03 Saints (6 page)

The part of me that had grown cold responded before the more emotional part of me could. I threw the knife straight at Mama Dot’s heart without bothering to warn her again. She hadn’t taken me serious; that was her problem, not mine.

She stared at the knife in her heart for a moment then collapsed to her knees with a startled expression on her normally serene face. I went to her and pulled the knife out of her chest.

“You shouldn’t underestimate me,” I said.

She collapsed sideways with a sigh.

I fought the emotions for a brief second, feeling shocked I had killed again so casually, but then I focused on what we were doing; the cold purpose steeled my heart against the pain. Escape was still priority number one. Escape didn’t care if my death count had just grown.

Another shockwave from an explosion rocked the building in emphasis of the thought. My Nightstalker had enough of my heroism – it was obviously ready to be free. Without warning, it grabbed the back of my much-abused shirt with its teeth, fresh burns appearing in the fabric, and placed me on to its back. Its sharp scales cut into my skin along my thighs and hands, but I didn’t have time to worry about the pain, because in the next moment we were running.

We barreled through any obstacle in our way, crushing our enemies as easily as a forepaw into the chest or a crunch of the Nightstalker’s massive jaws. It was easy to forget the people it killed were people; they were simply a blur of color and sound. We ran through the maze of cells, until we reached the long staircase that had started my adventure down here. The stairs were full of people running up, trying to force their way out of the door. They bottlenecked on the stairs. The way out had been blocked from the outside.

“Out of the way!” I yelled at the panicking people.

The pressed their bodies against the wall, gaping at me in astonishment and my strange mode of transportation. The Nightstalker didn’t even slow down at the sight of the rubble blocking the door. Running full speed, it took out the rubble blocking the door, as well as a good chunk of the wall.

I breathed in the salty air of the outside as the people poured out from the prison behind me. I reveled at the smell of fresh air and open spaces. It was night, the full moon hanging distant on the horizon. The moon was partially obscured with clouds, but its position told me it was very late. The light streaming down from its full glory was nothing compared to the light of various fires dotting the landscape. They were everywhere. The main house had fires peppering the large structure, while another fire burned near a garage. The cars inside had blown up from the flames. I took that to be the cause of the first ‘boom’ we had heard.

Watchers ran around the yard, searching for a better defensive position. No one seemed really sure where the fighting was coming from. Some carried swords, others carried automatic weapons. I didn’t see any Watchers involved in hand-to-hand combat, or any sign beyond the fires that there was an enemy force nearby. There was lots of yelling going on and very little real direction.

When we appeared, the ones with guns started firing, directing their aggression to us – the only real threat in the yard. The Nightstalker started running faster, tearing through anyone stupid enough to get in its way. I kept my head down and tried to avoid the bullets. Under the sudden deluge of flying bullets, dodging them all was impossible.

Another explosion rocked the night. As soon as the explosion sounded, I half turned to stare at the fireball. The turn saved my life. A second after the explosion, I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder, as one of the Watchers near us got lucky with their shooting. The bullet tore me away from the Nightstalker I was riding on. I hit the ground hard and rolled. The pain in my shoulder hurt more than any of Master Limp’s beatings.

I sat up in a daze, holding my shoulder, and saw Lorian’s Watchers running toward me. The Nightstalker had disappeared into the night, its bid at freedom complete. I didn’t blame it for running, or for leaving me to the others. Our partnership had ended with the free air we had found. Besides, it had already helped me free the prisoners. That was enough.

I recognized where I was in a glance. The ocean was to my left, the house to my right. The ocean was a pretty far drop, but if the Watchers reached me, I was either dead or doomed to live in the prison forever. Jumping felt pretty enticing from where I was sitting.

The pain in my shoulder trying to drag me under, I did the only thing that made sense at the time. I took advantage of my adrenaline, found my feet, and jumped toward the sound of waves below. As I fell, I thought I saw a strange light on the waves. It was a sharp light that moved in time to the rocking ocean. But my brain couldn’t reconcile what the light meant; I was too concerned with where I was headed.

The water rushed toward me.

I hit the dark water feet first; it felt as if I had crashed into a brick wall. The second I hit the water, everything went dark. My last thought was how I had never thought I would die in the Pacific Ocean; an ocean I loved so much.

The next thing I was aware of was a soft bed, an extreme pain in my shoulder, and the moon shining bright through a window near me. I opened my eyes and saw a plain white ceiling above me. It was so different from the underground ceiling I had grown accustomed to. I moved my arm to touch my forehead, a blinding headache pulsing through my head, and realized I was hooked up to a bag of fluids.

“Oh…” I said, realizing I hadn’t died. Then I passed out again.

I woke up two more times, only to promptly pass out again. Once, I saw a girl sitting in a chair near my bed. She had dark features and jagged hair. Purple streaks ran through her black hair. She was full of piercings, her ears, her nose, her eyebrow, were all pierced. She was dressed in black leather. She looked like a biker, complete with heavy motorcycle boots she had propped up on my bed as she read from a book. She smiled when she saw me awake, but we didn’t get the chance to speak. I passed out again. The second time I woke, I was alone again. The room was bright with sunlight, but deserted. I tried to force myself to get up, to find out where I was, but I passed again before I could.

The third time I woke up, it was dark again. I took a deep breath as I blinked myself awake, feeling more awake than my other attempts at consciousness. I stared at the bland ceiling for a long moment, trying to get a fix on my disorientation, the pain, anything that would help me focus. It seemed so very hard to focus.

“Is this time for real, or are you going to pass out again?” a man asked.

There was a focus.

I turned my head and saw a very tall man standing in the outline of my door. The moonlight didn’t cast light that far, so I was left to guess at his features. The only thing I could tell was that he was white and very tall. The feeling of tension in my gut told me he was a Watcher. My month and a half in torture-land had me on the defensive at the realization. Watchers were the enemy.

I spotted the silver knife I had stolen lying on a table next to me. It was the only weapon I had that could prevent certain death or another beating. I wouldn’t let anyone beat me again. Ignoring the aching, searing pain coursing through my body, I sat up and grabbed the knife. In the next breath I took, I pulled the IV out of my arm and found my feet again.

Holding the knife in front of me, like Jackson had taught me so many months ago, I tried to maintain my balance. My spinning head and weak knees did little to help. I felt like pitching over and falling asleep again, but I kept my focus on the man. The threat kept me aware that if I allowed myself to pass out, it could be the last time I allowed myself anything.

“So…not going to pass out again…” he said.

“I swear to God, if you step any closer, I will jam this right into your heart!” I yelled at him.

“I believe you,” he said.

His voice was smooth and warm. It soothed me, even as I sensed laughter in its depths. While I sensed he was capable and dangerous, he wasn’t worried about me hurting him. He found it amusing that I was threatening him. That annoyed me.

“Don’t patronize me,” I told him. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I’m not patronizing you…” he said in that same soothing voice.

“To hell you’re not!” I argued.

“Okay, I was a little,” he agreed.

“You’re doing it again,” I pointed out.

“Well, you are holding a knife in my general direction,” he said.

“You’re holding me captive, so I think we’re even,” I said.

“What gave you that idea?” he asked.

“I…”

I looked at the bar-less windows, the fact that the door didn’t have any heavy locks, the lack of silver around the room, and the fact that I had been attached to an IV instead of a wall. I knew Lorian’s people would have never healed me. They would have left me to die. So…where was I? And why were they healing me? I couldn’t understand. The idea that I had actually escaped was beyond me. It was too foreign after the hell I had lived through.

“Perhaps, we could start over?” the man asked. “Exchange stories, if you will. You can keep your knife, if it makes you feel better.”

I hesitated at the tone of his voice. He was so calm, so willing to let me have the ‘upper hand.’ I figured it was a ploy, but there was no denying the questions channeling through my body. What kind of ploy let me keep a dangerous weapon?

“You first,” I said.

“May I come into the room, or shall we have the conversation from here?” he asked.

“I sort of like a little bit of distance between us,” I said.

“Fair enough,” he said.

Sensing my distrust of what I couldn’t see, he took a single step closer, so that the moon shone directly on his face and illuminated his features. His features were strong, well-built. He had long black hair he kept pulled back into a tight knot and thick eyebrows, which gave him a perpetually dark expression. His eyes were a color of silver that pierced the dark with their intensity. He was wearing a black t-shirt and black pants. He had a necklace on that looked like dog tags and was heavily armed. He had a knife on his right hip, a gun on his left. I could tell the obvious weapons weren’t the only weapons he had. I realized I was out-gunned and possibly out-skilled, but he hadn’t chosen to use his weapons or his skills on me. It was confusing, but I was cautiously optimistic. Something about him was familiar. The way he held himself and the way he carried cool confidence in the depths of eyes reminded me someone, though I had trouble placing the name. I realized, too, that none of the Watchers I had met in the pit had looked like him. He was something different – possibly another threat, but different.

“My name is Reaper,” he said.

The knife in my hand lowered slightly at his words. I let out an involuntary laugh at the ridiculousness of his name. Reaper? Really?

He eyed me with a curious expression on his face. He couldn’t figure out what was so funny about his introduction. I could tell he wasn’t used to people laughing at him for so little.

“What?” he asked.

“Your name is Reaper? Here, we have the ferryman of souls himself, come to take the dead to their final resting place! Better not mess with Reaper, because it’s a one way trip to the river of the damned! It’s very terrifying,” I said dryly.

“You don’t think it’s scary?” he asked, hurt by my words.

“No, no, I’m sure people are very scared by it,” I said.

He smiled at my tone of voice. “There are some who have learned to fear it…May I continue?” he asked.

“Sure,” I agreed, trying to keep the amused smirk off my face.

“My group, which I am a founding member of, was involved in an encounter last night. We were getting one of our own out of a sticky situation. One of our lookouts saw you take a dive into the water, and my ship fished you out of the water. We thought you were one of Lorian’s, but the person we had come to rescue identified you as a prisoner. We patched you up, and here we are.”

“Are you Darian’s people?” I asked.

It was the only thing that made sense to me. The brothers, Darian and Lorian, had been fighting each other for longer than most Watchers had been alive. No one knew what started the war, but all Watchers ended up feeling its effects eventually. My escape attempt had gotten mixed up in one of the brothers’ battles.

“Nope,” Reaper said, surprising me.

“Then, why…”

I searched for the proper way to ask what I was doing here. It didn’t make sense that other Watchers would have dared attack Lorian. No one did. It was risky and dangerous. It was foolish, because Lorian was better equipped, better funded, and infinitely more dangerous than any group I had come to know about beyond Darian, and, of course, Marcus. I felt my heart drop. Had Marcus’ people found me? I knew they weren’t above healing me to try and trick me somehow. My suspicion showed on my face. Reaper smiled slightly and explained in that same soothing voice.

“We are the Saints. We like to think of ourselves as freedom fighters, though that term has been used too often by people not really interested in freedom. What we do is protect those who don’t wish to be a part of the war, and we fight those who wish to take our freedom from us.”

His words were magnetic, hard to disbelieve. I wasn’t sure if he really believed what he was saying or was the world’s best liar. Perhaps, it was a little of both.