Two Gatekeepers: bazooka-convert Leon is closest to me. Both are wearing trench coats and carrying broadswords.
I shift—snatch up my sword from the crusty carpet—and shift again, already swinging at Leon’s neck as I materialise. His reaction is sluggish but he manages to block the blade centimetres from his throat. I kick him in the sternum, drive him backwards, swing again. My muscles hum with adrenaline. The other Gatekeeper—it’s Agiel, I remember now—ducks past us and I hear steel clash behind me.
The bar is so narrow there’s hardly room to swing a sword without burying it in furniture or the wall. My blade locks with Leon’s above our heads, we strain against each other. Long white hair hangs over one eye.
‘You will pay for Bel,’ he snarls, and spittle lands on my cheek. Up close, I see his eyes are more yellow than orange today, barely flickering. In a flash, I understand: he and Agiel are only here because they thought Mya was alone and easy prey. Neither has fully recovered from being blinded by Nathaniel at the Sanctuary last night.
I shove the demon away, grab a glass with my free hand and fling it at him. He’s still quick enough to block the missile with his sword—glass shatters, beer and shards spray everywhere—but he leaves himself exposed for a split second. I strike hard and fast at his ribs. My blade slices through Leon’s coat, shirt and flesh. He grunts and twists away. I wrench the sword free, risk a quick look over my shoulder.
Ez has drawn both knives and is keeping Agiel busy as he fends off her precision attacks. Mya wouldn’t have stood a chance against one Gatekeeper, let alone two. Not on her best day, and certainly not with the amount of rum she’s got on board. Even now, tag-teaming with Ez, she’s barely moving half speed.
We don’t need to be here doing this right now. Even if we manage to kill Leon and Agiel, it won’t stop what’s coming. Won’t change the fact we’ve got a bigger battle looming on the other side of the planet. But when I look at Leon, all I see is Rafa lying in a pool of his own blood, sliced up so badly that even shifting couldn’t heal him. I imagine Leon watching Bel go to work on him, goading and laughing.
‘Say when,’ Ez says and kicks Agiel’s thigh.
He staggers back into the bar, grabs a stool and flings it. She ducks and it crashes into the wall behind her. Leon backs away, pressing fingers against his wound. Bares his teeth at me.
‘You will beg for death before we are done with you.’
I lunge at Leon—and meet nothing but air. I stumble against the bar and I spin around, expecting an attack from behind but the worthless piece of shit has shifted out of the room. Abandoned Agiel to fend for himself. Frustration grips me. I want to fight Leon. I know what I’m doing now—no more second-guessing, no more hoping my instincts kick in. I feel it in my bones, in every joint and muscle: I’m good at this. I toss my katana from hand to hand, wait for an opening to help Ez and Mya, but Agiel notices Leon’s absence and shifts mid-swing.
Pathetic.
Ez, Mya and I instinctively draw together, backs to each other while we catch our breaths. Leon’s blood drips from the tip of my sword onto the carpet. I doubt anyone will notice a new stain. The old guy and the barman have made themselves scarce.
‘We need to go,’ Ez says.
‘I know.’ I glance over my shoulder at Mya. ‘You coming?’
She chews on her lip. ‘Does Jude remember everything too?’
‘Yep.’
She falls quiet and I break formation to look at her. ‘Are you in love with him?’
‘Not like that.’
‘Like how?’
Ez has turned too. Mya checks her sword, even though it’s clean. ‘Jess was the first person ever to treat me like I mattered. Jude was the second, and not because he wanted to get in my pants. He was actually interested in what I thought.’
‘What about Malachi? Maybe you weren’t paying attention, but he had feelings for you before you humiliated him.’
She doesn’t meet my eyes. ‘I don’t do relationships.’
I glance at the clock on the wall. We’ve been here too long. ‘Are you coming with us or not?’
‘I need to talk to Jess first.’
‘You worried you’ll upset Virginia if you come back to us now the truth’s out?’
Her laugh is sharp, bitter. ‘I’ve been disappointing Virginia for decades, one more black mark won’t make a difference. No, I want to see Jess.’
‘Are Virginia and Debra still here in LA?’
‘That’s not your problem.’
A prick of annoyance. ‘You need to make sure they’re safe. If Zarael thinks they can design another iron room—’
‘I’m not an idiot, Gabe.’ She takes a steadying breath. ‘They’re safe for now, from Zarael and Nathaniel. Don’t be getting any ideas about taking Virginia back to the Sanctuary so they can keep questioning her.’
‘Are you fucking kidding? You honestly think I want Nathaniel to know how Virginia built that iron trap? I never want to see a room like that again, I don’t care who has control of it.’
Mya narrows her eyes. Clearly she can’t reconcile the fact that I remember my old life and I’m willing to defy Nathaniel. Old habits die hard for her too.
Ez puts a hand on Mya’s shoulder. ‘Promise me you’re right behind us.’
Mya uses the neckline of her t-shirt to wipe the kohl streaks from her cheeks. ‘I can’t promise much, Ez, but I’ll show.’
Ez and I shift into the top of the gully and hike down to the campsite. The familiar tang of eucalypt is a subtle comfort, until I hear sounds of flesh smacking on flesh beyond the trees. It’s not an attack—there’s no ringing steel, no shouting. But there’s no chatter either. No trash talking, no Zak barking orders at someone to watch their footwork. No, this is the sound of Rephaim working out their tension.
We clear a patch of ferns—and I almost walk into the business end of a double-barrel shotgun.
‘What the—’ I snatch the gun and duck sideways, stopping short of pistol-whipping the idiot pointing it.
‘Fuck, sorry!’ Woosha staggers back into a palm tree, one hand up and blood draining from his face. His left hand—the one missing a thumb—is strapped to his shoulder.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I snap.
‘Keeping watch.’ His bottom lip has three stitches where a ring used to be. He still has the row of studs over his right eyebrow.
‘On your own?’
‘I was taking a slash.’
I hand Woosha the shotgun. ‘You don’t have enough injuries?’
He gives me a filthy look and falls into step with us. We clear the trees and I see Mick, Rusty, Joffa and the blond mullet perched on vehicles, supposedly keeping watch. Their rifles and shotguns are trained on the forest but their attention is mostly behind them, on the frenetic hand-to-hand combat in the centre of the camp.
Woosha struggles with his good hand to climb onto the ute with Mick. He takes a quick look over his shoulder and then makes a show of scanning the forest.
The campsite has been cleared of chairs and swags to make room for sparring. Even Taya is at it, figuring out how to block kicks and punches without using her bad hand, telling Daisy to go harder on her. Zak and Seth have teamed up. Jude is putting Micah under pressure. I can’t tell who’s more pumped: Micah, being able to spar with Jude again, or my brother, finally back at full strength and speed.
I shake out my arms, the adrenaline still thrumming.
The only person not striking, dodging and blocking is Rafa. He’s on the sedan, watching Micah and Jude in silence. I’ve never known him not to offer a running commentary on Jude’s technique.
‘Heads up,’ Rafa says when he sees Ez and me.
Jude immediately steps back from Micah. Rafa gives me a quick once-over and his eyes drop to the stain on my sword.
‘Leon made an appearance,’ I say before he can ask. ‘He left with his head, unfortunately.’
‘And Mya?’ Jude wipes sweat from his forehead on his t-shirt sleeve.
‘She says she’ll be here shortly.’
He pauses, mid-wipe. ‘How badly did you hurt her?’
Ez and I exchange a quick glance. ‘I didn’t. Just her pride.’ I move past him to put my sword on the car. ‘Have we progressed beyond explosives yet?’
Jude shakes his head. He steps back into a fighter’s stance, gestures for Micah to come at him again. I watch them trade blows. In the corner of my eye I see Rafa reach around through the sedan’s open window and rummage in the glove box. He finds an old chamois and wipes down my sword. I roll my shoulders. Watch Taya and Daisy spar. Daisy’s still holding back; maybe I should step in and—
‘You want to go a few rounds?’
I look sideways at Rafa. My sword is beside him on the bonnet now, clean. ‘With you?’
‘Yeah.’
I feel a strange quiver of anticipation. ‘Are you up for it?’ I make a point of looking over his chest and ribs. I can tell there’s no bandage under his t-shirt, but that doesn’t mean he’s not sore where Bel carved a crescent moon into his chest—or where he was repeatedly stabbed in the gut.
‘I am if you are.’
The way he says it, I know he’s talking about more than my fitness. I can’t pick his mood, and this isn’t the conversation I had in mind. But…‘Okay.’
He slides from the car and heads to an area of grass away from everyone else. He stretches out his arms and cracks a knuckle on each hand. I take up a position opposite and shift my weight so I’m balanced and ready. Rafa does the same and we watch each other, uncertain. It’s like when we faced each other to spar on the mats in Dubai…
Ah.
I finally understand his reaction when he pinned me in that training room. It was a little too reminiscent of our last brawl at the Sanctuary, which ended when I put us both through a plate glass window.
If you ever touch me again, I will end you.
That’s what he’s waiting for now. The explosion of anger. Payback.
It’s still there, the memory of that moment. My humiliation. All that rage. But it’s like ink in water; it doesn’t hold form long enough for me to remember its shape.
‘Are we doing this?’ His eyes search mine. He can’t read me either.
‘Any time you’re ready.’
He cracks another knuckle. ‘You first.’
Nervous energy crackles through me. I step off and we circle each other, more out of habit than intent. The campsite has gone still: everyone’s stopped to watch. Nobody except Jude knows what really happened between Rafa and me, but they all know it was ugly—and they’re all curious to see what it means now. Whether it still matters.
Nobody ribs us for hesitating. Nobody says a word, not even Jones or Daisy. Too late, I wish we’d had the sense to take this elsewhere. Rafa is urging me to action, dark eyes insistent. I circle closer, shape up with loose fists. He does the same. Adrenaline fires my pulse.
‘Come on.’ He mouths the words like a lover’s whisper.
I rush him with a combination of rapid-fire punches, all aimed head-high. He moves back, blocks them with his palms and forearms, makes no attempt to counter. I aim a roundhouse kick at his shoulder. He ducks underneath, doesn’t take the obvious opening for a leg sweep. I alternate with punches and kicks, and we settle into a frenetic exchange—except I realise pretty quickly that I’m the only one attacking.
It’s an open invitation to go to town on him. The thing is, I still haven’t sorted through the storm that stirs in my chest every time I look at him. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t even know how I should feel.
But I know I don’t want to hurt him.
It’s hard not to remember him in the infirmary, helpless, struggling in and out of consciousness. The life leaking out of him. And it’s impossible not to remember him clean and bandaged, naked, in my bed. Sweet and tender and still a little broken.
I fall back to regroup and he stalks me, impatient. ‘Stop playing safe.’
I flex my fingers, gather myself, attack again. Another combination of jabs, hooks and uppercuts; kicks to his legs. He counters now, but without aggression: elbows, knees, forearms. My strikes are precise, well away from his chest and his stomach. I drive him backwards with a combination of punches, forcing him onto the back foot so I can aim a roundhouse kick at his head. He knows it’s coming: it’s my trademark move. He blocks and ducks—and then he drops his guard. I see him do it, but it’s too late to pull the kick. My runner slams into his jaw. His head snaps back horribly and the impact reverberates through my foot and ankle.
I hop backwards and drop my hands. ‘What the fuck was that?’
He steadies himself and rubs his jaw. ‘A good shot.’
‘Bullshit.’
Rafa settles back into the stance, hands up. ‘Come on. Go again.’
‘Forget it. I’m not using you as a punching bag.’
‘Don’t—’
He doesn’t finish because his stomach must dip like mine. We turn to the western side of the camp along with everyone else. My t-shirt is damp around my neck and my pulse still thuds in my throat. Sweat trickles down my spine. It can’t be Gatekeepers—not yet—but it could be Daniel or Uri or Callie or—
Rusty appears in the space between the vehicles. He looks spooked. There are two blonde heads with him. Mya and Jess. Was Mya scared to come alone? Jones and Ez are already moving towards them. I wipe my palms on my t-shirt. God, I need a shower.
I hear Rafa come up behind me. He stands so close I feel his breath on the back of my neck, not quite settled to normal. Heat radiates from him. ‘We have to finish this.’ Frustration in his voice, and need. I try to concentrate on Mya, try to read the mood of the camp, but my head swims with sandalwood and honey and sweat.
‘Does it have to involve fists and elbows?’
‘Isn’t that what you want?’
I glance over my shoulder at him, at the red mark on his face from my runner. ‘No.’
He searches my eyes again and then his gaze flicks past me. ‘Hold that thought.’
I look back across the camp to find Jess has grabbed Rusty and pressed a handgun to his temple.