by Aguirre, Ann
“You think it’ll come back? It didn’t get a chance to…eat anything.”
“Probably. It must still be hungry, though it’s strange that it didn’t try to take one of the kills when it ran.”
“We haven’t found Darrel’s body. Maybe…”
“Oh, that’s a good point. Maybe it’s eating him and won’t bother us again.”
Darrel must be the one she’d pushed off the cliff. It was funny, the stories people made up to comfort themselves. They were a bit casual about the prospect of their former comrade being devoured by a fictional bear, though.
Maybe nobody liked Darrel.
When they passed close enough to her, she pounced from behind, taking them down in a powerful leap. A slash and a bite left them both gargling red, and she finished them quickly with two more bites. Ugh, the sweetness of Eldritch blood must stem from their diet, and she wished she could cleanse her palate.
No time for that. Two left.
These Eldritch had weapons out and ready; they were taking no chances. From the smell, they were armed with knives and guns. Safest to assume the blades were poisoned. Mags hoped they weren’t using Animari killing rounds; she could shake off almost anything else. Hell, a graze had almost ended her on the mainland; a full shot out here would do the job.
She’d bet her life that they weren’t. They still hadn’t figured out that someone smarter and more strategic than a wild animal was hunting them. Once they were dead, she’d go in to provide backup to Gavriel.
Her mind made up, she leapt. And took two bullets and a burning, poisoned slash before they died in agony.
Yeah, this…could be a problem.
The facility had seen better days.
Fifty years ago, this technology might have been cutting edge, but now, this place looked like a villainous cliché, where evil retreated to lick its wounds. The place was a warren, and Gavriel did recon first, counting heads and evading security cameras with a proficiency befitting Death’s Shadow. There were more forces quartered here than he’d reckoned on, closer to one hundred than fifty, and picking them off would take forever. Though it was certainly possible, he preferred a quicker solution.
For now, he’d start at the top. If he eliminated Vayne, the hierarchy might collapse, and the rest would scatter, no longer willing to fight for a lost cause. It wasn’t an ideal solution because the sudden vacuum might result in a power struggle, giving some other fanatic the opportunity to step up. Without knowing more about their organization, it was impossible for him to predict what would happen.
Either way, I’m killing Vayne.
From his observations, the leader moved with at least three men, even inside the stronghold. That explained why nobody had attempted to stop the execution earlier. There had been enough followers gathered to overwhelm Vayne if they had mutiny in mind, but the presence of multiple bodyguards changed the scenario. It might be best to bide his time and wait until they settled in for the night, then he could execute Vayne in his sleep.
Amused, Gavriel watched them scurry in and out; Mags must be wreaking havoc above. He was hidden in an old research room, and judging by the thick coating of dust, this place hadn’t been used in years. The observation window offered the perfect vantage for him to note their routines, time their patrols, and even track their indiscretions. Already, he’d noticed that one guard had a drug habit, and another seemed to be drinking on duty.
Isolation did take its toll. They’d followed Lord Talfayen this far—funny how he shied from calling the bastard anything else—and it must be difficult to admit that their road to glory led to a dead end. Well, that and the fact that Vayne murdered anyone who considered abandoning the cause.
The time passed slowly, but Gavriel was used to long periods of inaction. Above all else, he was a patient hunter. When the lights dropped into low for the night and patrols lessened, the time between them expanding to half an hour, he made his move. Stepping lightly, he wondered in passing how he might appear to others, a ghost slipping in and out of existence with each flicker of the lights. There, not there.
Near Vayne’s room, he mistimed a step and wound up squaring off against two surprised sentries. On a burst of inspiration, he whipped the dirt from his pocket and flung it into their eyes. While they scratched at their faces, fearing poison dust that would dissolve their corneas, Gavriel dispatched them with two precise strikes.
Well-played, Mags. You saved me again.
Quickly he hid the bodies and continued to Vayne’s quarters. The door was locked, but technology this old proved no challenge for his skills. He cracked the panel, sliced two wires with his dagger, then crossed them, and the short popped the door open.
Keeping his blade out, he glided inside. The lights were out, and heavy breathing sounded nearby. Gavriel waited for his eyes to acclimate, identifying the furniture as part of a sitting room. A quick scan confirmed no concealed heat signatures, just the one he expected in the bedchamber.
Seems like Vayne sleeps alone.
That was good news. Light as a feather, he edged toward the bedroom and nearly, nearly, got caught by the tripwire strung across the doorway. Gavriel smiled. While he could disarm it, why bother? Stepping over the trap, he padded the last few meters to the bed. Luck stayed with him, as Vayne was sprawled on his stomach, face turned away. Gavriel struck with clinical precision, blade to the kidney, turn and twist, then a slash to the neck. The first blow was to disable; the second finished him off. He put a pillow over Vayne’s head, pressing his face into the mattress, to muffle his death cries and catch some of the blood, and he didn’t budge until the man stopped moving.
Perfect, quiet, and relatively clean.
Since this bastard was the only one who had his own room, the rest might be complicated. It was harder to kill without detection with others in the room. If someone roused at the wrong time, he might have a fight on his hands, and that wasn’t his preferred setup. Before leaving the room, he washed his face and hands, then wiped down his shoes. Though the floors were old and worn, bloody traces would give him away even if his gift let him avoid notice. The tingle at the back of his head reminded Gavriel how much life he was burning, and he let the gift go.
Most probably, his own natural stealth would allow him to avoid detection, and he didn’t intend to leave anyone alive to check security footage. He just hadn’t decided how to go about it yet. In his usual kit, he had various poisons, maybe enough to take out everyone if he laced their food. That was a risky move, however. If one guard ate before everyone else and showed symptoms, they’d be put on alert.
I’ll set that idea on the back burner.
He’d never needed to take out so many in one strike before; as swan songs went, this was a hit for the history books. Thinking that prompted a bitter smile as he slipped out of the dead man’s quarters. Hope Mags is all right. With no signal on their phones, there was no way to check in with her. Better to stay focused and trust she’d keep safe until their scheduled rendezvous at first light.
There were eight barracks-style rooms, and each slept ten—grunts, he guessed. The officers were quartered together in another part of the facility, two to a room. It was probably best to continue his bloody work there, working his way down the hierarchy, reducing the probability that there would be anyone left to lead. On his way to his next target, he passed the armory, then backed up in silent interest.
Maybe they had something in here to make his job easier. Since nobody knew he was inside, they weren’t hunting him, and with plenty of time before daybreak, he could check out their offensive capabilities. This door was sealed, but he repeated the workaround that got him inside Vayne’s room, and soon he had full access to their stockpile.
Gavriel found the usual stash of ammo and poison, nothing too exciting, but on the bottom shelf…he dropped to his knees, verifying the find. This is what they used to blow up half of Ash Valley. They must be planning another bombing, but he wouldn’t give them the opportunity. Quickly, he
stuffed all the charges, detonator, and related supplies into a canvas bag. His vicious inner voice insisted that this was the perfect end for these loyalist bastards. They’d die in terror and anguish, just like the innocent cats.
Instead of taking them out one by one, he’d end them with an enormous fireball, and their stronghold would become a mass grave. Delighted with the poetic justice of it, he planted charges while these assholes slept. Though it took hours, Gavriel reckoned it was well worth the time and patience when he slipped out, detonator in hand.
He put plenty of space between him and the facility as the sky began to lighten. Mags should be out of the ruins, well on her way to the meeting point, so he whispered, “Good night, Lord Talfayen’s loyal men.” And hit the button.
Even at this distance, the ground rumbled beneath his feet, trembling with the series of explosions that would collapse the lab, incinerate the loyalists, or bury them alive. No matter what became of them, no help was coming, so they’d die as they’d lived, isolated from the rest of the world and wallowing in senseless hatred.
In the end, it wouldn’t take five days to finish this. He and Mags could rest up here and take a break from the endless violence. They had the supplies from Daruvar, and if that wasn’t enough, he’d fish and she could hunt. Gavriel had no doubt they could survive until Ceras collected them.
Except…she didn’t come. He waited until the sun was high in the sky before fear sank sharp claws into him. And he searched. Everywhere.
No sign of Mags, his beloved tiger woman.
When he realized what might have happened, Gavriel’s knees buckled and he screamed until his voice gave, eyes too dry for tears, heart too broken for him to survive it.
28.
Mags had two massive problems.
One was the pair of bullets lodged in her body, inhibiting her ability to heal. Though they weren’t Animari killers, they were treated black iron, which thinned her blood and kept it from coagulating, so the wounds were still trickling hours later. The second problem—and this one was even more serious—she was trapped in a fucking hole.
Before the explosion, she’d crept into the lab in tiger form, only to realize she had no way to contact Gavriel without alerting the other Eldritch. Since it was clear he was fine, not overrun in some loud and messy battle, she backed out with a quickness, not wanting to bleed all over his assassination protocol.
After shifting back, she’d retrieved her shoulder bag from its hiding spot and had been digging at her own wounds for hours, failing to perform a successful surgery when the whole world rocked, and a sinkhole opened beneath her. Now, she was in a sea cave that was slowly filling up with water. The gap above her was too small for her to get out that way, even if the water raised her high enough, and there were too many rocks piled for her strength to budge them.
Going for a long swim didn’t seem like a good idea either, especially when she was bleeding. Her knowledge of the local sea life was nil, but she figured attracting predators when she was already out of her element qualified as a horrendous plan.
Which left her treading water while trying to get those damned bullets out. If she could dig them out—one in her upper arm, the other lodged against her ribs—then her wounds would seal, allowing her to risk the long swim to the surface. Well, assuming this cave opened to the sea.
She might have been in worse predicaments, but right now, she’d lost enough blood not to be able to name the occasion. Okay, settle down. You’re not dying like this. That would be pathetic. The strongest member of the Ash Valley security team, taken out by two random shots and the indifferent ocean.
That mental pep talk helped slightly. Her phone had enough charge left that she could use the torch, and she scrambled over slick rocks to higher ground, trying to get out of the water to have another go at bullet extraction. If one of these was stuck in my back, I’d be so screwed. Count your blessings, Versai.
First, she went after the one under her left breast but there was muscle and fat to pierce through, and she had only a small knife she kept strapped to her ankle for emergencies. Cussing through the pain, she pressed with full strength and dug, hoping she didn’t maim herself beyond recovery. This was damn near impossible without being able to see what she was doing, then she got the bright idea to use her phone as a mirror. Not perfect, but better, though she was shivering and nauseous by the time she got the twisted metal scrap out, scraped from atop her rib cage. If there were bone fragments or other problems in there, she couldn’t handle that.
Please clot, wound. This is all I can do.
Mags flung the deformed bullet away, into the dark and swirling water. It was up to her ankles now, despite how she’d clambered to higher ground.
In pure frustration, she shouted, “Fuck this, fuck all of it.”
The cave echoed her words back as if in mockery, and Mags wished she could fight a bunch of rocks. Glaring into the darkness, she breathed hard through her mouth, until she calmed enough to tackle the next issue. The outburst rallied her, though, so she didn’t feel quite so sick and weak. If sheer temper could carry her through, she might make it after all.
“You can do this.”
Compared to the rib one, this extrication should be easier. The bullet wasn’t as deep, but she had to contort her body, using the wrong arm, to go at the entry point. It’s better that it’s high on my arm. Lower, there would be more tendons she might sever.
Taking a deep breath, she gouged her knife into the wound and rooted around until she heard a metallic ting. The pain froze her for a few seconds, then she marshaled her courage and forced it up through the raw meat of her biceps. Trembling, she flicked the mangled metal away and leaned her face against the dry stone like it was a lover who could comfort her.
Using the seawater, she washed away the blood as best she could, then set a timer on her phone. Fifteen minutes should be long enough to get a scab going, if she’d purged enough of the poison for accelerated healing to kick in.
Waiting might end her, because the water was rising, slowly but steadily, pushing her closer to the ceiling with every moment that ticked away. When the timer finally went off, she checked the sites and found them closed enough that she was willing to risk diving. There wouldn’t be sea predators in the cave, but who knew what would be lurking when she hit the ocean?
Assuming she could find an outlet.
But that was a gamble she was willing to make, better than drowning for sure when the tide came in completely. There wouldn’t be an air pocket when the water rose all the way. Mags could tell that much by the shine of the ceiling when she waved her light around. Otherwise, there would be marks on the walls indicating where the tides ended.
I’m really doing this? Hell yes, Gavriel must be wondering where the devil I am.
Trying to quiet her racing heart, she braced herself for the cold shock, then dove off the rocks and into the water. She had no experience in shit like this, so she let the current direct her, and after a while, it picked up speed, as if she was being carried. Mags swam with all her strength, lungs burning. Just when it felt like she had to let go—and she’d surely drown—the water shoved her with incredible force, and she exploded out the side of the cliff, then she was falling, screeching curses all the way.
She hit the water so hard it knocked the breath out of her, and it felt like she might’ve snapped a bone. Still, she struggled to the surface, grateful to be alive and not mangled on the sharp rocks to either side. She was close enough to shore not to worry about getting eaten by sharks; the cold was more of a concern.
Even with her innate resistance, she couldn’t stop shivering as she swam, eyes locked on the rocky inlet that never seemed to get closer, no matter how she paddled.
I’m caught in the undertow.
It yanked her down once, and she fought the ocean like it was her greatest enemy, surfaced again, took a breath, and latched onto a rock to rest. Don’t quit now, dammit. Mags pulled herself up onto it and saw that sh
e might be able to leap from rock to rock to escape the dangerous current. If she miscalculated a single jump, she’d crack her head open and drown.
Still, this is my only shot.
She squatted to try to control her trembling, as that would affect her coordination, but she was too wet, too cold, for that to work. I must be verging on hypothermia and I’ve lost a lot of blood. Hesitating won’t save me.
Whispering a prayer to the goddess of reckless souls, Mags launched herself and nearly slid off the next rock, clawed herself upright, and tore off two fingernails in the process. Fucking hell, that smarts.
Two more jumps, here we go.
From there, the water was clear and shallow. She dove and paddled weakly until she could touch bottom, dragging her exhausted ass out of the sea like her ankles were weighted with lead.
I did it. I’m alive.
Climbing to the meeting point seemed like a lot of work, and there was ice in her veins instead of blood. Mags took one step, still trying her best, but her legs wouldn’t hold.
She didn’t pass out, but there was no more fuel in the engine, no more anger for her to burn.
Tirelessly, Gavriel searched the ruins with terrified determination, but he found no trace of Mags.
There was no way to get inside the facility. If she did what I’m afraid she did, if she followed me in…
“I told her to wait outside,” he said aloud. As if that changed anything.
He was trying to control the worst of his fear and despair, but there was no good reason for her to vanish on this island. Conscious of the passing time, he renewed the search, digging beneath tumbled stones. He lacked her ability to track by scent, and his high-tech equipment was relatively useless out here. Scanning for thermal signatures only located local wildlife, though sometimes the animal was large enough to let him hope.
Of course she wouldn’t get lost. She had the capacity to find him by smell at any point; since she hadn’t, Gavriel must conclude she couldn’t. Panic howled in him, clawing his mind until he could barely think.