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The Kevlar vest is tight and uncomfortable around my chest. I push it from the side, trying to find a perfect fit, wondering if I’ll ever get used to wearing it and, more importantly, if I’ll ever understand this new, vicious world in which my life hangs from a thread every time I take to the streets.
My black military boots thud against the concrete sidewalk as I move away from Pacific Place and Elliot Whitehouse’s headquarters. We haven’t moved, in spite of IgNiTe’s attack a month ago. We’re still in the same building. Moving would signify fear, and Elliot is too proud for that.
The late May sun warms my face, and it’s a welcomed feeling that shows me the world has kept its normal course in at least one way.
In the last month, many of the major streets have been cleared by the Eklyptor “government,” but not this one, which is exactly why I prefer it. I don’t have to walk among the invaders who pretend Seattle is theirs and us, humans, the vermin who infest it, and not the other way around. The biggest Eklyptors factions in the city, Whitehouse and Hailstone, are still not seeing eye to eye, but that hasn’t gotten in the way of their Takeover efforts, at least not nearly as much as I’d like. They have divided the city among themselves as if it were a big cake, and each is taking care of its slice diligently enough. Damn them!
I pass a burnt Metro Transit bus, its frame charred and many of its windows melted away by the intense fire that consumed it. Orange traffic cones and pedestrian safety fences lie strewn all over the street like forgotten relics from a faraway past. I skirt around them, then walk ahead, looking over my shoulder every few steps to make sure no one is following me.
My heart flutters, restless. I can’t wait to meet James and confirm he’s okay. I haven’t seen him since he took a bullet trying and failing to kill Whitehouse. He’s been too busy fighting other Eklyptor factions, and this is the first chance he’s gotten to meet me. A month ago when I last saw Aydan, he said James was recovering quickly thanks to his accelerated healing powers. Sometimes it pays to be a Symbiot. Still, I want to see him with my own two eyes.
With a certain skip in my steps, I cross 9th Avenue and continue down Pine Street. I’m eager to reach the van where I stash my motorcycle after each use. I’m dying to ride, to wrap my legs around the rumbling engine, and zip around the city streets on my way to hope.
That’s what IgNiTe, James and the crew are to me: Hope with a capital “H”.
As I pass in front of a gutted deli, I’m startled by my own reflection on one of the few window fronts that survived The Takeover riots. My features look so etched and angular that I hardly recognize myself. I’ve lost weight which is natural considering the stress of living under Whitehouse’s roof and the loss of appetite caused by dining around semi-human creatures all the time. But hey, no one can blame me, not when eating at a trough with a team of pigs would be an upgrade. My brown hair is well past shoulder length, curling slightly at the tips. My skin is sallow—not the healthy golden shade it used to be. I don’t spend much time in the sun anymore, which I sorely miss. Only my brown eyes seem the same, sharp and wide. Though, if I’m honest with myself, the sadness that used to live in their depths seems more profound now.
As I stare at my barely-recognizable image, something moves behind the window. My heart skips a beat. I jump back, hands snatching the gun at my hip, a Glock 22 with its 15-round magazine in place. I aim the weapon, hand shaking. I struggle to focus on whatever is on the other side. It takes me a few seconds to make out a shape huddled under a table. Slowly, my brain processes the information: a dirty sneaker, blue jeans, a puffy blue jacket and long, blond hair under a gray wool cap.
A girl!
A perfectly human girl, judging by the lack of buzzing inside my head.
Her face is obscured, but I can still see her wide blue eyes, brimming with fear. She’s clutching a yellow bag of chips close to her chest. Her hands shake as much as mine. Her face is contorted in a grimace of the worst kind, a mask of terror I know all too well. I’ve felt it on my own face one-too-many times. And why shouldn’t she be terrified?
She thinks I’m an Eklyptor.
I’m walking the streets in plain daylight as if I have nothing to fear. Only our enemies do that these days. She has no idea of the courage it takes to pretend you’re one of them.
I put up my left hand in a pacifying gesture and slowly lower my gun. The grimace on her face deepens, letting me know she’s aware that when Eklyptors show mercy, they’ll make you wish they’d shown you death.
She pushes further under the table.
I should help her, but it would be a mistake. She wouldn’t trust me. There isn’t any explanation I could offer that would satisfy her. Not that I would fault her for that.
If she’s stayed alive this long, she must be doing something right. I carefully holster the gun. Without breaking eye contact, I step back to the edge of the sidewalk.
A horrible sadness fills me and, suddenly, I feel like crying. How many like her are out there? How much longer will they be able to hide? Something passes between us. Her grimace softens an infinitesimal amount.
I look away and, fighting my rising shame, I continue down the street. My heart seems to shrivel in my chest, shame wrapping itself all around it and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. I take a deep breath and stuff my hands in my pockets, shoulders to my ears, eyes on my boots.
She’s better off without you, Marci. You’ll just get her killed or captured, and how are you gonna feel then?
A hell of a lot worse; that’s how.
I’m almost to the parking lot where I’ve kept the van ever since that first night I hot-wired it when I notice two moving black blotches against the blue sky.
I stop, all my senses on alert.
Scouts!
With measured steps, I continue down the road, more aware of my Kevlar vest and my .40 caliber gun. I don’t like that they’re flying in my direction and that I have nowhere to go but toward them. I’m in the middle of the block. Turning back or hurrying ahead would simply bring them here much faster.
And what about the girl? God, what about the girl?!
As their monstrous, dark shapes move closer, losing altitude, I keep wishing they’d spot something more interesting on another street and leave me alone.
No such luck.
Their enormous aquamarine and yellow wings flap in unison, making a rhythmic thwack, thwack sound. The sun shines on their colorful membranes and the sight is almost beautiful. Flying Eklyptors aren’t common. It takes them years to morph their hosts into air-conquering beings. Even from a distance, it’s obvious these scouts are older than old. They move too gracefully, almost as if they were born this way.
Within seconds, they cover an entire block and descend onto the middle of the street, about twenty-five yards away from me. I stop and hold their gaze. They size me up, then walk forward and get within buzzing distance. My head drones as I know theirs do. The one I judge to be the leader walks a few steps ahead of the other one.
He or she is tall—well over six feet—and, on the ground, moves clumsily on leathery talons tipped with ebony curved claws several inches long. Its legs are tall and spindly from ankle to knee but widen into muscular, smooth thighs covered in dappled yellow and aquamarine skin. The wings spring from its sides and are now folded neatly behind its back, extending well above its head. Its torso and arms are still human in shape and proportion, but covered in the same bizarre skin and voided of any markings that may identify it as male or female. Neither one wears any clothes, just a belt around their waist with a weapon, extra bullets and a standard-issue scanner attached to it.
They stop about ten feet away, looking wearily at my gun. They both tip their bald heads to one side as if to listen better. Their eyes have no whites. They’re round, orange marbles with small black pricks in the middle, like hawks’. They watch me for a moment. Their long, beak-like noses twitch and make snuffling sounds as they scent the air.
“Faction?” the leader asks in a slithery voice that is almost feminine. I decide this one was once a woman.
“Whitehouse. Yep, yep, Whitehouse it is.” I treat them to Azrael’s crazy talk. Ever since my agent took over me and revealed its deeply disturbing behavior, I’ve kept up the pretense that the creature is still in control. It is a useful tactic that helps me keep a low profile—no one wants to deal with a nutcase.
They frown their huge brows. I’ve never met these two before, but I need to stay in character in case I see them at headquarters or anywhere else with Eklyptors who know me.
Slowly, I pull out a pair of dog tags from behind my shirt. After Zara Hailstone’s death at what was supposed to be a friendly meeting with Elliot, hostilities between Eklyptor factions have intensified, creating the need for a way to easily tell friend from foe.
“Toss them,” She-Bird says, putting out a long-fingered hand.
I throw them. She catches them in one hooked claw, examines them for a moment, then passes them to her companion.
“Check this, Griffin.”
Griffin pulls the scanner from the belt at its waist and plugs one of the dog tags into a thin slot. An instant later, there is a short double beep.
“Clear,” the second scout says, tossing back the dog tags.
I catch them and put them back on. “Seen much action today? Huh? Huh?” My tone is casual enough. I should have nothing to fear from any Whitehouse Eklyptors, but I think I’ll never stop being unnerved and wary of them, no matter how deeply infiltrated I am.
“There’s some fighting going on in the west side. Around White Center,” the leader says with a squawk. “Igniters, I think. That’s all we’ve heard. You?”
I shake my head. “I just left headquarters. Haven’t seen a thing. Nope, not a thing.” An image of the scared girl in her blue jacket pops into my head.
The scouts nod. She-Bird looks down the street. “Where are you headed?”
“Just . . . uh . . . repurposing. Looking for a new ride. Something fun.” This is common enough. There are so many abandoned vehicles I could drive a new one every day. “A motorcycle, maybe. Yeah, that would be fun.” I make engine noises with my mouth, sputtering saliva like a toddler.
The leader scoffs, looking disgusted. “Not graceful,” she says, giving its wings a quick shake to demonstrate how much she thinks of motorized means of transportation.
“Best I can do right now.” I shrug and point a finger down the street. “Need to go. Gotta be on my way.”
They look about as ready to get away from me as I am to get away from them. A great benefit of my crazy Azrael act.
I give them a military salute, then march forward, sensing their eyes on the back of my neck. It takes all I’ve got to ignore the feeling and keep moving without looking over my shoulder. With every step, I wait for the flap of wings, instead, I hear the retreating click, click, click of claws against asphalt.
Finally, I give into my curiosity and look back. They’re walking away from me, their unusual shapes swaying from side to side, their noses pointed upward as they sniff the air.
“Shit!” I murmur under my breath and slip into the recessed entrance of The Paramount Hotel.
Suddenly, the leader turns its head sharply toward the deli and gestures Griffin. They take their guns out and clamber toward the small restaurant on their leathery talons.
The girl’s luck has just run out.