Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by the same author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#u7b009af6-bd19-5a8d-847b-8a5a429c2be8)
The Kevlar vest is tight and uncomfortable around my chest. I push it from the side, trying to find a perfect fit, wondering if I’ll ever get used to wearing it and, more importantly, if I’ll ever understand this new, vicious world in which my life hangs from a thread every time I take to the streets.
My black military boots thud against the concrete sidewalk as I move away from Pacific Place and Elliot Whitehouse’s headquarters. We haven’t moved, in spite of IgNiTe’s attack a month ago. We’re still in the same building. Moving would signify fear, and Elliot is too proud for that.
The late May sun warms my face, and it’s a welcomed feeling that shows me the world has kept its normal course in at least one way.
In the last month, many of the major streets have been cleared by the Eklyptor “government,” but not this one, which is exactly why I prefer it. I don’t have to walk among the invaders who pretend Seattle is theirs and us, humans, the vermin who infest it, and not the other way around. The biggest Eklyptors factions in the city, Whitehouse and Hailstone, are still not seeing eye to eye, but that hasn’t gotten in the way of their Takeover efforts, at least not nearly as much as I’d like. They have divided the city among themselves as if it were a big cake, and each is taking care of its slice diligently enough. Damn them!
I pass a burnt Metro Transit bus, its frame charred and many of its windows melted away by the intense fire that consumed it. Orange traffic cones and pedestrian safety fences lie strewn all over the street like forgotten relics from a faraway past. I skirt around them, then walk ahead, looking over my shoulder every few steps to make sure no one is following me.
My heart flutters, restless. I can’t wait to meet James and confirm he’s okay. I haven’t seen him since he took a bullet trying and failing to kill Whitehouse. He’s been too busy fighting other Eklyptor factions, and this is the first chance he’s gotten to meet me. A month ago when I last saw Aydan, he said James was recovering quickly thanks to his accelerated healing powers. Sometimes it pays to be a Symbiot. Still, I want to see him with my own two eyes.
With a certain skip in my steps, I cross 9th Avenue and continue down Pine Street. I’m eager to reach the van where I stash my motorcycle after each use. I’m dying to ride, to wrap my legs around the rumbling engine, and zip around the city streets on my way to hope.
That’s what IgNiTe, James and the crew are to me: Hope with a capital “H”.
As I pass in front of a gutted deli, I’m startled by my own reflection on one of the few window fronts that survived The Takeover riots. My features look so etched and angular that I hardly recognize myself. I’ve lost weight which is natural considering the stress of living under Whitehouse’s roof and the loss of appetite caused by dining around semi-human creatures all the time. But hey, no one can blame me, not when eating at a trough with a team of pigs would be an upgrade. My brown hair is well past shoulder length, curling slightly at the tips. My skin is sallow—not the healthy golden shade it used to be. I don’t spend much time in the sun anymore, which I sorely miss. Only my brown eyes seem the same, sharp and wide. Though, if I’m honest with myself, the sadness that used to live in their depths seems more profound now.
As I stare at my barely-recognizable image, something moves behind the window. My heart skips a beat. I jump back, hands snatching the gun at my hip, a Glock 22 with its 15-round magazine in place. I aim the weapon, hand shaking. I struggle to focus on whatever is on the other side. It takes me a few seconds to make out a shape huddled under a table. Slowly, my brain processes the information: a dirty sneaker, blue jeans, a puffy blue jacket and long, blond hair under a gray wool cap.
A girl!
A perfectly human girl, judging by the lack of buzzing inside my head.
Her face is obscured, but I can still see her wide blue eyes, brimming with fear. She’s clutching a yellow bag of chips close to her chest. Her hands shake as much as mine. Her face is contorted in a grimace of the worst kind, a mask of terror I know all too well. I’ve felt it on my own face one-too-many times. And why shouldn’t she be terrified?
She thinks I’m an Eklyptor.
I’m walking the streets in plain daylight, as if I have nothing to fear. Only our enemies do that these days. She has no idea of the courage it takes to pretend you’re one of them.
I put up my left hand in a pacifying gesture and slowly lower my gun. The grimace on her face deepens, letting me know she’s aware that when Eklyptors show mercy, they’ll make you wish they’d shown you death.
She pushes further under the table.
I should help her, but it would be a mistake. She wouldn’t trust me. There isn’t an explanation I could offer that would satisfy her. Not that I would fault her for that.
If she’s stayed alive this long, she must be doing something right. I carefully holster the gun. Without breaking eye contact, I step back to the edge of the sidewalk.
A horrible sadness fills me and, suddenly, I feel like crying. How many like her are out there? How much longer will they be able to hide? Something passes between us. Her grimace softens an infinitesimal amount.
