Shatter the Darkness

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?

Chapter 7

After Elliot leaves the mess hall, I jump off the chair and sit down, feeling dizzy. The din of cutlery and conversation returns by degrees. I rest my elbows on the table and hold my head, thoughts still jumping, shifting away from the shadows that still loom over my mind.

Damn you, Azrael!

I almost killed Elliot. I shake my head, thinking how easy it would be to be rid of him if I could fully control my powers, how quickly I could end this war if I systematically killed every Eklyptor leader. If only I could practice meditation every day, but I haven’t seen Aydan in weeks, haven’t had his help, and I’m still too scared to do it alone.

Could someone else help me? Lyra, maybe? She must be a master at meditation. She’s morphed herself into Cheetara, after all. Could I trust her?

I bite my bottom lip, considering the other side of this coin, the morality of having the power to kill someone with a mere thought. The idea sends a chill straight into my bone marrow. No one should have that kind of power, especially not a sixteen-year-old with a temper.

The chill deepens when I think of all the people I might have killed during my lifetime if that skill had manifested early on. God, I almost did the same thing to Aydan right after Xave died—rage and my desire to push him away nearly turned me into … what? A murderer? Or something far worse I can’t even name?

Elliot deserves to die. He’s a monster, and I’ve promised myself to make him pay. But what about others just like him? Eklyptors and humans alike. What would stop me from killing them? What would give me the right, make me the judge?

Would anyone feel comfortable around a person who could do little more than blink to render you inert? Hell, I wouldn’t want someone like that near me.

I drive stiff thumbs into my temples as a headache throbs to life. This philosophical debate combined with keeping the reawakened shadows at bay is giving me a migraine.

Shakily, I stand and take my tray to the conveyor belt, food cold and stiff on the plate. I leave the mess hall, turning my back on the black-uniformed Eklyptors, trying not to think what it would be like to snap my fingers, then turn to find every single one of them lying on the floor, clutching their chests.

Some part of me thinks it would be wonderfully easy to end this war that way, while another part feels almost certain I’d be unable to live with that kind of god-like power and the guilt of being able to impart instantaneous death—no matter how well-deserved.

When I make it to the barracks, I crash on my bed and put a pillow over my head. The large room is blessedly quiet since everyone’s still at the mess hall. I want sleep to take me away, to erase my twisted thoughts and give me fluid dreams the shadows can’t chase. But sleep runs in the opposite direction, totally mocking me.

“Azrael,” a voice says right next to me.

I sit up with a start and send the pillow flying to the floor.

Lyra, in all her black-furred glory, is standing between her bed and mine, looking down at me with her round, green eyes. They are intense, angry even.

“Shit! You need a bell around your neck. What the hell?!” I stand, pick up the pillow and throw it back on top of the gray covers.

She ignores my little quip and drops the satchel she’s carrying on the floor. “What happened in the mess hall?”

I frown. “Huh?”

Is this about Elliot? No, it can’t be. She doesn’t know about my powers. I’ve never mentioned them to her. And even if I had, making the leap from knowing someone can move objects with their mind to suspecting they can crush someone’s heart is pretty extreme. Maybe she’s asking something different. Maybe something else happened after I left.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, deepening my frown.

Lyra narrows her eyes, which doesn’t quite have the mean effect she’s probably going for. The gesture just makes her look like a friendly, content kitten.

“I’m talking about Elliot, and his … episode,” she says.

“Episode?”

“Don’t play stupide.”

“Are you talking about him coughing in the middle of his speech? Maybe he has walking pneumonia.”

She snarls deep in her throat.

“You’re acting weird,” I say with a dismissive flick of my hand.

Nope. No chance in hell I’d let her help me with meditation. She might be IgNiTe, but I don’t fully trust her. One, I met her as an enemy and first impressions are hard to erase. Two, she openly threatened me, said that if I’m part of Hailstone’s grand plan to get rid of the need for human hosts, she would be against me—a nice way to say she’d put a bullet in my brain. Three, I’m not sure I want to make anyone aware of my monstrous potential. This feels private, like a reason to slick my hair back, don horned-rim glasses, change my name and pretend to be harmless and adorably clueless.

“I’m acting weird?” she asks. “This from someone who channels a creature like Azrael and sneaks through the ventilation system doing who knows what.”

“Someone who channels Azrael?! That’s not fair. I do what I have to do.”

I rub circles into my temples and sit on the desk chair, wondering how she knows about the ventilation system. I haven’t even used it since I planted a bug in Elliot’s PC, the day I discovered I could switch off my buzz-o-meter in both directions when he almost caught me spying. Why is she bringing that up anyway?

“The ventilation system is a thing of the past,” I say, figuring there’s no point in denying it. “I can go in and out as I please, now.” I pat the access card that hangs from my belt loop.

“So you didn’t put poison in Elliot’s food or through the vents in his office?”

I laugh. I can’t help it. This is what she thinks I did? It’s kind of sordid. My kind of idea, really, but so far off the mark. “I don’t know the first thing about poisoning. Though, maybe I should set my mind to learning the task.”

Lyra’s beautiful emerald eyes regard me for a moment longer. Finally, she seems to believe me and sits on her bed, looking puzzled. She scratches her head with a sharp feline claw, then preens her fully-grown whiskers. “He says he’s in top health. There should be nothing wrong avec son cœur.”

His what?

“His heart,” Lyra says when she sees my confused frown.

“I’m all for learning French, Lyra, but it’s at the bottom of my priorities at the moment. Surviving sort of puts a cramp in my personal improvement goals. Capisce?”

She rolls her eyes. “Americans.”

“Hey, you’d better watch it. You’re starting to sound like Elliot.”

Lyra shudders as if I just compared her to a street dog.

“I don’t get it.” I sit on my own bed across from her. “The old fart might be, um, sick, and you’re upset? Wouldn’t that be a good thing if he croaks?”

“It’d be a good thing if they all croaked.” She makes air quotes. “But if he dies, someone else will take his spot, someone less sophistiqué et more hungry for carnage.”

“Hungrier,” I correct.

She gives me the finger.

“Hey, just trying to help.” I put my palms up, recline on my pillow and look at the false ceiling. “I guess you’re right. James says the same thing.”

“Elliot cares about keeping the status quo and infrastructure. He doesn’t want to inherit a world in tatters.”

“Well, you’re his first in command, now.” I prop myself on one elbow and face her. “Wouldn’t you take his place if he’s gone?” I’ve many times asked myself why Lyra, who, early on, infiltrated the faction and managed to earn trust, didn’t just kill him at the first opportunity, but instead, continues to work alongside him.

She scoffs and gives me a contemptuous look that lets me know how naïve, stupid—or both—she thinks I am. “Haven’t you been paying attention? No one is happy Elliot is leaving Lamia and me in charge. Do you doubt challengers would present themselves if Elliot dies? It would most likely cleave the faction into smaller groups.”

“Well, that should make it easier to bring them down, right?”

“It is hard to predict exactly what would happen, but I fear—and my superiors and yours agree—smaller factions would be much harder to control. We would have guerrilla warfare on our hands. Eklyptors going into hiding never to be rooted out. Non, we can’t allow that. Our focus is elsewhere—on a cure.” She adds the last words in a hushed tone, even though there’s no one in the room with us. “Capisce?”

“Yeah. I get it.” It seems to me Lyra’s more worried about getting to Hailstone than the cure, but whatever.

We lie quietly for a moment, both lost in our own thoughts, staring at the ceiling as if a magical solution will flutter down on us. Finally, Lyra sits, picks up her satchel from the floor, and tosses it onto my lap.

I startle, instinctively, curling my body away from the bag. “What’s this?”

“Some things that might be useful. We got a new shipment of weapons today. Surveillance equipment came with it. Spy stuff. Trackers, tiny cameras, microphones. That sort of thing.”

“Oh, yeah?” I start to open the bag.

Lyra shakes her head. “Better not be too obvious with those. Remember, everyone still thinks tu es folle.” She winds a finger around her temple. “And I wouldn’t give a crazy person those kinds of things.”

A heavy sigh pushes past my lips. I’m so sick of this place, of hiding and pretending to be someone I’m not.