Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 113936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
The male lowered his eyes, and in the tense silence, Kane studied those harsh, lean features. He had seen much of them since he had detonated his collar and the circlet had exploded. Apex had stayed for hours at his bedside, for reasons he still could not understand.
“You need to save yourself.”
Apex didn’t reply. Didn’t nod or shake his head. He was like a statue, though under his surface, there was heat and life. And aggression.
“Can you move him?”
The female voice was a surprise, and yet expected, given who had pulled Kane out of the back of the toppled vehicle. Lucan’s shellan was dressed in darkness, and she had a gun in her hand. Though there was blood on her cheek and smudging across her jacket, she was as unflappable as a person in their place of usual habitation.
“Yes,” Apex said. “I’ll pick him up.”
“No,” Kane cut in.
“We need to get him and Mayhem in our car with the doors locked.”
Apex moved fast. So did the female. And Kane must have passed out as he was picked up because the next thing he knew he was sitting upright, a belt over his shoulder and across his chest, his feet arranged in an alignment so precise, his proper mahmen would have approved.
“Kane, lock the door. Do you understand?”
Unable to move his head, his eyes sought the deep voice. Apex, again. Apex, always. Leaning down into the vehicle.
“Dematerialize out of here,” Kane commanded.
“Lock it.”
A hearty steel panel was slammed, and then Apex jammed his forefinger to the glass, to a little shaft that protruded from the door.
Apex’s eyes burned. “I’m not leaving you until you do it.”
Kane complied with a fumble of the hand that still had fingers; then he collapsed back into the seat. As his head lolled, he discovered he had a partner in injury. Next to him, Mayhem seemed to be in the same shape, his face covered with blood, his eyes blinking in an uneven rhythm.
“You all right?” the other prisoner mumbled to him.
Kane didn’t bother answering as it seemed like a reflexive inquiry, the kind of thing that came from politeness or practicality, even though Mayhem was not known for either—and in any event, the male did not seem to have enough energy to track whatever reply would be proffered.
And oh, interesting. The prisoner had his collar still on, the steel band with its explosive charge and tracking device, intact. Somehow, it must have been disabled or it would have detonated as soon as they were off the grounds.
Forcing his head to other side, Kane stared out of a stretch of milky glass. Up on the road, he saw Lucan straighten from a crouch and focus on something just outside of view. And beyond the male, in the darkness, snaking through a landscape of trees… a line of headlights.
Cars. Many. On the approach.
Guards.
Although Kane was not of this modern era, having been locked in time since he had been incarcerated centuries before, he recognized what he was in and what was coming at them. He had seen all kinds of motorized conveyances, the trucks, SUVs, and cars used to transport the drugs that were packaged at the camp and sold for a profit. And he knew how many guards could fit in a lineup like that.
This was going to go very badly. For all of them.
As if a horse spooked, his mind abruptly retreated from the present. But rather than go to a safe void, it went to the worst possible place, sucking him down into memories that he always fought: He went to another night when death had come, although not on tires, but upon footfalls…
* * *
On the evening of his shellan’s last breath, Kane was sitting at his desk in his study, the accounting of his estate before him, the columns of figures and tallies like sand sifting through his palms, nothing sticking except the odd numeral or line title. No matter how oft he reengaged with the material, he tracked none of it, his lack of comprehension forcing him to start and restart.
And start once more—
Fidgeting in his chair, he relit his pipe because the ember had gone out in its rosewood bowl, and as he puffed out clouds of smoke, they floated up and lingered high in the elegant, masculine room, making him think of steam engines—
When a rhythmic tapping sounded, he was confused as to its origin. Then he tilted to the side and looked under the desk. His heel was bouncing on the rug, animated by the surges of energy that had made it difficult for him to settle in any fashion, in any activity, in any position, for the previous eight nights and days.
He was not the only one within the household who was not feeling himself. As well, his Cordelhia was off, although her symptoms were the opposite to his own. In contrast to his hyperactivity, she had been sluggish and without impulse, neither eating nor sleeping overmuch of late.