Chapter 3 - Rhea
1167 Words
Concrete dust blooms white.
The substation wall erupts inward, cinder blocks shattering. I dive over Acker as a slab slices past us. The thing bursting through the hole is wrong—jointed like a hound, ribbed with vents that glow blue-white. Silver fog leaks from its jaw.
“Seeker,” Slade snaps. “Masks!”
Holly fires; the bolt ricochets with a metallic clang. The machine’s head swivels toward her, curious as a cat. It inhales. The temperature drops instantly.
“Get down!” I yank Holly flat as the seeker vents a cone of glittering spray. The breaker panel hisses, the air stinking of ozone and copper pennies.
Two more seekers skitter through the hole.
Slade vaults a cabinet, metal calf ringing. “They key to heat and scent. They’ll go for me.”
“They’ll go for whoever kills them first,” I growl, and meet the nearest one halfway.
It’s faster than a wolf and heavier than it looks. We hit, shoulder to metal. I jam my hand into a seam, feel silver bite through my glove. The machine drags me toward its mouth; I lock my elbow and drive it sideways into a pillar. “Holly—now!”
Her bolt hits the lens under its jaw. The pulse charge implodes it. I wrench my knife into the c***k. The seeker convulses, then stills.
“Well played. Two left,” Slade says, already on the move.
One leaps for Acker. Holly shoves him aside, shoots, rolls clear of the returning vent. The other slams into Slade.
He pivots, catches its forelimb on the rim of his prosthetic, and yanks. The leg holds—reinforced. He jams a ceramic blade from his shin into the vent seam. Gas spews back into its own body.
“Slade!” Holly warns.
He drags the first machine between them just as the second vents, drowning its twin in silver fire. Both crash, shrieking. He finishes them cleanly in three precise thrusts, efficient, almost surgical.
Silence lasts a heartbeat before the ground outside vibrates. It's worse than any earthquake I've ever experienced.
“More incoming,” Holly says.
“First wave down,” Slade answers. “Second wave pins. Third retrieves.”
“Retrieves what?” Acker blurts.
“Assets,” Slade says, looking at me. “To be blunt, me.”
Holly swears. “They keyed to your scent?”
“Worse.” He taps the scar at his throat. “Subdermal tag. Fried years ago, but seekers still catch a ghost.”
“Well, we'll cut it out,” I say.
“It’s buried near the clavicle. You planning surgery mid-siege, Robur?”
“Don’t call me Robur.”
He smirks. “OK. What do I call you?”
“Alpha,” Acker says fiercely. Hotheaded young pup, but loyal in the extreme.
Slade’s mouth twitches. “Yes, Alpha.”
The hum outside deepens, dozens now.
He notices the half-dead breaker arrays. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Can we fry them?”
“If we push a surge through the bus bar,” he says, already stripping wires, “but someone’s got to hold this strap until it arcs.”
“And that someone?”
“Whoever doesn’t mind a temporary heart attack.”
“I’ll do it,” I say.
“Absolutely not,” he bites out firmly.
So he does feel it.
“My wolf runs hotter. I’ll survive it.” If he gives me any of that but you're a lady bullcrap, I swear to Moon I'll end him with a snap of my teeth, however ludicrously sexy he is.
He curses but knows I'm right, so he loops the copper around my palm, tight enough to bite. “Keep your other hand off the panel, or it’ll cross to your heart.”
The first of the new seekers crawls through the breach, vents whining.
“Ready?” he says.
I nod once, sharply. “Do it.”
He throws the breaker. The hum becomes a scream. The bar glows dull orange.
I slam the copper down.
Light eats the world. My muscles seize; my wolf howls, screams, inside my ribs. Sparks spit, the air tasting of thunder. Seekers in the yard freeze mid-stride, seams strobing. One pops like an overripe bulb.
“Two more seconds!” Slade shouts, voice far away.
I hold until my fingers won’t open. Slade hits my wrist, breaking the contact. The current dumps me to my knees. That hurt.
Outside, five seekers lie smoking in the grass. Two still twitch.
“Again?” I gasp.
“No,” Slade says, gripping the back of my neck. “You’re done.” I swear his fingers stroke along my skin briefly.
“But that one’s moving—”
“We’ll handle it.” He steps past me as the last seeker limps through the hole. Holly fires and misses. Slade ducks under its vent, hooks his prosthetic around its throat, and wrenches. The blade flashes; the machine drops.
Silence again. My ears ring.
“The next wave won’t risk the field for a minute,” he says. “Then the real cleanup team comes.”
“People?” Acker whispers.
“Vargheist men. With nets.”
Headlights flare through the trees in low, predatory beams. Voices bark orders.
“Exit,” I demand.
“Maintenance channel,” Slade says, pointing. “Back corner.”
We wedge our shoulders under the rusted grate. It groans, resisting our efforts, and then gives with a screech. Acker slips through, landing in wet leaves and skidding along them before regaining his balance. “Go!” I bark. “Holly next.”
She drops clean. I brace to follow—
But there's a whistle, and then a loud snap.
The net hits like a living thing, cords searing my arms. I wrench an elbow up to keep it off my throat; smoke curls where silver touches skin.
And I thought the temporary heart attack hurt. I'd take that a thousand times over this itching, stinging agony.
“Alpha!” Holly lunges, but Acker hauls her back.
“Don’t—touch—”
The net jerks me off my feet. Slade grabs the edge on instinct. The coils climb him too, and suddenly we’re locked together, shoulder to shoulder, breath to breath.
Vargheist soldiers step through the breach. Masks, rifles, eerily perfect formation. One taps a control; the net hums tighter. Slade’s breath rasps against my cheek. My wolf thrashes within, furious and helpless.
A voice slides through a loudhailer outside, smooth and poisonous.
“Good evening, Alpha Robur. Hand over my stray, and your pups may live. If I'm feeling generous.”
The name freezes my blood. Alec Vargheist. Rotten bastard, cruel to the core.
Another click. A red dot blooms over Slade’s chest—dead center.
My inner wolf roars. Don't you DARE...
“Choose,” Alec purrs. “Your throne… or your mate.”
To be continued…
- Writer
