, like she was about to throw up. Some of the wounds she’d seen on his stomach before he’d turned away had similar claw marks around the edges. Including the massive scar low on his abdomen.

  It wasn’t the scars that had her reeling, but knowing where they had come from.

  “Roy did this to you,” she said.

  “Roy did this to Mal. And Lee and Zach. And yeah, to me, too.” Brock shook his head, then said, “I’ve never had a name for them before now. The people—the things—that killed us.”

  He stepped away from her, pacing in the space between her and the bed. “It may have been their bodies that were destroyed, but I felt every death with them. Every moment of pain, of fear, of darkness.”

  He turned toward her as he spoke, his lips curled up in a near-snarl that let her know to keep her distance, even though she wanted more than anything to reach out to him. “I’ve slipped into the void and back more times than I want to remember.”

  “I can’t even imagine,” she said. “And splitting afterwards.”