For the Clan Page 14

  "Cayra," Roan whispered, grabbing her hand.

  She pushed him away. "And if we don't accept?"

  The driver fired into the camp. Women screamed. Men hollered.

  The driver pulled the trigger again. More screams. This time, the voices pleaded for mercy.

  "Enough!" Cayra waved her hands. She prayed no one was hurt—that the shots were close-call warnings only. "We get it!"

  "Thought you would," the driver said, lowering his gun. "You get until twelve hundred hours tomorrow to make your decision. We'll come for the answer. You sit down with the government and give them what they need, and we'll bring a little something to make your leader feel better sooner rather than later. If not, well… let's just say our bosses aren't too keen on squatters. You're just lucky they haven't cleaned you up before now."

  While he backed away, the driver pointed at Roan. "And remember: him. If we don't take him back, no one's going anywhere. One of him is worth hundreds of lives. Just think of it as doing your part to fight terrorists and keep the nation safe. If he doesn't come back, deal's over. They can live without some information, but he's nonnegotiable."

  "If it helps," the younger soldier said, stepping behind the passenger door, "I can tell you one thing for certain." He pointed at Roan. "You can thank him for outing you."

  Cayra stopped breathing.

  "We wouldn't have come if it wasn't for him," the young soldier continued. "Wouldn't have paid attention—too busy with rogues and all—but we were told to retrieve him. He ran along like a good little doggie, and now that he's done his business, it's time he goes back on his leash and goes home. So if you're having second thoughts, just think of it as getting rid of a traitor. He's not your friend. If he hadn't shacked up with you, your leader wouldn't be dying. Consider that a helpful hint. He brought us here. That's his job. If there's anything he's good at, it's leading us. It's all his fault."

  No. No, no, no.

  Cayra clutched her stomach. Everything rumbled inside, aching as if someone punched her continuously. She'd throw up any minute now.

  "Twelve hundred hours. Noon," the driver yelled, getting into the truck. Both doors closed. The truck backed away and spun wildly before racing down the stretch of field towards the trees. The helicopter flew away.

  Cayra vomited on the grass, catching herself before she fell forward. Let this be a nightmare. Please, let this be a nightmare. I can't do this. I can't—

  "Cayra?" Roan tugged on her arm. His hand slipped across her back.

  Whirling, Cayra slapped him. Her palm stung where she hit his cheekbone. "Don't you even start."

  "Wait, no—"

  Cayra slapped him again. "No!" She jabbed a finger towards his face. "You don't get to say anything. You shut your filthy, lying mouth. You heard them. They're more interested in you. Nonnegotiable. They'd rather kill us than lose you."

  When he touched her again, she swatted him away and rushed to Jace.

  "Come on, cariño." Cayra pulled on Jace until he sat up. "Oh god, you're burning up. We need to get you resting." She struggled to hoist him to his feet. "Help! Someone help me!"

  Roan moved towards her.

  Cayra held up her hand. "No, you stay away. You've done more than enough," she told him, choking back tears. The soldiers' words killed her inside. She couldn't put words to the horror and anger taking her over. No, she didn't want to believe the soldier was right about Roan, but she couldn't help it. Everything made sense. All of it. The fact they knew where Roan was told her everything. They never should've known.

  Unless he'd told the governtary.

  Unless he'd been tracked.

  And I slept with him. I'm carrying… Cayra swallowed back the truth, watching Dali, Alim, and Seth carry Jace away. Dutifully she followed behind, dragging her feet. Her heart broke every time Jace groaned and complained about the pain inside. How could she help him? She didn't even know where to start.

  It hurt worse to think the clanswomen had been right. Hart had been right.

  Roan was trouble. He did screw things up. He did choose for her.

  I'm an idiot. So, so stupid. I let Jace's trust in him lead me. I just wanted to believe—just wanted to think—

  Jace coughed and sputtered as the sentries carried him into the tent. Blood drops fell to the ground.

  Tears streamed down Cayra's cheeks. It's all your fault, Roan. He'd never be sick if he hadn't been out there. And he was only out there because he thought we'd be safest with you! Screw you, you unbelievable bastard. Why couldn't be you lying here? Why? Now he's dying and we could, too, all because we harboured you. All because you found us. Was it even by accident? Here I was defending you, and what were you doing? Leading them here like GP fucking S?

  The sentries laid Jace on the bed. Women carrying medical bags and sterilized equipment containers bustled into the tent, hurrying around Cayra. Before her, everything unfolded like a rehearsed scene in slow motion. The tent she shared with Jace transformed into a surgical suite in less than five minutes.

  Cayra stood, frozen, struggling to breathe between sobs. They ripped his clothes off. They stabbed him with needles and drove tubes through his skin. They flashed light in his eyes and wrapped an oxygen mask around his head, hiding most of his face from her view.

  He closed his eyes, his limp body slumping into the mattress.

  The women quickened their pace, poking him and scraping the blotches marring his body. They bantered about their limited volumes of contraband drugs, the few tests they could run with the old field kits, and things Cayra couldn't understand even though she knew the words. Her thoughts dragged on, unable to comprehend what was happening except for two things.

  Jace was dying, and she was most likely carrying an enemy's child.

  Nothing could have been worse.

  10

  The monks. The burning monks. Was this how they'd felt, their bodies consumed by unbearable heat? The feeling of a dozen torches eating the skin, devouring the soul with each new obliterated layer?

  On the heels of the insufferable dark moments crawling through his mind, Jace saw the men from the ancient photographs and enhanced videos, engulfed in bright flames on the concrete roads now overgrown with weeds and the sidewalks splintered and abused. One picture flashed to the front of his mind, stealing his attention from all others. Fear captured in black-and-white, holding back a world of grotesque colour. The monk sat in the road, poised in the serenity of the lotus position, a vintage car in the background with its hood opened wide while onlookers gaped, horrified. The flames were mighty, carrying his essence to the wind on the sickening fumes of gasoline.

  Jace had seen the photo just once, popping up onto the screen at the library he'd visited when he was ten years old. His first library, where he'd spun and spun until he almost fell over, taking in the sight of books shelved behind protective glass.

  They'd gone on a trade outing, obtaining necessary items for the clan. In a surprise turn, Moham had offered Jace more that day, giving him a rare glimpse of the world their ancestors had forsaken. Together, they'd strolled through the expanse of the library, floor after floor, admiring the life bound on the pages.

  That same night, tucked in his bed inside the safety of a guarded tent, Jace had dreamt about the library, wishing he could live in the city and soak up the knowledge.

  After all that, he'd forgotten about the excursion. Now it was all he could think of.

  If only his body didn't burn. If only the incessant pounding in his head would stop. He wanted to be ten years old again, filled with wonder. Not wherever he was, writhing while his eyelids flickered, allowing him to catch blurred images of the world beyond his consciousness. Every time he twisted, something else hurt. Dull pain, sharp stabs. Tremors made the damage worse, driving discomfort through him in waves that crested near his heart.

  Several times, he saw his father's face and caught the spicy scent of his father's soap. Jace forced his eyes open to find his father's worn face pee
ring back from over the edge of the bed.

  "Faaa—" Jace reached out, his hand hanging in midair.

  His father disappeared, fading into nothingness.

  A hand gripped his, wrenching his fingers to the side. "Jace? Honey?" Dark orange hair filled his view. Cayra's features melded into each other. Her dulled green eyes and pink lips twisted, swirling in the pool of her skin.

  Jace's stomach turned. Praying the queasiness would pass, he closed his eyes.

  "Damn it! Roan—do something," he heard Cayra command.

  He heard nothing more as he drowned in darkness again.

  "Well, you really fucked this one up, didn't you?" a familiar voice said, bringing life to the dying world inside Jace's mind.

  Jace spun around—at least the image of him did, caught in a bright white spotlight in the middle of his nagging thoughts. He almost toppled off the wobbling pedestal beneath his feet. Before him, his father sat in a chair with his hands flattened on his lap, calm and at peace. A black knit toque covered his balding head. His crisp white shirt and loose black pants looked new. No shoes or socks covered his feet.

  "Could've gone better," Jace replied. The pedestal wobbled again. He held out his arms for balance, discovering he wasn't wearing shoes, either. Cement blocks encased his feet. Freezing metal chains clenched his ankles, binding him to the pedestal.

  "Governtary hospitality." Moham pointed at Jace's feet. "Wouldn't want you falling off now."

  I bet not. They don't want a lot of things. But they do want what they can't have.

  "Of course they do. Entitlement, my dear son, is one meddlesome broad."

  Jace straightened, careful not to tip in any direction. "Well they can't have it. I don't care who they think they are—who they think we are. Just because they want something doesn't mean they deserve to get it." He threw out his hand. "They broke him, Dad. They tried to, anyway. They can't have nice things."

  "Especially when he's your nice thing."

  Jace's face warmed until it burned. When the fire in his skin gave way to tortuous waves of pain, Jace clutched his head and panted, sucking back what breaths he could manage. What he wouldn't give for a river full of ice.

  "Relax, Jace," Moham whispered. "It's not meant to cause you further pain. Just truth."

  "I don't want to give him up." Jace's voice cracked with a sob.

  Images swirled around him. Voices yelled at him to surrender. He remembered going out on a check of the clan's territory. He'd been fine until he got to the outermost edge. Then the military team jumped him, descending from the trees on screeching wires. One click, two click. Ten clicks later, he was surrounded by black uniforms, faces sneering at him from behind ten shiny barrels. They demanded compliance, forcing him to his knees with a blow to the tailbone.

  The next he knew, he'd woken up in a stiff wooden chair, strapped to its legs and arms with zip ties. Across the table hidden under a pile of JK00s, tablets, and aerial view prints, a woman had tipped back in her chair. Her blonde hair was cropped, mostly hidden under a green cap that matched her uniform. His eyes strained to make out the name embroidered on the small black patch on her chest. Winchester. Unless he couldn't read, the tag said Winchester.

  Her self-satisfied grin made him vomit.

  "Don't worry. That always happens. Looks like a quick set in for you," she'd said, her smooth voice rolling through the words with a hint of a British accent. "So I'll make this quick. Give you more time with your family."

  Winchester had leaned over, studying him with one green eye and one blue. "You've got some things we've been told Parliament is just dying to obtain. We're here to strike a deal on their behalf. It's really easy. You help us and share what you know, and we'll let you walk away. You can stick around. Like earning your keep. Well, okay," she amended, waving her manicured hand, "so maybe it's paying the rent."

  "I'm not telling you anything." Jace had spat on the ground, mostly to clear away the phlegm clogging his throat. It tasted of metal with a hint of something sweet he couldn't name. It couldn't have been healthy. On the ground, his spit bubbled and hissed.

  "I'm afraid that's going to be a problem." Winchester had leaned back, her hands behind her head. "They're desperate to know what you know. Rogue elements are becoming a problem. Terrorists are threatening to topple us, domestic and international. There's a war brewing inside our borders while we combat those trying to break in. See the problem? We can't be in two places at once. It'll be a disaster, another war barely seventy years after the last. Then there's the Disenfranchised. You're a unique set of concerns. But we're willing to call a truce. We're recruiting all able bodies. Considering what the lot of you put up with, you're qualified."

  She'd stood and paced the tent, her arms behind her back. Her black boots shone except for dirt on the soles. "But we can't enlist anyone if we don't know where you are. How many. Your weapons. You know, the important stuff. Census stuff. It's incredibly important that we know, kind of like our census of Vens. We can't help them—or you, or anyone for that matter—if we don't know where they are."

  Winchester had smirked. "Like the one you're harbouring right now. The one we'd really like to have back."

  That was when Jace realized the real reason he was there. The moment when he wanted to scream, cry, and kill her all at the same time.

  "Now you know what it means to be a leader," Moham said, his low voice ripping away the images of Winchester's vile smile. "Now you know the heartache."

  For a moment, Jace saw his father's face warp into a mask of white, pasty skin and sunken eyes. Dark spots blemished his face, his neck, his hands. Moham convulsed and sputtered, clawing at his throat.

  Jace held his breath, trying not to be sick. He'd seen it before. And he'd forgotten it like the library.

  The governtary. The day they took Roan. You lying in bed… Jace eyed his father. The sickness faded away. You were dying. Then you weren't.

  "And so the truth comes." Moham sat back, his hands once again on his knees.

  Jace sucked in a breath. He shivered, his skin chilled. His teeth chattered. The pain in his body ebbed. Thoughts and memories filled the gaps, clearing the path for the remainder of his realization.

  "Whatever they did to me, they did to you," Jace whispered. "She said they gave me something to help me make my decision. But it's the same damn thing they did to you."

  Moham dipped his head. "They want what they want, and they will fight to get it. They like to make examples. You, my son, are next in the undying line of many."

  Jace clenched his hands. How could he have forgotten? "I remember now. I remember you in bed. You couldn't move. You were burning hot. Seeing things, calling out for Mother. You wouldn't stop throwing up the one day. Then the next you wouldn't stop screaming. You kept telling us to leave. You said you'd kill us."

  "Not one of my highest points," Moham muttered, flicking his dark glance away.

  "You'd been visited by a group of men that week," Jace continued, breaking through the memories for the rest of the foggy images. "Soldiers. A doctor with a kit. You told me to stay away from the meeting so I did. That night, you were choking on blood and looked like death itself."

  Moham shifted in the wood seat. "Yes, again, not a highlight. I felt just as you do now. Melting away."

  "Then they took Roan a few days later," Jace whispered, "and you did nothing. But you got better. You got to walk around and be just like you were before you got sick. Meanwhile, I was curled up crying until I couldn't cry anymore."

  "I won't apologize. Not even like this. I did what I had to."

  It all made sense.

  A tear slipped down Jace's cheek. He didn't want these memories anymore. They'd been locked away for a reason. He wanted to forget again.

  "You're alive because he went with them. Otherwise you wouldn't have your wife, your clan. You wouldn't have him. You'd be dead along with everyone else in our family," Moham said, standing. "The infection they've given you is meant to kill.
It's meant to weed out the ones they don't trust. And it'll kill everyone else around you. Only getting rid of it helps. And they've got the antidote. Give them what they want, and they'll cure you. They kept their word to me."

  "But Roan—the others—"

  "He saved us. He saved the clan, the same one who's harbouring him now. It was either we oblige and live, or we don't and we die. They want to know they have allies. They want to know we're controllable. The only thing they fear more than us are the Vens. They're more valuable than us. So yes, I told them we had him. I made the deal. I gave him up. He was a bargaining chip to save you. I gave the government what they could use—what we didn't need."

  "I needed him!" Jace shouted. So that's how they knew Roan was there—you told them. You sold him out.

  Moham stepped forward, shadows clinging to his form. "Remember what I told you that morning? You should enjoy every day that brings you joy and love because one day, that joy may be gone. That love may wither. And all you will be left with are memories."

  Another thing he'd forgotten, Jace realized, gritting his teeth when he realized a truth he'd overlooked.

  You bastard.

  Maybe he'd ignored it because he was in denial, or maybe he'd been too self-centred in his adolescence to really listen, but he'd known the full truth the entire time, wrapped up in a memory he'd been too heartbroken to revisit. Disgust washed over him.

  "You knew! You knew about us." Jace pointed at his father, his voice hoarse. "All that time I agonized over telling you. All those nights I laid awake thinking of what to say—and you knew. You didn't have the courage to just tell me. So you broke my heart and lied to my face."

  "No, I didn't lie. I merely did not tell you. No different than your wife."

  Jace snorted, trying to take a step back. His toes wriggled on the cement and the pedestal tipped. "What the hell does that mean? She doesn't have anything to do—"