Fracture (The Machinists) (21 page)

Pinned down between two groups, Lukas’s force fought like a cornered animal—ferocious and with nothing to lose. Never surrendering, they forced Graeme’s magi to kill them to a man, cursing them until the end.

The battle over, Graeme knelt beside the last of the fallen enemy magi, taking his hand in his own and whispering something to him.

“That was well-timed.” The leader of the squad approached. Wisps of his shoulder-length black hair stuck to his tanned face, partially hiding his bloodshot left eye. His arms were covered with dozens of cuts and small burns. “Thank you.”

“He was my nephew,” Graeme said, closing the fallen magi’s eyelids with his fingers. “His father believed in Lukas, and children believe in their parents. He never had a chance, Trevin. Please don’t thank me.”

Allyn stepped over fallen bodies and debris. The floor was slick with urine, water, and blood. Worse than the sights of the battle were the smells. Small fires smoldered in scattered patches, and the smoke, smelling of burned hair and flesh, mixed with the nauseating smell of feces. A magi lay in front of him, his lifeless eyes open and gazing toward the ceiling.

“They’re all family,” Trevin said. “It’s a terrible thing.”

Allyn looked closer. Something about the dead man felt familiar, but he’d seen so many new faces that it was tough to be sure. He might have seen him anywhere. Or his mind could be playing tricks on him. After seeing enough people in a short period of time, anyone was bound to think he’d seen someone before. But something
pulled
Allyn toward the man.

“A terrible thing,” Graeme agreed.

Allyn barely heard him. Pinching his forehead, he closed his eyes. He still saw the man’s face, only this time—“He’s one of Darian’s.”

Graeme turned to Allyn. “Who?”

“I’ve seen this man,” Allyn said. “He smashed me against a wall during our escape from the Hyland Estate.”

Nyla, who’d been probing the fallen to search for survivors, stepped toward him. “Are you sure?”

“I’m positive.”

Graeme circled the room, looking at fallen bodies. “He’s right,” he said. “Darian is here.”

“What does that mean?” Allyn asked.

“It means,” Graeme said, “this operation just got a lot more difficult.”

Water poured from the elevator doors like a stream running down a rocky hillside. It puddled under Jaxon’s feet and around the bodies behind him. They’d pulled and pried, doing everything they could to open the doors, never realizing they were frozen shut. Jaxon had slipped in behind them, driving his elbows into the tops of the two men unfortunate enough to be standing directly under the service hatch. The two who had been prying the elevator doors open turned just in time to see Jaxon’s fists pummeling into their faces. All four lay motionless but not dead. He wouldn’t kill unless he had to. That wasn’t his mission. Death would destroy any hope they had of healing the splinter.

Jaxon’s legs were weak. Freezing the doors shut had required more water than he’d expected, and water wasn’t as easily replenished as air. He was severely dehydrated and would have to take care not to wield too much more of it. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it at all, but since water was the counter to fire, which was a magi’s favorite method of attack, he didn’t think that was likely.

The sounds of battle had waned, as both sides were undoubtedly
regrouping, digging into the trenches, and securing their positions. Jaxon worked his fingers inside the crack between the elevator doors and pulled. When they didn’t open, he put a foot against the doorframe for leverage and tried again. This time, the seal popped, and the doors opened.

The compound was dark. The exterior streetlamps and the remains of small fires inside provided what little light they could. The concrete floor was cracked in places and missing altogether in others. Bodies filled the corridor. Some were burnt and scorched, while others with gaping wounds lay in pools of water left behind from the melted ice blasts. Others didn’t have any noticeable injuries, but their cracked lips, odd skin coloring, and popped blood vessels in the whites of their eyes told Jaxon everything he needed to know. Magic had limitations, and they’d pushed themselves too hard.

There was movement in front of him. Jaxon froze, watching the dark corridor intently. Someone had run through an intersecting corridor. Approaching warily, Jaxon peered around the corner. The person was gone, but Jaxon followed in silent pursuit. At the very least, this corridor should lead back toward the main entrance where Leira would be.

The battle roared again as the respite ended. Jaxon continued on, ignoring the sounds of destruction and the cries of pain. He had his orders—find Jarrell. He rounded the corner and nearly tripped over a young fellow who was hunkered down behind a makeshift bunker. Another lookout waited across the hall. It was a trap, and they were waiting for someone to spring it on. Jaxon drove his knee into the first man, and a concussion of air exploded between his knee and the man’s chest, sending him flying down the hall. He’d learned the trick a long time ago. Air wielded with kicks, punches, and elbow jabs increased their strength tenfold.

Jaxon spun on the other one, wielding more air just in time to smother a fire blast. Air could be just as effective as water at combating fire. The man fell to the ground, his jaw unhinged, after Jaxon landed another air-aided blow.

Jaxon raced onward. Any magi within the vicinity would be drawn to him now. As if on cue, a group of magi appeared in the corridor in front of him. They stopped short, watching Jaxon in surprise. Maybe they hadn’t been drawn to him. Two men held up a third, his arms draped across their shoulders, his feet dragging on the floor behind him.

Jarrell.

Was he a wounded soldier or a captive? Did they know he was the spy? The way they dropped him to the floor suggested they did. How had he been caught? The man leading the group cocked his head to the side, weighing Jaxon.
Reyland.
His dark features against his pale skin made the man look like a walking corpse. He sneered at Jaxon with yellow teeth behind black lips and stepped forward.

Jaxon didn’t wait. He was outnumbered five to one, and Reyland was as powerful as he was, maybe more so. And already, his muscles were cramping from dehydration. He wouldn’t win this battle. Jaxon shot five quick blasts of fire in their direction, and without waiting to see if they hit their target, he ran straight for the wall to his right and drove an air-aided shoulder
through
it. He found himself on the floor of a room lined with bunks. Jaxon quickly climbed to his feet and ran toward the door. A bolt of fire struck the bunk behind him, blasting the wood frame to pieces and igniting the sheets. Reyland wasn’t about to let Jaxon escape.

Charging through another wall, Jaxon lost all sense of direction. He was in another corridor with a brick wall and windows overlooking the river. He tripped, fell, and rose to his feet. Something exploded
above
him. Thrown down the hall, he hit the floor with a crack and slid into a wall. Ears ringing, his vision blurred, Jaxon struggled to his feet.

Embers fell from the ceiling, coming to rest on the shoulders of his compression armor, burning the exposed skin on his neck and scalp. Something else fell from the rafters.
Cold. Wet. Water. A hole in the roof. What just happened?

Reyland stalked toward him, smiling.

Smiling
. Jaxon gritted his teeth. With men like this, men who sought blood and enjoyed spilling it, there was no hope of mending their splintered Family. Reyland was a cancer, and the only way to cure it was to remove it or destroy it.

Jaxon charged. His temper flared, fueling the fire pouring from his hands. How many times had he told his students to leave their emotions behind? Emotion led to death. It would burn him out, sap his body of everything it needed. But not today. A wall of flame filled the hall, spurred forward by Jaxon.

Reyland stepped through it. The flames singed his body but were stamped out. By what? It didn’t matter. Jaxon was nearly on him now.

Reyland prepared to wield.

Jaxon jumped, driving the bottoms of his air-aided feet into Reyland’s chest, crushing his ribs. The impact threw Reyland onto his back and whipped his head into the concrete floor with a crack.

Landing on the floor on his side, Jaxon rolled to his feet, ready to attack again, but Reyland lay motionless, staring through the open expanse in the roof with lifeless eyes, his chest caved in with the shape of two bootprints. Jaxon spat and stepped back into the bunk-filled room, making his way for the hall, ready to find Jarrell.

The detonation shook the building to its foundation. The floor rolled, nearly buckling. Windows shattered, and people dove for cover as air ducts and metal piping fell from the rafters. Over it all, Allyn heard a scream. It shook him more than the explosion did.

“Kendyl!” he shouted, darting out of the room in the direction of her voice. Someone called after him, pleading with him to wait, but Allyn barely heard. The part of him that did didn’t listen. The hallway became a dark tunnel as the world around him disappeared into shadows. He ran blindly, using only his ears to guide him. “Kendyl!” he called out again. No answer. But somewhere ahead of him, he heard the scraping of labored steps. Then voices. A whimper. A shush. He pushed forward.

Allyn slid around the corner, barely catching sight of a group of people. He didn’t recognize all of them, but he did her.

Kendyl wasn’t chained or bound, dragged or pushed. She followed the group like an abused pet, out of fear, not loyalty. Her dark hair, normally bordering on black except for a warm-brown sheen in direct light, was knotted and faded as though it hadn’t seen a brush in weeks. A gaunt face with bloodshot eyes looked at him and… nothing. She had no expression, as if she didn’t even see him. Her face heavy and slow, she watched him like someone who’d taken too many painkillers.

This wasn’t the Kendyl he knew. That Kendyl, his
real
sister, was a warm, inviting person. She didn’t bring just sunshine into a room; she brought the sun. She burned with positive energy, warming even the worst of days. She didn’t get down. She didn’t get depressed. She smiled and waved at the difficulties in her life. It would take true horror to turn her into the cold, lifeless shell of a person that Allyn saw.

They disappeared around the corner.

He stormed ahead, rage filling him, burning so hot that he could feel his body growing warmer. The pain from the splinters in his arm, the ache in his back that had never quite healed since the fall, and the dull headache from the building stress all faded as the burning anger swelled through him. He felt almost as if he could grab it.

“Kendyl!” Allyn rounded the corner.

They stopped and turned to meet him. Lukas arched an eyebrow. He wasn’t what Allyn remembered. He was shorter and skinnier. His curly hair was thinner, but he held his shoulders high and his back straight. His chin was slightly elevated, exuding supreme confidence. If it weren’t for the pulsing aggression inside him, Allyn might have wilted under such confidence. Lukas pushed Kendyl behind him, and one of his magi took her by the shoulders.

Kendyl watched Allyn, recognition slowly forming in her eyes.

She still doesn’t believe it’s me
.
What have they done to her?
They were back in the barracks hall of the compound, outside Lukas’s room.
He’s trying to slip out the back door
. Allyn cursed himself; he should have left a couple magi behind in case Lukas returned.

“Allyn,” Lukas said, his voice a soft tenor. “I wish we could have met under better circumstances. Your sister has been kind enough to tell me so much about you. Defender of the weak, protector of the innocent, speaker for the voiceless. It’s ironic for a silent man like yourself, is it not? Or has Graeme finally unlocked the power that resides in you?”

“You’re a liar,” Allyn said. “I can’t wield, and you know that. That was never your game. You used me as a pawn to distract Graeme while you built a coalition behind his back.”