The Fugitives, A Dystopian Vampire Novel: Book Four: The Superiors Series (23 page)

CHAPTER forty-two

Byron could not believe his luck. He’d caught up at just the right moment, when there was nowhere to hide. Nowhere safe, anyway. Why anyone would choose to come to this godforsaken place was beyond him. At first, they’d paralleled a highway, but now, they’d settled in a blank, wasted space so worthless that Superiors had never bothered to farm the land or build a city. There was nothing. Nothing except this outlaw, the bane of his existence, the needle in his eye.

A few days before, he’d run onto the human road system from hundreds of years back. He’d stopped the car when the road ruptured, the asphalt torn beyond use, trees looming on either side. Since then, he’d been walking. He tried not to see the trees as threats, but that was like trying to keep his cool while walking in front of a firing squad. After a day, he started worrying that, distracted by fear, he’d lose his edge and Draven would spot him first. He could not equate the man he had once mentored with the depraved bloodbagger he now hunted.

As he entered the abandoned city, he kept his pod always in hand, ready to react to Draven’s slightest movement. He’d learned that all over again when he’d hunted Ander in the desert. He’d been so busy looking at the location on his screen that he hadn’t seen the man until he was upon him. Draven had saved him that time, or so he had thought. But for all he knew, Draven and Ander had been chums from the start. He wouldn’t doubt it—they were two of a kind.

Watching his screen and his surroundings at once, he went straight for the spot on that marked Draven’s location. He’d silenced his pod so Draven wouldn’t hear him, but it alerted him with a slight vibration when he came within shooting range. His hand went to his gun, but after a second’s hesitation, he drew back. He’d used the gun on Draven twice now, and Draven was still alive. This time, he wouldn’t try to paralyze him. He’d save the gun for a criminal he intended to bring back alive.

Byron removed his dagger from its sheath and searched his surroundings. This was eerily similar to when he’d caught Ander. Again, he stood on the very spot where his prey should be. But Draven wasn’t there, and he could see nothing but piles of rubble and ratty little weeds trying to survive in a concrete wasteland. Draven could not have buried himself in sand, as Ander had. If he was under Byron, he’d encased himself in concrete.

He had been there, though. Byron could see that well enough. The sickening stench of human excrement and vomit lingered, and black circles dotted the pavement where they’d built fires. Rather than hiding, they’d lit them in plain view. Somehow, their recklessness both infuriated and pleased Byron—a sick self-satisfaction at having been right about their utter brainlessness. He smiled without awareness, a feral grin fixed on his face as he crept forward, casting his senses.

When he’d circled the area, he returned to the spot where Draven should have been. The marker on his pod was flashing green. According to the tracer, he was all but standing on the man. A sinking feeling began in his gut. The tracer was activated. No one had turned it off. Draven must have discovered it and removed it.

That, or he’d hidden himself in the pile of concrete blocks beside Byron. Byron surveyed the pile thoughtfully. Draven could have seen or heard or scented Byron’s approach and hidden, but even a cowardly Third would have made his move by now, using what little advantage he could get. Byron smashed into the pile, kicking over the stacks of blocks in every direction, hurling them until he was covered in dust and could see clearly that no one hid within the disintegrating trash heap.

But something had caught his attention. He leapt the remaining blocks and landed silently, crouched and ready. Even while most of him had been smashing apart the pile, lost in fury, his brain had noted the differing quality of sound in this spot. Working silently now, he lifted away the blocks he’d thrown there. And there, like a gift, wrapped and waiting, lay a door.

Byron dropped his pod into his pocket and gripped his dagger. With his free hand, he grasped the handle of the door, iron bonded into cement, and pulled. Although heavy, the door opened easily enough—but it let out a horrible, metallic scream as it did so. Byron froze, dagger at the ready. When nothing happened, he descended the ladder. They’d left it for him as if they expected the company, and the unmistakable rhythm of a sapien heartbeat welcomed him to their home.

For a moment, he considered whether they were smart enough to set a trap for him. He didn’t think they were. Inside, the place was rank with the stink of dirt, mold, and all manner of awfulness, including Superior-sapien coupling. Byron held his breath and fought his reflex to gag. He hadn’t savored anything so utterly putrescent since he’d found an incubus’s harem of dead humans. Draven had managed an equal stench with only one.

Byron edged away from the door, towards the far end of the room. His eyes strained for shapes in the dark. Because of his age, he could see in the dark better than Draven, just as Draven could stand sunlight better. But he needed a bit of light, even just starlight, to bounce reflections off the objects in the room. Tonight, the stars were safely hidden above the clouds, and after a dozen steps into the underground pit, no light whatsoever penetrated the darkness.

With reluctance, Byron took a small breath to guide him. Evil odors clung to their scents, drowning and diverting him as he crept through the aisles. Draven had found the perfect lair, just the sort of place for a man to torture his victim, indulge his perversions with his sex slave, and leave her decimated body without concern for discovery. He had probably hung chains from the ceiling and the walls of the dungeon, collected strange devices whose torturous intent would be mysterious to Byron. Only someone sick enough to use them would be able to surmise their intended purpose. Draven would know how to employ each to cause maximum suffering.

Byron cast his senses before him, to where he could hear his sapien breathing, along with the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. She slept alone on the bed. She was rightfully, lawfully his, and now he’d have her at last. After the last time, Draven should know better than to leave her unguarded, ready for the taking. Byron never made the same mistake twice.

He slipped his hand into his pocket and retrieved his pod. Keeping his fingers wrapped around the device to subdue the light, he held it in front of him. The sapien slept in the bed, like a person, tucked under blankets, her head on a pillow. Not on a mat on the floor, but in a bed. He smothered his disgust. He would take her back, and he’d show her the proper place for her to sleep, the proper treatment of a Superior towards a sapien. Not some mixture of horror and privilege, as she now endured.

He sensed movement before he heard it, the current of air, of someone falling. Spinning away from the bed, he thrust the dagger upwards. Neatly as that, he’d impaled his enemy. Draven had dropped as if from the sky, the way cottonmouth snakes were said to fall from trees into boats moving down a river below. When Draven saw the dagger protruding from his middle, he looked shocked by the turn of events.

Byron laughed. “Did you think you’d surprise me? You should know, my friend, I cannot be surprised.”

Draven’s only weapon was a silver chain, which he had cast over Byron when he dropped down like a spider on what he’d no doubt assumed would be unsuspecting prey. Only a young fool, a Third, would be so cocky as think he could outwit a stronger, smarter, faster Superior with such ease.

For the moment, Draven was stunned senseless, his brain unable command his body over the roar of pain. Byron knew. He’d been injured many times. He’d lived through a war.

When Byron grew bored of waiting for a response, he twisted the dagger. The younger man emitted a wet, rasping groan. “You thought you had the cunning to outsmart me, did you?” Byron asked. “You didn’t think you’d get caught. And how does it feel, knowing you’ll meet your death as nothing, that you’ve always been nothing and will never be more?”

Draven took a faltering step back, still stunned but trying to withdraw from the dagger. Byron stepped forward in answer, and with another quick thrust, he inserted the dagger the final inch. “You think you can outsmart me? Look at yourself. You have a dagger in your chest. You’re a murderer, a thief, a predator, a bloodbagger, and a traitor. No one will be sorry to see you go. I could drive home with your head as a trophy, like they did in the old days, and I’d get a great cheer for it. But I’m not that barbaric. I’m Superior to all those petty urges now. I’m sorry to see you’re not.”

Draven blinked rapidly, trying to clear his head to retaliate. But Byron knew he’d already rendered him harmless. “You don’t deserve the title of Superior,” Byron snarled. “Consorting with humans in the disgusting way you do. I’d say you’re no better than they are, but you’re worse, because you know better. They can’t help their repulsive nature. You can.”

Draven stood perfectly still, only breathing shallow, silent breaths. Finally, he spoke. “I cannot.”

“Then you’re a flaw, a blemish on our race, a deformity. Are you an incubus? Is that your excuse for defiling and violating humans?”

“I…do not…defile her,” Draven managed, though each word seemed to cost him.

Byron laughed again. “Oh, I know what you’ll say. You’ll say she likes it, like the man Ander said. Or you’ll swear you never touched her, that she did it all, seduced you while you were hapless and helpless. I’ve heard all the excuses, you little shit-stain. You think she likes it?” He withdrew the dagger halfway, as if he would take it back, and then plunged it into Draven again. “Do you like this? This is how it feels to them.”

Draven made a choking, sobbing sound, and doubled over, blood dribbling from his mouth onto Byron’s arm. Then he collapsed in a clatter of chain, and to Byron’s horror, the dagger slipped from his hand as he stumbled forward, the chain tangled around his legs. But though he’d lost his grip, he hadn’t lost his feet. Draven scrabbled on the floor, writhing about and trying to free the dagger from his middle. For a moment, Byron laughed at the pathetic sight—until he saw that Draven meant to wrestle him by the legs and bring him down, too.

Byron caught his balance by grasping the edge of one of the shelves, and just then, he felt the warmth of the sapien rise behind him. He turned, knowing better than anyone that even a brainless sapien could harm him if he wasn’t prepared. He wouldn’t let her surprise him again.

But as he turned, his feet caught in the chain, and he stumbled. With an ear-piercing shriek, the sap lunged, crude wooden knife in hand. He moved to block the weapon, which set him further off balance, giving her just the opportunity she needed to throw every bit of her weight into him. She didn’t exert much force, but it was just enough to catch him by surprise and tumble him to the floor. This time, she used her weapon, leaping onto him and slashing at him like a fiend with her wooden knife. And though it wasn’t finely crafted like his, it worked well enough.

Byron bit down on his lip until his drawing teeth broke the skin. He couldn’t afford to waste even a moment being stunned senseless like Draven. The sap managed only one stroke with the blade before he tore it from her hands. She had the audacity to look surprised, as if she hadn’t known he had strength enough to take it from her. He laughed into her wide-eyed face and snapped the little knife in half. A hideous sapien howl tore from her throat, and like a demon, she clawed and bit at him, scratching at his face and hands.

He brushed her storm of blows away as if he were only shooing a fly. Being so close to her reminded him of his particular fondness for her sap, and though she’d been ruined and he didn’t want her back, he wouldn’t mind having one more taste. Snatching her hands in one of his, he pulled her close, ducking aside when she threw her forehead towards his chin. He twisted her head to one side and opened his mouth to bite into her, but before he could, the chain was wrenched tightly around his thighs.

Tossing Cali aside, he kicked at Draven, but while he’d been occupied with the sap, Draven had managed to fasten the chain around his legs. Byron braced himself, gathered his strength, and lashed out with both legs at once, expecting the chain to snap and fall away. It held fast, his body jolted by the force of the blow on the unyielding chain. His head whipped forward and a bolt of pain shot up his spine.

Steel.

The knowledge sunk into Byron with a horror he could hardly fathom. If he’d known, if he’d had time to process that information, he’d never have let Draven near him. He’d thought the Third writhed about with the usual ineffectual and paltry efforts at engaging him in combat. But somewhere Draven had procured a black-market steel chain with locks.

Draven stood back from Byron, out of reach. His face had gone grey, and the dagger still protruded from his chest like some kind of obscene, bleeding erection. His mouth hung slack, a trickle of blood snaking from one corner. When he bent to secure the free end of the chain to the base of a support beam, a thin stream of blood flowed from his mouth like a brain-dead sap’s saliva.

CHAPTER forty-three

Draven and Cali left their safe haven in silence. Byron was screaming enough curses for them all. Even if Draven had risked pulling Byron’s dagger from his chest and letting his blood spill, he knew he had little chance against the Enforcer. He’d lose strength as quickly as he lost blood, and Byron’s strength was already far too great an advantage.

They had no other weapon to use against him—that was, if they’d dared go near him. They did not. The moment Draven came within reach, Byron would have killed him. He snarled like a rabid dog, writhing and screaming and all but roaring at them in their retreat. Compared to what he could have done to them, they’d gotten off relatively unscathed. But they both knew they’d left things unfinished. Byron wouldn’t stop pursuing them until they were both dead, or until he was.

Draven considered carving a branch into a sharp point and going back for Byron. But he’d not come out alive again. Not while Byron’s arms were free. Going within striking distance meant he’d be within Byron’s reach as well, and even at full strength, Draven would be no match for a Second. And he was not at full strength. Byron had sustained only the small injuries left by Cali’s knife, hardly more than a scratch, while Draven was nearly incapacitated by pain.

He didn’t dare remove the dagger yet. It had been close enough to a mortal blow that he might make it so if he angled the blade incorrectly as he withdrew it. The pain made him weak enough without adding to it the loss of blood that would occur when he opened the wound.

Climbing the ladder proved painful for both Draven and Cali. Despite their eagerness to escape Byron, they didn’t have the strength to employ that urgency. Draven only just managed to haul a bag and a shotgun along with him. Before climbing through the door, he emptied the shotgun into the darkness where he estimated Byron lay. Though the shells would not kill a Superior, they would wound him and thereby slow his recovery. By the change in Byron’s tone, Draven knew some of the shot had found its target.

After clambering from the shelter, Draven drew up the ladder, a task that proved more taxing than he liked to admit. He lodged the shotgun barrel through the door’s handle and set up a concrete slab to receive the blows that would be required to open the door. When he had maneuvered the backpack onto his back and stood with the slowness of someone on the edge of death, Cali stood to follow. She limped after him, favoring her ankle and cradling one arm in the other. “Are you going to die?” she asked when Draven had to stop and rest after a few minutes.

“Not today,” he said.

“Can I pull it out?”

“Not yet.”

They stumbled onwards, but when the day lightened, they had hardly gained the woods. Cali retrieved Draven’s sunshades and settled them over his eyes, grimacing in pain at lifting one of her arms.

“Are you hurt badly?” he asked.

“A little. How are you?”

“Never better,” he said, managing a smile. “I’ve noticed a small overhang just on the other side of the stream. We’ll sleep there today.”

“Shouldn’t we go further than that?”

“Are you able to continue?”

Doubt shadowed her pinched expression. “Maybe?”

“It will take some for him to break free,” Draven assured her.

“But what if he does?” Cali whispered, pulling her injured arm even closer.

“He won’t come out in daylight,” Draven said with more confidence than he felt. He paused again at the edge of the stream. A great weariness had settled over him, as if he’d already been buried and the ground itself held him fast.

Cali slipped on a stone and her foot fell into the water, but she did not respond, as if she couldn’t feel the cold. After a few more steps, she turned back. “Hurry, we’re close. We can pull the knife out then, can’t we?”

“Yes,” he said, but he didn’t move. His voice sounded quiet and absent, as if his mind couldn’t concern itself with the words it sent to his tongue.

“Do you want me to do it now, so we can wash?”

“No.”

She returned to where he stood and took his hand, but when he made no move to follow, she slid the pack from his shoulders. With the chain absent, it weighed little. Still, she staggered under its weight and clutched her side. She stood holding her ribs, bent slightly, while she caught her breath.

“Can you go on?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, straightening and lifting her chin. He could see the pain clouding her eyes, but she hadn’t lost her willfulness.

“Follow that bluff,” he said, nodding to indicate the direction. “Just a bit downstream. Find a place to shelter. You know how to make a fire, yes? I put two small guns in the pack. Bring me one, and I will show you how to use it.”

“But…” Her eyes widened. “Are you going back?”

“I can’t go on,” he said. “I’m sorry. If you can make it until winter, that will be the challenge. But animals are easier to spot in the snow. Store what you can.”

“Stop it,” she said, an edge of panic creeping into her voice. “Just stop. I’m not going anywhere without you, and you’re not going back.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t believe you.” She stepped towards him, grasped his hand, and dragged him forward. When he didn’t move his feet, Cali began pummeling his shoulder with her fist. He’d felt pain before, more than this, but for some unknown reason, he was suddenly immobilized, as if only his feet had been hit with the paralyzer gun.

“I won’t leave you,” Cali said. “I won’t. Now move your souldamned feet!”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Go. You need your strength.”

“Promise you won’t go back.”

“I promise.”

“What will you do?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I imagine I’ll sit a while. I haven’t lain in the sun for such a long time…”

“Stop it, stop it, stop it,” she said, covering her ears with the palms of her hands. “You don’t get to do this. You’ll be okay. You have to. Nothing can kill you. And you’re stronger than me, so if I can walk, you can walk.”

“Cali. Go and rest. Don’t think of me again. Promise you won’t.”

“I will never promise that. I’ll think of you any time I want, all the time, because you’ll be with me. Now walk. Right now.” Cali glared, her face a mask of irritation and defiance that made his heart constrict painfully.

“If he comes this way, perhaps I can stall him,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll end him. You’ll be truly free, at last. No more Superiors.”

“I am truly free,” she burst out, throwing up her hands. “So walk, right now, or I’m leaving you.”

“If you need to know anything, return today and ask. I’ll wait here.”

“Fine, I’m leaving,” she said. “You always give up when things get bad. You’re a burden, anyway. I’ll do better without you.” She winced as she lifted the remaining bag in her right hand. She transferred it to her left, turned, and made her way into the creek, slipping on loose stones and staggering under the lopsided weight. Draven didn’t look away, but Cali never turned back. When she reached the far side of the water, she scanned the hillside, then stumbled into the trees and disappeared from view.

Draven slumped to the ground, relieved. He no longer had to keep up the pretense. Cali had taken with her his makeshift mask, and soon the sun began to burn his exposed face and hands. He rolled onto his back, lay on the bank of the creek, and closed his eyes against the glaring sunlight, blinding even through shades. After a time, the faint odor of wood smoke found his nostrils, and he knew Cali had begun to take care of herself.

His entire being seemed to be collapsing inwards, as if the wound in his middle formed a vacuum that drew his soul and mind and body into it, until only the vacuum itself remained.

A rustling sound jolted him back into his body, into himself. He squinted towards the woods, and there she was, emerging from trees and plowing into the creek, her hair flying out around her shoulders, her face possessed with determination. She stopped at the water’s edge. “Come on.” Her expression matched the commanding force in her voice.

Draven didn’t answer.

“Get up,” she insisted, her words sharp with irritation. “You can’t give up. I won’t let you. Now stand up.”

He stood.

“Good. Now. Put one foot in front of the other, and pretty soon, you’re all the way there, where you didn’t think you could go. I’m not leaving until you come, so you might as well not waste the time arguing. Let’s go.”

But he could not.

“Fine,” she said. “If I have to carry you, I’ll carry you. I’m not leaving you out here to die like a wounded animal.” She bent and pushed her shoulder into his stomach. The blade shifted inside him, and his mind whirled with pain.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t, you’ll hurt yourself.”

“Stop your words.” Cali grasped his arm and heaved.

“Let me down, dammit,” he said. “I’ll not have you carry me when you’re injured. I’ll use my own two feet or stand here and die before I have you hurt yourself for me.”

In a half dozen steps, she’d staggered across the stream with his body draped over her shoulder the way he carried a fresh kill. There, she dropped him onto his feet. He staggered against the blinding pain that ripped through him at every movement. Cali’s face had blanched white, as if he’d drained her of all blood this time.

“Don’t ever risk yourself for me,” he snapped when he could speak.

“Then don’t make me,” she said, throwing her tangled hair over her shoulder before turning and walking away again. Her stubborn courage seemed to give him strength, and his legs propelled him forwards, trailing after the human who had refused to surrender when he had.

When he reached the cliff under which she’d made her fire, he sank onto a ledge that angled up from the stone floor. “Thank you,” he said.

Cali remained silent.

“If you would allow me, I’d ask one thing further,” he said.

“What?” She looked at him as if she weren’t sure she could trust him. “You need to eat? Because I’m awfully tired, too. I’d rather sleep for about five days straight than walk another step. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to feed you, too.”

“When I draw from you, I grow stronger. But if I drew from a Superior, I’d be much stronger. I’d heal much faster.” He struggled to compose his words over the roar of pain in his chest.

“But you can’t, because that’s cannibalism, right?” She sighed and pulled up her sleeve. “I know, you told me. It’s terribly, awfully wrong, even more than loving a human.”

He held up a hand to stop her. “When I remove the knife…would you put your mouth to it? One of us should heal, and I don’t know that I will. Perhaps it will help you to heal quickly. If it has the same effect on humans, you will feel it instantly.”

Cali stopped short and stared at him. “You want me to draw from you?”

“Take what comes. It won’t be much, but I’ll lose strength as I lose it.”

“Then why don’t you drink it?”

“Perhaps you will benefit more.”

“So I’ll heal, and you’ll die.”

He did not answer.

“No,” she said, shaking her head, lips tight. “You need it. You drink it.”

“Can I drink from my own chest? Come. Put your mouth to me.”

She hesitated, stepped forward, and faltered again before she knelt at his feet. Her eyes never leaving his face, she pushed his knees apart and crawled forward, lifted her face, and waited. Gripping the hilt of the beautiful wooden dagger, the one he’d used to kill a man, Draven drew it slowly from his chest. Halfway through, he paused to take a breath, tighten his grip on the handle, and withdraw the blade further, keeping it on the exact course on which it had entered, careful not to angle the tip lest it nick his heart. Pain shimmered through him, obscuring his vision, but the relief his body experienced at having the foreign object removed outweighed it.

“Now.” He grasped the back of Cali’s head and brought her to him. She opened her lips and let his blood drip onto them. Crimson droplets clung to her cheeks and chin. As he pulled her closer still, she touched his skin with her tongue, tentatively at first but growing more bold as she licked at the blood. He watched, fascinated, as she drew him into her for the first time, and he returned the favor he’d so often asked of her.