Requiem for the Dead

Chapter Seven

"Wyatt," I said. Talking wasn't easy with that collar pressing into my throat, but I had to get him to listen to me. To focus. "Wyatt?"

He snarled, a sound that sent ice through my veins. Behind him, Vale laughed.

"Truman, stand down," Baylor yelled.

Wyatt growled at him. So not helpful. Wyatt moved closer to me, enough to feel his heat, his breath, to see the sweat beading on his forehead and chest. To smell him. My arms ached from holding on so tightly to the chain. Next to me, Peck slipped the noose off Wyatt's neck, then moved behind me, out of sight.

"Kill her," Vale said. "Now!"

Wyatt bared his teeth at me—and then he winked. He fucking winked at me.

Son of a bitch. Big faker.

He lunged. Instead of at me, he pounced on Peck. Peck yelped and gurgled something, which was lost to the horrific sounds of ripping flesh. Vale yelled vague obscenities and reached behind himself.

"Gun!" I shouted.

Wyatt was a blur as he slammed into Vale, knocking the gun out of his hand. It clattered to the floor. Vale fought back with surprising strength, and the pair of them rolled into the bars of Baylor's cage, snapping and trying to land solid punches. Wyatt was fighting with emotion, though, not with his head. Vale struck Wyatt's temple, which knocked Wyatt sideways and into the opposite wall. Vale didn't stay to fight, the coward. He bolted right out the door.

"Keys," Baylor yelled.

Wyatt grabbed the keys off the floor where they'd fallen and tossed them at my feet. Not exactly the smartest plan ever—only he hit the release lever on the chains as he chased after Vale.

I hit the floor with a pained thud, my arms tingling from the strain. The keys were somewhere underneath me. As I shifted around, I came face to face with Peck's throat-less corpse. I scooted away from the expanding blood pool and scooped up the keys. Fitted the smallest key into the hole in the front of my collar. It snapped open. I yanked the fucking thing off. My skin was clammy and raw, and I was glad to be free of it. I rubbed at my throat with one hand while I used the other to grab the bars and haul ass to my feet.

"Stone, he's not breathing!" Marcus's shout propelled me out of my cage and down the line to Milo's.

All of our chains had been released, and Milo was crumpled on the floor, face down, hands still bound behind his back. I found the key for his door and yanked it open. Dropped down by his head and unlocked the collar. His throat was a study in bruise patterns from that fucking collar, and Marcus was right—he wasn't breathing.

"Dammit, Milo." I couldn't roll him over because his hands. Fear started to creep in and turn to panic. I tested the keys on his handcuffs—not standard cop cuffs, either, but shackles reminiscent of old prison movies. The last key finally opened them.

I tossed the keys at Marcus's outstretched hand and let him release himself. I got Milo arranged on his back, then pressed my ear to his chest. The stutter of a heartbeat gave me enough hope to tilt Milo's head back and begin CPR. I wasn't good at it, but I knew how to do it, and he was not dying on me, goddammit.

"Come on, breathe," I said.

Marcus's cell door slammed open. The keys jangled, changing hands to Baylor, because Marcus was suddenly crouching opposite me, his face a twisted mask of misery. He reached out, like he wanted to touch Milo, then drew back. I ignored him and focused on breathing for Milo, and getting him to breathe for himself.

"Breathe, damn you, you are not dying today. " More reps. "Breathe!"

Milo sputtered, then drew in a deep, ragged gulp of air. His eyelids fluttered, but stayed shut. His hands flailed out.

Marcus caught them. "It's okay, Milo, you're going to be fine," he said.

Milo made a noise that broke my heart with its pained helplessness. Marcus scooped him up and held him against his chest, somehow finding a way to hold him close that didn't aggravate his bruised and bloodied back. Milo pressed his face into Marcus's shoulder and clung to him as he gasped and coughed.

I felt like I'd interrupted something very private, so I scooted away and stood. Baylor was gone, probably after Wyatt. The gun was gone, too. I dashed up the three small stairs and out into a dark, dirty hallway. Dim light came from further down, where the hallway opened up into a wider office area of some kind. Cubicle walls remained, but desks and furniture had long since been removed.

The sound of furious growling caught my attention. Wyatt. I followed the noise past a row of cubicles and spotted Baylor standing next to a boarded up door. Wyatt was sitting on the floor, holding his head, bleeding from his left temple. The half-shift was gone, but his eyes remained pure silver.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Vale got away," Wyatt replied. He admitted it like he'd tasted pig shit—with utter disgust.

"There's another dead body back there," Baylor said, pointing to our right. "Looks like another Bengal. Milo?"

"Alive," I said as I squatted in front of Wyatt. "How are you?"

"In control," he said. "Barely."

"Adrian, can you give us a minute?"

Baylor moved away. I reached for Wyatt's chin. He jerked his head away from me with a soft snarl. I grabbed his chin anyway and made Wyatt look at me. "Are you okay?"

"I almost lost it, Evy, when I smelled him on you." Fear crept into his silver eyes, the same fear he'd carried since his infection. The fear of hurting me.

"But you didn't. You stayed in control, Wyatt, and you saved our lives. Whatever Vale did to you, you stayed in control."

"He wanted me to kill you."

"Yes, he did."

"Why?"

"Because I was irritating him. He wants the security codes for the Dane mansion. Marcus wouldn't give them up. We need to regroup and get the hell out of here before Vale returns with backup."

"Is he likely to?"

"I don't know, but we know who he is and what he wants to do. Shutting us up will probably become a priority for him, and I don't want to be here if he does come back."

"Me, either." Wyatt brushed gentle fingertips over my throat. "They hurt you."

"Barely. I've had worse."

Emotion flickered in his eyes. "I hate that."

"Me, too." I pressed a quick kiss to his mouth, wishing we had time for more. "Come on."

We went back down to the cells. Baylor and Marcus were both dressed. They'd ripped Milo's t-shirt down the back and managed to get each arm through a sleeve, giving him some protection. That seemed about as much as he could manage. Milo's face was horribly pale, his whole body shiny with sweat, and shivering like he was cold. The individual bruises on his back and legs were darkening into one large, horrific splotch of color, and the skin was starting to swell.

Wyatt and I dressed fast. Our weapons and phones were missing, and the scroll satchel wasn't with our things. Fucking Vale. Marcus carried Milo up into the outer offices. Wyatt, Baylor, and I did a quick search, just in case, and turned up nothing. Vale had either disposed of everything else or taken it with him.

"Vale's scent goes this way," Marcus said, inclining his head toward another hallway.

Wyatt led, using his nose to follow the scent. Baylor backed him up with Vale's dropped gun, while I took the rear. The short hallway ended at what looked like an emergency door. The exit sign above wasn't lit, the entire hall barely illuminated by a crack of light from beneath the door.

"He must have gone out here," Wyatt said. He listened a moment. "No obvious voices or sounds."

"Doesn't mean there's no ambush waiting," Baylor said. He felt along the door's frame, testing for wires or trips.

I checked for the Break and found its power waiting. Whatever Vale had used to block my access, he'd apparently taken it with him. I nearly offered to teleport out, but it was a stupid idea. I had no clue what was outside that door and fusing my legs with a car fender was not on today's agenda.

Baylor and Wyatt shooed us back a few paces, and I took a defensive position in front of Marcus and Milo. Wyatt stood to the left of the door, Baylor to the right. Wyatt pressed the emergency bar down. Nothing squealed. Pushed the door open a few inches. Sunlight streamed inside. Wyatt sniffed the air.

So far, so good.

He pushed a little more.

Baylor inched forward and peeked outside. "Looks like a parking lot, small one, back end of an alley type," he said. "No cars. Older buildings, too, unkempt."

"Any ideas on location?" I asked.

"Nothing I recognize, but I'd lay good money we're close to Mercy's Lot." He nodded at Wyatt, who let the door shut. "Okay, there's a plank fence straight ahead, about twenty feet, but no cover. Wyatt and I will go out first and make sure we aren't being watched. When we're sure it's clear, the three of you follow on my signal."

I glanced behind me at Marcus, who nodded his agreement. Milo ignored all of us, swallowed whole by the pain that was his entire world. "Understood," I said to Baylor.

Our trio backed deeper into the hallway. Wyatt and Baylor shared a look. Wyatt shoved the door open wide. Its hinges squealed. Sunlight flashed in my eyes, and I blinked hard. Heard an odd popping sound, and then the door slammed shut again. A second thud.

As the orange dots disappeared from my vision, two things became clear: Wyatt still stood to the left of the closed emergency door, and Baylor was down.

Flat on his back on the ground. Eyes wide open. A red hole centered perfectly in his forehead. Blood pooling around his head.

"Adrian?" Wyatt asked.

Oh God, no.