Читать книгу Shatter the Darkness - Ingrid Seymour - Страница 10

As soon as I enter the mess hall, I sense a charged mood in the air. Everyone is talking animatedly, hardly touching their meals. I move to the food line, ears perked to the many ongoing conversations. I catch words, but nothing definite.

Captains. Trip. Scouts. Shot. Igniters.

I snatch a red tray from the pile, place it on the metal rails and slide it forward. As I point at the braised pork chop, steamed vegetables and rice pilaf, I think of Hannah clutching a bag of chips to her chest, her face gaunt and pale. My stomach turns to stone.

The server—a tall, blond guy with a face as smooth and white as a toilet bowl—hands me a plate full of food. I force myself to take it.

“Good deal. Good deal, Narcissus,” I ramble in my usual Azrael fashion.

“I’ve told you a thousand times my name is not Narcissus,” he barks.

“Yeah, whatever,” I mumble.

He’ll never convince me he doesn’t spend hours in front of the mirror, looking for wrinkles and blemishes so he can zap them with his Eklyptor morphing powers.

I turn and give him a backward wave. My gaze sweeps the dining area looking for Lyra. She’s not here. My boots tap against the chevron-patterned linoleum floor as I practically march in place. Briefly, I consider dumping the food in the garbage can and leaving. My appetite has vanished, and eating among these beasts isn’t likely to improve it.

Except not staying might appear fishy, so I find a spot on an empty table and set my tray down. Dozens of Formica tables are lined up in rows, most occupied by camo-clad Whitehouse members. The place never fills to capacity, since people eat in shifts based on their scouting and fighting duties. Though it’s always seems crowded enough for my taste, especially when some of the diners are too big for the narrow chairs.

I stare at the pork chop and can’t help myself but wonder how many people are starving to death, hiding in vacant buildings, too afraid to go out and look for sustenance. I stab my fork into the center of the chunk of meat.

“Both shot dead. I knew Griffin, but not the other one,” Hounddog says as he and Gecko Man take a seat at an adjacent table.

I perk up and surreptitiously watch them, eyes on my plate most of the time.

Gecko Man’s tongue flicks in and out of his mouth so fast that he leaves me no doubt he could catch flies in a snap. The fleshy appendage flicks out a few more times before he gets it under control and says, “Fuckin’ Igniters! They’re getting bolder. But let them keep venturing closer. We’ll show them.”

So they found the dead scouts and think Igniters killed them. Well, they’re not wrong. No wonder everyone seems more irritated than usual. I press my lips tight to repress a grin. It’s nice to see my efforts giving the beasts some heartburn.

On my way back to headquarters, I avoided passing by the deli, fearing no one had found the bodies and trying to avoid being spotted anywhere near the scene of the crime. I wonder who found them.

Gecko Man’s protruding eyes blink with lids as big as napkins. God, someone needs to tell him he’s taking the bug-eyed look way past gecko and well into giant bullfrog territory. If he doesn’t watch, he’ll poke an eye out with his fork one day.

“Have you heard the rumors?” Hounddog leans forward and, from where I sit, I can almost see his features reflected on Gecko Man’s eyes.

“You mean about Lyra and the tailed one, what’s her name?”

I frown and lean slightly forward, wondering what sort of rumor could involve both Lyra and “the tailed one.” He’s talking about Lamia, the lizard-looking woman who’s had it in for me ever since I killed Tusks.

Food twists in Gecko Man’s mouth like laundry inside a washing machine. Gah, talk about an appetite killer. Come on! It’s not like I need extra help with that.

Hounddog lowers his voice to a whisper and, once more, I find myself wishing for enhanced hearing. I wonder how I’d go about modifying my body to gain that ability. I really need to find out. My accidental telekinetic powers are cool but completely unreliable. A skill developed on purpose and, therefore, dependable would be better—even if less awesome. If only I could handle those stupid meditation sessions, but I’m useless at them.

I catch nothing of what Hounddog says. Not one word.

Seething, I take a bite of broccoli and chew it listlessly. I’m about to cut a piece of pork chop when a rippling murmur begins by the mess hall entrance. I try to see what is causing the commotion, but people jump to their feet, obstructing the view. I push my tray away and stand, too. I still don’t see anything.

“Damn damn damn,” I say under my breath and climb on my chair for a better view.

Even on the chair, I see nothing, except the double doors swinging closed.

Hounddog’s black, dog nose twitches. “I guess the rumors are true.” The upper lip of his slowly-growing muzzle lifts in a sign of dissatisfaction.

“What rumors? Damn it!” I say, louder than I intended.

Hounddog gives me a nasty glare. He normally acts as if I’m not here, so much that I’d started to believe he was unannoyable. I’m glad to see he’s not. I wave at him and give him my fakest smile. At least I don’t have to pretend to like any of these jerks. If that were the case, my life here would be infinitely harder than it already is.

I stretch my neck to look past the mass of monsters lined up at the entrance. From the way they’re standing—so straight and proper—I’m certain Whitehouse just walked in the room. I think of turning on my buzz-o-meter to confirm I’m right but decide against it. These days, I only do that if I have to, like when I roam the streets. Most of the time, I keep it down to a one-way channel. My life is a lot easier without rank signals droning inside my head.

A moment later, Elliot Whitehouse—flanked by Lyra and Lamia—moves into my line of sight and climbs the raised dining area at the end of the mess hall. It’s his favorite spot. He loves to get up there to tell us what to do and not to do.

He faces the crowd, his unnatural golden eyes surveying his subjects. My fists clench. My vision tunnels. His gaze locks with mine for a moment, then moves on. Lyra spots me and frowns. Her round, yellow eyes flick downward almost imperceptibly. I think she’s trying to tell me to get down from the chair, but the view is too good to relinquish it.

Lamia spots me, too. Her mouth curls up, the way it always does when she sees me. Her long, barbed tail twitches from side to side, something I’ve discovered is a sign of irritation. I smile at her, trying to convey a message.

So glad to have that effect on you, Little Godzilla. She looks away first. Score!

“Good evening, everyone,” Elliot says as if he’s dealing with respectable people and not a mild upgrade from the inhabitants of the Woodland Park Zoo.

“Good evening,” everyone repeats. If parrots can sound polite, so can this bunch. That doesn’t make them decent, though.

I, for my part, choose my words with sincerity. So I mouth “screw you,” instead.

“Let’s get straight to the point. As you well know, IgNiTe’s vile attack on the reproductively mature members of our faction was an unexpected, low blow that has hampered our ability to grow our numbers.”

Elliot sounds as if he just swallowed a giant frog. I almost laugh out loud. It must be hard for him to eat his pride and admit these things.

“We did not go into this battle lightly,” he continues after clearing his throat and adjusting the sleeve of his jacket. “We knew Seattle would not be easy to occupy. Our pre-takeover analysis told us as much. So we went in expecting the fight to be fierce from the beginning. However, the city’s IgNiTe cell is strong. In spite of our most conservative prediction, it seems we … underestimated them.”

God, it’s so hard not to laugh out loud.

“These human rebels combined with our hostilities toward the Hailstone faction have cost us dearly. So much that now, as hard as it is to believe, our numbers are dwindling compared to those of our opposition. Every day, the casualties chip away at our faction, reducing the advantage we worked so hard to build.

“We. Cannot. Allow. That. To continue.” Elliot’s voice rises with every word along with the redness on his face. Maybe he’ll blow up. That would be nice.

The crowd assents, echoing his sentiment by nodding, stomping, and repeating his words.

I huff.

Elliot holds a hand up. The crowd quiets. “In spite of that, Seattle is still under our control and I intend to keep it that way. Humans will not get in the way of our faction’s success. And once they’ve become nothing but a nuisance, the strongest Eklyptor leaders around the world will get their chance to campaign against the weak and undeserving factions. In the end, the winners will take the spoils and will control everything. As of now, our faction is poised to be one of the strong, if not the strongest, contenders in that final race.

“However, that will not be the case if we do not focus on eradicating IgNiTe first. We have to stabilize our hold over the city. Then we can worry about our faction’s position.”

Well, that’s new.

“To accomplish that, we all must do our part. Directed by you, my elite, our troops continue to fight bravely against our enemies. For this, I commend you. Your efforts won’t go unnoticed when our faction rises to the top.

“This war is far from over, and we need you and every single one of your soldiers in order to win.”

He pauses and slowly lifts a fist over his head. “We shall be victorious. IgNiTe and their rumors about a cure do not scare us.”

“No, they don’t!” several voices echo.

“This is a minor setback, one we will all help overcome. For my part, I’ve already been hard at work, devising a plan that will ensure our success. The details are on a need-to-know basis but, rest assured, the wheels are already in motion.

“Today, I’m here to inform you about a hierarchical change that will ensure our efforts go as planned. As of this moment, two of our most effective and loyal members, Lyra and Lamia”—Elliot demonstrates to his right, then to his left, inclining his head; both women stand firmer and practically click their heels, Hail Elliot style—“have been promoted to my first and second in command, respectively.”

Gecko Man makes a grunt of disapproval in the back of his throat. In truth, most of the men seem to echo his sentiment with similar signs of discontent. That figures.

“I trust,” Elliot says, raising his voice and staring down anyone who seems to disagree with his choice of leaders, “their orders will be respected and followed as if they were coming from me, because, indeed, they will be, whether I’m here or not. Do I have your understanding?”

A loud “Yes, Sir!” rumbles through the room. Even Gecko Man adds his voice, louder than everyone, it seems. They all fear Elliot too much to risk being singled out for lack of proper support.

“In the upcoming months, my absence might be necessary, and I can’t stress enough the importance of following the chain of command.”

“So it’s true,” Hounddog says under his breath, a low growl of discontent vibrating deep in his chest. Not a few weeks ago he was at the same level as Lyra and Lamia. He certainly isn’t happy to find himself outranked, not when his buzzing vibe is the same as theirs.

My thoughts reel. Were Lyra’s suspicions right? Is Elliot traveling to England to bring his London-based Spawners here, to tip the odds back in his favor by stealing our human soldiers and turning them into monsters that will fight for him instead?

At the idea, my blood begins to boil, bubbling and rising all the way to my head. Getting the list of Whitehouse’s reproductively capable members and convincing James to trust me on the matter was no easy task. All the Seattle IgNiTe cells fought, at great peril and loss, to exterminate every single Spawner. I can’t allow Elliot to fetch more of those creatures to replace the ones he lost here. The scales are slowly tipping in our favor. We can’t lose this small advantage we’ve gained.

My hands shake at my side. I imagine a gun between my fingers, my grip tightening around its cold handle. But I don’t have a gun. I’m not allowed to carry one in here. There’s only me and a crowd of people between us, and I would never get to him. I’d be ripped to pieces before I’m able to pull one hair off his miserable head.

But you don’t need to get to him, Marci. You could just …

Suddenly it’s not a gun I imagine in my grip. It’s Elliot’s heart, supple and fragile. My body tingles with a strange energy that should, by now, be familiar. My powers are surging. For once, I let my instincts guide me, willing the energy to find its way to the surface.

Elliot’s mouth continues to move, but I don’t hear the words. I’m in a vacuum where nothing can reach me. My eyes focus in and out, and I’m pulled forward as if sucked through a giant straw. There is a flash. I see Elliot for an instant, then he’s gone, obscured in a sea of black and red. A part of me urges me to pull away, but I ignore it. Like sand slipping through fingers, my mind falls away from the moment and into that strange reddish darkness.

The world thuds around me, making a rhythmic whooshing sound. I am bone and tissue and heart. In a detached way, I’m aware of my body, still standing on the chair. But, at the same time, I’m here, just where I want to be.

Blood rushes in and out, relentlessly. I’m strong and feel as if I could go on forever, except, maybe, that’s a bad idea. Actually, a terrible, terrible idea. What if I just stop. What if I refuse to go on.

There’s a cough, followed by another and another. There’s pain, the brutal, arresting kind. I sense it, taste its bitterness as if from a distance. I will it to grow, to paralyze this black, cruel muscle that I’ve become, except something fights me, but what? I can’t tell.

I gather my will, pack it as tightly as I possibly can, then release it.

Stop.

Beat no more.

I stretch and stretch and stretch. I have no end and no beginning. The effort to impose my will tugs in both directions and my center becomes thinner. I’m a piece of chewing gum pulled to the point of breaking apart.

A shadow rises in front of my eyes, followed by a hundred more. They take me by surprise, swarming my thoughts like starved piranhas. They haven’t attacked in weeks, and I think they’ve been hiding, waiting for this chance.

Everything is thrown into a deeper darkness. My heart, my own heart, thuds out of control.

No. No. No.

I’ve been eclipsed. Azrael bided its time, made me think I had defeated her for good and I was safe. But that was never the case.

My heartbeat escalates, reaching its peak. I’m at the sharp edge of no return when my defensive mechanisms engage, and my thoughts begin to jump like never before.

Greasy hands.

Chalked hands.

Cues and billiard balls.

Another life. Not this life.

A better one. A lost one.

My chest spasms. My eyes spring open as I take a deep breath and resurface. Miraculously, I’m still standing, feet planted on the chair, even as I sway and put my arms out to regain my balance.

My eyes dart desperately in all directions. Did anyone see? Does anyone know what I was trying to do, what I was going through? Has the mole been unearthed?

The first thing that registers through my addled senses is the uneasy silence that hangs over the room. Sweat and fear slide down my spine, turning my courage to pulp. I’ve been discovered I’m done for.

But, as my senses settle back into place, I realize no one, and I mean absolutely no one, is looking at me. Instead, everyone’s attention is still glued to the front.

Shaking my head, I grab on to the moment and process the situation. My gaze snaps forward like everyone else’s, taking in the sight. Confused, I wonder why Elliot isn’t talking anymore and, instead, is standing slightly bent over with a hand to his breastbone. Lamia hovers over him, touching his back, wearing a worried expression.

He coughs and thumps his chest. I stare at the top of his head, shocked with the realization of what I’ve manage to do. I press trembling fingers to my mouth. To anyone, I may look like a scared Eklyptor, anxious about her leader’s wellbeing. But what I am is a traitor full of expectation and hope.

God, what if he dies? James thinks his death would mean chaos. What if he’s right?

Elliot coughs a few more times, then straightens suddenly, slapping Lamia’s hand from his back. His face is pale and twisted in a hideous grimace. He takes deep breaths and rubs his left arm, eyes darting around the room, examining the upturned faces of his followers with something that looks like hatred, as if he blames them for this lapse, for this display of weakness and vulnerability.

Does he suspect one of us did it? Can he tell?

His golden eyes scan the room. I fear the moment they’ll meet mine to discover it was I who supplanted his heart and tried to steal everything from him—just the way his kind supplants us and steal everything we hold dear. But when he sees me, propped high on my chair, a hand pressed to my mouth, he doesn’t pause—not even for an instant. And why would he? He thinks I saved his life. I couldn’t possibly be trying to kill him now. I’m his loyal Azrael.

When he’s done with his inspection of the crowd, he jerks his jacket down and squares his shoulders with determination. He takes a step, falters. Lamia’s hand flies to his elbow to steady him. He shrugs from her grasp and throws a nasty glare in her direction.

Head held high, he takes another step, then a third one. Finding himself steady, he descends the two steps in front of him, then strides resolutely toward the double doors, Lyra and Lamia following at a respectable distance.

I almost killed Elliot. The thought soaks through me like a downpour, chilling me to the bone. Would meditation bring me that kind of power? Would I want it?