The Warrior Read online

  “The one in Medford.” I glance at Max and Paine with a look that admits I have no idea what’s happening.

  “The one in Medford,” Lincoln repeats. “Take the earliest flight. I’ll be traveling separately and will meet you in the baggage area.”

  Lincoln hangs up and says, “Let’s roll.”

  “Do you want to pack anything or—”

  The guy grabs a shopping bag and tips four boxes of granola bars inside. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  “You like granola bars, huh?” I follow him out the door. I’m beginning to think this may have been a huge mistake. From the worry etched on Max and Paine’s faces, I’d say they agree.

  “They’re for Aspen,” he answers. “She likes them.”

  I suddenly have an image of Lincoln standing at the mouth of hell waving an unwrapped granola bar. Come on, girl. Come on. Can’t believe you got out of the gate again.

  But the fact is Lincoln cares for Aspen. And that’s all I need to know.

  Four hours later, we touch down in Oregon. Lincoln sat by himself the entire flight jotting down notes on a napkin. He also ate one of Aspen’s granola bars. I want so badly to tease him about this, to tell him there won’t be enough for her when she returns. But I stop when I remember with painful clarity the dreams I’ve been having. Because Aspen may not even be—

  No.

  Just, no.

  Before I do anything else, I flip on Lincoln’s soul light. He has a sprinkling of tiny black sin seals partially obscuring the light. There are no larger collector seals among the black ones. If his soul was ever completely covered by sin seals, or collector seals, his soul would be collected while his body went on living. I’ll never let that happen to Lincoln.

  I release a blue seal, shaking my head that my seals are no longer red, and wait until it attaches itself over a handful of the preexisting black ones. Almost immediately, my blue liberator seal begins eating away at the black ones like hydrogen peroxide bubbling inside a wound.

  When we disembark, Lincoln leads the way to the baggage area like he’s visited the airport a hundred times before. Considering he’s a military brat, it may be close to the truth. The four of us gather our bags and find a place to sit.

  “Do you know when these friends of your will be here?” I ask Lincoln.

  “Just as soon as they can.”

  As we wait, I wonder how I’m going to deal with this situation. What if Kraven doesn’t want this many humans returning to the Hive? The deal was I’d bring back Lincoln and that’s it. But then again, we need all the help we can get. I’m certain the collectors are out recruiting more sirens so why shouldn’t we do the same?

  Something Kraven said nags at me, though. These humans will be risking their lives. At what point does it become too much? Then again, what choice do we have? Turn down help and let Rector and the collectors find Charlie? Let a chance at Trelvator, a hundred years of peace, be ruined? What’s more, if hell gets their hands on Charlie, then the scales between heaven and hell could be tipped in their favor, meaning demons on earth permanently without the use of dargon.

  “How much longer, you think?” It’s been an hour and a half, and I’m eager to return to the Hive. What if a vultrip has been whispered open? What if Neco has hurt Charlie? What if the sirens broke in again?

  I stand up and pace the baggage area.

  My body halts when I spot Lincoln’s friends.

  25

  The Jackrabbits

  Max stands up and so does Paine. An entire airport of bodies seems to move aside as if Lincoln’s friends carry a sack of anthrax in each hand.

  There are twelve of them and they walk in a formation that’s anything but necessary. Their faces are pierced and their clothes are black and they look like carbon copies of one another. Over their shoulders, they carry camo bags as if to announce to the world that they are the sons and daughters of soldiers.

  They stride forward like a closed fist.

  Their faces are void of expression.

  These are the kids who get picked on in school worse than anyone; the kids who fancy themselves someone special though others disagree. They’ve got chips on their shoulders the size of Mount Plymouth and they’re tired of being laughed at.

  They’re angry. They’re conflicted. They’re hostile.

  They’re perfect.

  Lincoln stands beside me. “We call ourselves the jackrabbits.”

  I’m so tempted to laugh, it hurts. But something stops me. Maybe it’s remembering the way Aspen fought, and that she taught Lincoln those same moves, which means he probably taught these guys the same material. Maybe it’s that these kids have been kicked enough. Or maybe…maybe it’s because I know what they’re facing, and it’s not something I can crack a joke at.

  What will their parents say if they never return? If there’s one thing I know, it’s that these kids lied about where they were going.

  “The jackrabbits,” I say. “Cool.”

  The kids look at each other and smile back at me. They’re crazy as the day is long, but perhaps that’s what we need up in here—a touch of Psych Ward. When we get outside, the car that dropped us off is waiting. I have no idea how long he’s been sitting there, or how long he would have sat, but I’m glad for it. Kraven didn’t want to use cell phones in case our lines got tapped. If you ask me, Lincoln and Kraven are going to get along like a house on fire, what with their paranoia and all.

  I tell the driver we’re going to need more cars. He and his mullet analyze how many of us there are, and he calls someone with a car phone that looks like it was created in 1987. Twenty minutes later, a limo bus pulls up. I cringe. This can’t be the discreet picture we need.

  Anyone Kraven hires must know to keep their trap shut, but what about the new guy? “Can we trust the driver?” I ask Mullet Man.

  Mullet Man scratches his cheek. “He ain’t got no one to talk to.”

  His voice is void of concern, and I take that as a good sign. There’s no telling how many people work for liberators, or collectors even, that we don’t know about.

  I wave Max and Paine into the car, and Lincoln orders the jackrabbits into the bus before getting into the car himself. The ride back to the Hive seems to take twice as long as it did the first time. But maybe that’s because Lincoln and Mullet Man sit in the front seat without speaking a word. They just stare forward like they’re comatose. Eventually though, we’re dumped outside the tunnel and the vehicles take off, driving away on a nonexistent road.

  It takes me a few minutes to find the small boulder that blocks the entrance, and several more to get everyone below ground. I retrieve the flashlight I hid inside the tunnel, flip it on, and we’re on our way.

  The jackrabbits shuffle behind without questioning what is happening. A couple of times I glance back at their faces and am struck with respect for how loyal they are to a cause they know nothing about. They just know Lincoln said it was time to go, so they came.

  I wonder if it wouldn’t have been so bad to be an outcast in school. Maybe being a social pariah bonds you to other pariahs in a way no one else can understand. Beautiful, popular people don’t have to be loyal. There are always new shiny friends waiting around the corner. But these people know they’re few in numbers, so they lock arms and stick together through the crap storm that is life.

  I look at Lincoln.

  Could we ever be friends?

  In one swift moment, I’m blinded by a feeling that can only be described as joy. I’m beginning to understand how Charlie sees a potential friend in everyone. She sees people, accepts their differences, and says, let’s be friends anyway, because you’ve got good stuff even if we’re not the same.

  I dare to imagine that after this war is over, that I’ll have a group of friends that care about me, and that I in turn care for. What kind of life would that be? To be a part of a family that nurtures one another and is never too busy?

  Before I know it, we’re nearing the Hive entrance. The se
nsation of other liberators nearby is subtle, but it’s there. It’s only slightly different from the feel of Max and Paine’s dargon though theirs is much closer.

  I raise my hand and everyone pauses. “When we get inside the Hive,” I tell Lincoln. “Let me do the talking. Kraven is going to want explanations, and I need to be the one who gives them.”

  We walk for another couple of minutes before I spot the ladder that will take us above ground. I wonder just how far below we are. Above sea level? Below?

  “What’s that noise?” one of the jackrabbits, a girl with a bull-hook nose ring, asks.

  I listen and don’t hear anything.

  “Yeah, what is that?” someone else asks. “It’s like a hissing.”

  Lincoln passes the ladder and heads in the eastern direction, toward the sea. “It’s like a tapping.”

  “Stay here,” I say, though the second I move past Lincoln, Max and Paine follow. The flashlight bounds along and the three of us trail after it like a cat with a laser pointer. “Okay, I hear it.”

  “Me, too,” Max says.

  “I think the lot of you are nuts,” Paine adds. “I don’t hear anything except the sound of my life passing me by.”

  “You’re already dead,” Max corrects him.

  “True that.” Paine grins like he’s glad for it.

  “Stop talking.” I run the flashlight in a large circle, covering the ceiling and floor in intervals. I stop when the noise grows louder.

  “What is that?” Max says.

  “We should just go up,” I decide.

  But then the noise stops. It’s almost as if whatever was producing it heard us. I twirl the flashlight and a beam of light lands on a man I’ve never seen before. He has a wide forehead and ears that stick out. He covers his face and shies away from the light. Then he pulls his arm down and smiles like he’s an actor on a stage. He bows, grabs a rope dangling above his head, and scuttles up and out of sight.

  “Damn siren,” Max says.

  I shine the light in the direction of where he went, but don’t see anything. “Let’s get out of here.” I don’t have to repeat myself. The three of us turn in unison as if it’s choreographed and hurry toward the ladder. “Go up first, Paine. Tell Kraven I’m coming and not to freak.”

  He grabs hold of the ladder and climbs, his wrestler body swaying awkwardly up and away.

  A new sound sizzles through the tunnel. It’s a cracking, a hissing. And it’s growing louder. “Hurry,” I tell the first jackrabbit. “Start climbing. Go as fast as you can.” The back of my neck burns with anxiety as Lincoln’s friends begin to scurry up.

  The sound grows louder.

  A pop.

  A groan.

  The sirens are coming. I know it like I know how to please a chick in bed. “Climb faster!” I try and push Max and Lincoln toward the ladder but they refuse. Lincoln won’t go before his comrades and Max won’t leave without me.

  There are still seven jackrabbits left to begin their ascent. The sounds grow louder, angry that we’re not awaiting the finale. My heart pounds so hard in my chest, I can feel it in my neck.

  The entirety of the tunnel moans a long, sorrowful sound. It wails. It whimpers.

  It releases a noise like a deep sigh.

  And then it’s explodes.

  26

  Salt Vendetta

  Somewhere along the tunnel, a wall bursts open.

  I understand then what the siren was doing. He was chiseling away at the tunnel interior, trying to create a fissure that the sirens could slip through. That’s what they do—chip, chip away and then slither in.

  I yell for the jackrabbits to hurry and they scramble up. They don’t need the urgency in my voice, because they hear the same sound I do. It’s growing nearer, louder.

  Max paces beside the ladder and Lincoln mumbles to himself.

  My mind spins and I frantically search the tunnel for something to fight with. Then I remember. A burning smell fills my nose and my black-feathered wings spring from my back. Lincoln screams and dives away like I’m harboring the Bubonic Plague. Now the jackrabbits are springing up the ladder even faster, trying to get away from this winged nightmare.

  Four jackrabbits left.

  Three.

  Two.

  “It doesn’t sound like people coming,” Max calls out over the roaring noise.

  He’s right. It doesn’t sound like bodies at all.

  One jackrabbit left.

  The noise comes to a head and understanding dawns on me—

  Water rushes down the throat of the tunnel like a horrific vendetta. It swirls and slams into the walls of the tunnel rushing faster and faster. It swallows everything in its path and aches for more.

  Max grabs onto the ladder and hoists himself up.

  Lincoln and I are left. One of us isn’t going to make it. There are still a line of jackrabbits above Max and he can only climb so fast. I shove Lincoln toward the ladder and he shoves me back, trying to act brave even though I see the way he eyes the water and my wings. Growling, I physically pick the hundred and sixty pound guy up and slam him toward the ladder. He doesn’t need any more persuading. Lincoln grips the bars like a June bug and shimmies up.

  The water is so close. I can’t hear anything but it’s whooshing. Standing and staring at the mass of dark water, I can’t help but be awestruck. People underestimate the power of water, how dangerous it can be. We swim in it, bathe in it, drink it to stay alive. We sunbath at its lip and build castles in its regurgitated sand. Yet here it is—violent, ready to reclaim what it has given.

  I won’t make it.

  I won’t.

  But my body doesn’t accept this. So my hands grab hold of the ladder and my legs push upward and my arms pull with everything they have. My mind, though, laughs at their silly effort.

  The water slams into me with the force of a freight train. It clips my bottom half and my legs sweep out from beneath me. Right before the water washes over my head, I glance up. Lincoln is several feet above and climbing fast.

  And then my vision is gone.

  Water surges over my body and whips me sideways, my legs trailing behind. My arms ache and salt water forces its way down my throat and into my lungs. I manage to pull myself above the water level and gasp. Then I’m belted back under. My arms shake and my entire body goes numb. The water is colder than the devil’s dick. It tears my legs and wings to the right, then to the left. My body crashes into the wall and my skin tears like a wet tissue.

  I’m freezing.

  I’m losing my grip on the ladder.

  But most importantly, I’m drowning.

  My mind screams and images of Charlie fill my head. I glance up through the murky water and imagine how close she is. Does she know what’s happening? Is she scared? I don’t know where this water leads, or if I’ll ever be able to pull myself out if I drown. I need to be away from the thing that killed me in order for me to survive. If I’m unconscious under water, how would my body ever heal?

  I try once more to pull myself up and fail.

  The water growls next to my ears, furious that I won’t release my hold. It won’t be angry for long, because I can’t feel my fingers and they’re uncurling from the rung. Salt scours every crevice on my body, ripping the feathers from my wings. Water whips my hair about my head. I can’t hold on any longer.

  I let go.

  My mouth opens and I call out. I don’t know why. No one can hear me in this watery grave. But I do it all the same. The water wraps itself around me in an embrace, pleased to have won its prize.

  I’m only a sigh away from the ladder when something firm grabs onto me.

  An arm.

  A hand!

  I latch onto the wrist that’s holding my own wrist. Then I grab hold with my other hand, too. Fireflies prance before my eyes. But that can’t be right. I clutch the wrists as best I can but my brain is shutting down.

  I need oxygen! it says.

  “No,” I tell it.<
br />
  Then goodnight.

  The hand that holds onto me is strong. It jerks my head above water and liquid spews from my mouth like I’m a demon fountain.

  “Hold on,” a voice yells.

  I hold on.

  “Grab onto the ladder,” it adds.

  I grab hold.

  The person pulls me higher until my hips are above water. I find my legs and place them onto the rung. Twice, I lose my footing to the current and am nearly pulled back under. But the hand is always there, yanking me up, ensuring I’m safe.

  Rung by rung, I manage to climb toward the Hive. My drenched wings feel like apes clinging to my back. I can’t pull them back into my body, so I just struggle upward with the added weight.

  When I land inside the Hive, I collapse onto the ground. Kraven is there, heaving for breath, falling down beside me. It was him who helped me. Of course it was him.

  I cough and more water sprays from my lungs. Max, Paine, and the jackrabbits give me room to breathe. Once I’ve cleared my airways, I fall onto my back. “That was stupid,” I choke out, eyeing Kraven. “You can’t risk yourself like that. These people need a leader.”

  Kraven leans forward, forearms on his knees, still catching his breath. “And I need you.”

  “Aww,” Max coos, making light of the moment. “I feel the love.”

  But I’m not laughing.

  Neither is Kraven.

  I pull myself up and the liberator slaps me on the back. “Get some sleep, Dante Walker.” He nods toward Lincoln, toward the jackrabbits. “The Quiet Ones will ensure these people have a place to lay their head.”

  No questions about Lincoln’s age.

  No criticizing my decision to bring Goth kid’s friends with us.

  Just, get some sleep.

  The room is silent as Kraven gets to his feet. He strides toward the exit that leads to his chambers, dripping water, a slight limp in his step. “Training resumes in the morning,” he says without turning around. “Seven o’clock.”

  27