Page 50

Alexiares

I ’d never thought much of the future. Just surviving the day, the week, was enough. One day at a time. If I made it to the next, fantastic, great—if I didn’t, oh well.

But now the thoughts of what was to come were destroying me. I tried my best to shove them away—resist. It was impossible when I knew the woman I loved would be leading the fight into a war meant to ruin.

I was a monster. One of the dangerous ones. I knew what was out there, what she would face … what I had no choice but to sit back, and watch as she met the devil head-on.

No one was working together. That hadn’t changed over the last few weeks. A week ago someone made an attempt on Finley’s life—to absolutely fucking no one’s surprise. Yeah , no one could even pretend to care about that. I wish I’d been the one to make it— I wouldn’t have missed.

Instead, Amaia had met it with the promise of an eye for an eye. You attack someone that was meant to be on your team, the rest of the group comes after you. Same manner, same death, same fate. It didn’t matter. Not anymore.

This was it, the final simulation. What we were all working toward. Three weeks of what felt like wasted efforts would all be put to the test. At least there had been no word on any movement from Ronan.

A good thing since it allowed us to focus on the here and now. Individual settlements may not be working as a team but at least individually they’d grown stronger, faster, smarter—more adaptable. We had that going for us and maybe that could be enough in the end. Maybe . Fucking doubtful, however.

No one wanted to think of the other possibility. That Ronan was making moves against us, silently so no one would be able to know what was happening. Not with him tucked safely behind his damn wards. Nope. He was safe from any Seer , no matter how powerful—no matter how many power-shared.

“You ready for this?” I asked, my eyes scanning up Amaia’s lean, muscular legs as she slid her black camo cargos on with a little hop.

She snapped her thigh holster into place right after. Quick and efficient in her movements, her weapons were in place before she even mustered a response.

“What did I tell you about asking stupid questions?” Deep brown eyes as beautiful as undisturbed earth met mine, the sides of them wrinkling with the small smirk curling the tail ends of her lips. She pushed to the tips of her toes and leaned in to kiss the corner of my mouth.

I smiled in response, arguably irritated that she had already moved away from me to pull on the thickly padded vest over her dark gray t-shirt. “It’s not that I lack faith in you, don’t get me wrong.”

Opting to distract myself, I moved to get ready, studying the odd metallic barrel of some sonic gun Tomás had spent hours in my living room working on. Amaia and him made one hell of a team. Technically, he was in my service, but the way Amaia’s mind worked mixed with Tomás’s natural—and magical—genius, they created weapons I knew Finley was salivating for. It’d been fun to play with. Tiago would have loved this. Our interactions. The way his twin had webbed himself into my life. They were nothing alike except in their humor and loyalty.

“But the last few weeks have been a shitshow in some capacity and you think we’re doomed?”

“Is it too late to try Canada?” I teased, but I was dead fucking serious. If she wanted to bolt, I wouldn’t stop her. No, I’d follow like a lost fucking dog.

She rolled her eyes. “Ha ha.”

“You’re right, Mexico is closer.”

“Luckily, one of us speaks Spanish.” Her soft hands pressed against my bicep as she recalled how I’d surprised her with my knack for languages. Compliments to the chef—a.k.a. the dad from hell. Though, I supposed Reina had far worse luck in that department.

I swore quietly, stalling. I didn’t want to go there, not yet—but the window was closing. This information was detrimental to her final placements of individual units. “Speaking of brujas —Lola’s coven has done what they could with the time they had.”

Amaia’s head fell heavenward, her curls tickling her spine. “Sounds like bad news.”

“It’s not great news,” I said, pulling her hair tie taut and shooting it across the room to her. “Seventy-five percent, give or take.”

She caught it, bunching her curls in her fist and tying them out the way in a low bun that made her features sharp—dangerous and lethal. “Why do I have a feeling that it’s take? It’s almost always take when someone says that.”

“It’s better than nothing.”

“This is supposed to be our one advantage.” This wasn’t the woman who loved me speaking anymore—it was an irritated general who expected results and, instead, was met with failure. “If only 75 percent of our troops can powershare, that still leaves 25 percent of us without enough power to go against Ronan. Expect the worst-case scenario and whatever it is, set that bar to the lowest level of hell and that’s what we’re dealing with when it comes to them.”

Them. Us. Us or them. It was all the same. The same game we’d been playing for over half a decade. A game played with such fealty, it nearly led to humanity’s destruction at the end of The Before.

Thanks to Reina’s work, we’d been able to give each soldier an additional gift. Something Amaia was certain would have consequences in the future but felt a necessary evil to accomplish our goals now. After all, Ronan was likely doing the same. That left us little time to teach them how to properly wield whatever new powers they received. Said complications were exactly why leadership thought it best to pair up as many people as possible with a complimenting partner and power. Hopeful was the word. Because hopefully, the blind would be able to lead the blind, guide each other into control in whatever magic emerged.

“They weren’t exactly intrigued by the idea of over-exerting themselves when we could be attacked at any time,” I said the words timidly.

My general was now on edge, and telling her an excuse on why her plans couldn’t come into fruition never had a happy ending. There was no such thing as a good excuse according to her. An excuse was just that—an excuse. An attempt to justify why you hadn’t worked hard enough to accomplish the end goal.

“Sorry.” Sarcasm laced her tongue. “I forgot only the foot soldiers were supposed to be comfortable putting our lives on the line.”

“Amaia,” I warned her not to go there.

It had less to do with the relationship I had with the brujas , with Lola, and more about showing her disappointment to them. Her outlook on their efforts would gain her fewer favors than they were already interested in providing.

“What?” she snapped, voice raising an octave to a level she hadn’t used with me since Duluth.

Her gaze softened at the realization. This was out of our control—for now. Unless she demanded otherwise.

“Do you want me to hold them for a few days? Make them finish up? Because I will if only you ask it of me.” I lifted my chin, tilting it just enough to meet her gaze, putting us on equal footing.

If I acted in any way other than respecting the brujas wishes while Lola was not here to give the command, her permission … Ronan would seem but a small threat. I’d have to face Lola and explain myself, plead for my life and hers after, but if it made Amaia’s life easier, then I would do it without hesitation.

“No.” I saw the sparkle in her eyes. The momentary consideration as she grappled with the decision, ultimately deciding that there were actions that we couldn’t take back. Choices that went too far. “Let’s see how this goes.”

“After you.” I moved toward the door, holding it open and watching as she passed through the threshold, praying to whoever the fuck was up there to let a dreaming soul find rest when this was all over. It was what she deserved.

So it wasn’t as fucking tragic as we expected. Still, it was pretty rough to witness.

The air was thick with the scent of moss and rust. Royal Oaks was probably an all right place in The Before. By ‘all right,’ I mean by some old cuck’s standards. Now, it was nothing more than streets swallowed by vines and decay. We passed through the skeletal remains of a monotonous suburban sprawl. A forgotten graveyard of the boring, average, American life.

A hum of anticipation vibrated through the chill of the early morning. Our breath was visible in the air, passing through the protection of the shields enveloping my general and myself. They were a precaution. Every motherfucker here knew that if either of us were hit, it’d be a problem. And we all knew how I handled anything I deemed a ‘problem.’

At least in this all, the respect for Amaia had gone up—as deserved. She moved smart. Amaia demanded their initial respect—just enough where they were at least willing to try her methods—but had let her work speak for itself in the end. There was no denying her effectiveness as a leader and a general now. The fact that the war simulation thus far wasn’t a complete disaster was every bit of proof that she deserved her reputation. Her spot.

After weeks of assessments, re-evaluation of positions, and overall reluctance to move where they were needed most— Amaia had divided our forces with an efficiency that bordered on ruthlessness. If Ronan thought we were a threat before, we had the potential to be an unstoppable force with the right conditions, the right attitudes, and the overall desire to put an end to his reign.

Infantry held the center of the city, dug in behind crumbling barricades at the old Oakwood intersection. Any scouts had long vanished into the overgrown neighborhoods flanking the borders of this operation—their shadows now danced between husks of long forgotten family homes.

General Silas Trevan, now in charge of Alpha Unit—and general of Salt Lake Compound—led a strike team from the strip mall. He’d been loyal to Amaia from the beginning . With their history from the first war, she trusted him with the right amount of caution, conditions of which made the best partnerships. So she placed him where she needed him the most. Leading charge on our offense.

Perhaps the sexiest she’d ever been was the night she didn’t flinch when assigning soldiers to the risky positions. There was no room for hesitation when giving these orders, and she’d held none. I’d watched her send Isabella Everhart to guard the south bridge of the city, knowing the true terrain she was auditioning for offered little cover. Her hands did not shake when she’d ordered Reina to ride as the combat medic under the cavalry and into the collapsed underpass, knowing she’d be preparing her for the very real scenario of evacuating civilians. A task that came with the risk of a possible ambush. She was methodical, decisive—every move calculated for victory, even if it came at a cost.

Amaia was destined to lead us into a victorious war. She was a warrior.

A Queen.

A woman who could not, would not, be stopped.

Her heart was made of fire and ice. The flames that burned for the freedom she could bring. Ice consumed the parts of her necessary to freeze the hatred, the malice—the savagery from the war.

Amaia was a war goddess who only promised peace.

The first wave came fast and hard. Pounding the center line with simulated fire and the surge of ‘enemy’ troops. Our simulation required an offense and a defense. What the best chance would be to run through the possibilities of the offensive technicalities of leading an attack, meeting the enemy head-on. Then there were the defensive measures to ensure we had what it took to protect our homes with minimal defense. Each soldier had been handpicked by Amaia with the consultation of their respective leadership to determine where they would serve us best.

One unit, one damn compound.

Infantry scrambled to hold their positions. The scouts shouted coordinates over comms Tinkerers had spent the last few weeks ensuring worked in the most trivial of circumstances. Amaia didn’t waver. She watched as her chosen leaders cut orders through the chaos. As heavy hitters moved to intercept a breach on the left flank, the air buzzed with magic. Every soldier moved in unison, their movements guided by Amaia’s beautiful mind. Her presence on this battlefield was admirable, unshakable … commanding.

“Not bad,” Amaia muttered, turning away and tilting her chin down, the words meant for my ears alone. “I was considering splitting us into two divisions for the sake of operational flexibility.”

“Are you asking for an opinion or telling me what’s about to happen?”

“Don’t act as if you don’t enjoy being told what to do.” Amaia bit her lip, cheeks flushing as she continued glancing around the provisional battleground.

I smirked, recalling the semantics of our relationship being the reverse. “Other way around, Princess.”

“Anyway,” she said, moving with such grace—floating through the convoluted maze of bullshit happening around us. “I think it would be best. Having someone who knows me . Who can act as me when I am not around. Give the commands, make the suggestions that I would make.”

“Ah. But said person is not here and this ain’t the crowd to like a new face.”

Amaia’s lips pulled into a tight line as she stopped us—turning to watch as a scout returned, searching desperately through the disarray for the highest in command. He found a Sergeant, not exactly the better option considering the Captain directly behind him. The Captain who snarled his lip in lieu of simply correcting the mistake.

I took note of Amaia storing the interaction away. No doubt she was considering if this was a proper match up for when reality had a lot more on the line than guns that simply burned you or blades that only swung to grant flesh wounds.

“Riley is not a new face to any of them.”

Her words held a bite, like she did not trust what could happen to her brother if left with any of these settlements alone. And they would be right for whatever wrongs they committed—for Riley possessed information. Details of their settlements, trade connections, research efforts. Riley knew it all. That made him a threat.

A unit spread out, heading the scout’s warning. We did not have to be within hearing range to know what was said. It was time for the next phase of this simulation: a threat to supply lines. If they remembered their training, they’d redeploy forces to intercept the interruption without weakening our main line of defense. Which is exactly what it appeared they were doing. I heard Amaia take an easy sigh of relief. Of this at least, she knew she could relax. They had learned.

Because they had, she would now push them one step further, see what would happen if faced with yet another challenge. Something we had yet had time to train them on. That was a realistic outcome of this war. There had not been enough time. If they had trained under our command for months, the day would never have enough hours in it to address the unexpected variables of conflict.

We walked in unison. Left foot, then our right. She led, and I followed. It was casual, the way we passed through soldiers holding steady in their positions, how she meddled and created a new mess without really being seen. They thought she was observing—she was not. Amaia was orchestrating an opera.

“Park,” she stopped short, right at a scouts rear.

He froze at the sound of her voice. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Cut all communications on Route Hemingway and …” She made a show of considering her next words. “Route Golding.”

“Right away, ma’am.”

Park took off without another word or glance back. I peered down at her, silently questioning her next command. Her gaze flickered around us and she walked toward the overpass.

It would only be a matter of time before all hell broke loose. With communications cut, units and scouts would no longer be able to coordinate and adapt ahead of time. No. Instead, they’d be forced to rely on pre-established plans, and, fuck, did I hate this the most … their instincts.

The closer we got to the crumbling underpass, the louder the cries of suffering got. Then gunfire rang out. I had no idea how she’d pulled this off. Using the already injured soldiers from each of the settlements to play trapped civilians was diabolical. I loved her for it.

And so did they. Reluctantly, but the admiration was clear as she offered subtle advice and suggested corrections these last few weeks. Amaia was more than a leader. She was the kind of person who could turn soldiers into believers, fear into courage, and chaos into calculated precision.

With the break in communication she’d put into play, reinforcements that were originally planned to be diverted here to help would no longer be coming. With these ‘civilians’ in harm’s way, the cavalry and unit working at their side, would be tested in their ability to make ethical decisions under fire. The scene quickly fell into disarray.

Their ‘instincts’ were almost as bad as their memory when it came to sticking to the plan. All it took was one rider being tossed off their horse after a controlled explosion. The riderless horse took off down the main road, barreling through the unit assisting the injured.

Then the mix up of orders began. A captain gave strict, nonnegotiable commands while the commander of the cavalry, currently auditioning for the role against Millie, gave conflicting ones. Instead of working together while under fire, they were effectively working against each other. Idiots.

“What are you going to do, Commander?” Amaia asked as we approached him, still under the protection of our shield. “Time is of the essence.”

Reina rode up to the commander’s side, waiting on the response, eyes flickering over to Amaia and she held her head up an inch higher. The commander considered his options, then turned, taking off toward the captain to coordinate their plan of attack. Reina followed close behind, the model of focus and competence, as always. She was good at this, I had to admit. Her heart would allow her to be good at anything she cared about. The perfectionist attitude only served to benefit her end result, achievement alone a good enough prize.

I snorted. “The commander and captain don’t work well together. Swap him for Millie. He’ll work better with the captain out from Beta Unit. Otherwise these two idiots will be halfway through an argument when Ronan cuts them in two.”

Amaia stare was a weapon that could’ve frozen molten steel. “I don’t course correct mid-fuckup. They’ll figure it out … or they won’t and they’ll see their egos will get them killed.”

For a minute, it seemed as if they might—figure it out that is. Orders flowed back down the line. Almost.

Then, the air changed.

It wasn’t subtle. One second, the ruins of Royal Oaks were full of shouting and weapon fire. Next, the world itself had decided to hold its breath. An unholy scream ripped through the silence. It was not the sound of pain. I knew that macabre of beautiful symphony better than the back of my hand. This scream was full of terror.

The battlefield froze.

“What the fuck was that?” someone yelled, their voice shaking.

The tree line exploded. They came at us in a tidal wave of nightmares. Their movements were fast—damn near too fast to be real. But they were. And there were hundreds of them. They weren’t Pansies—not the ones we knew. Not anymore. These were something worse. Taller, their limbs stretched too far, as if Ronan had put effort into taking a human and twisting them until the proportions no longer made sense. Their faces were a mess of sharp angles and glowing eyes, and their movements … fuck me, their movements were all wrong. Jerky, but fast. Impossibly fast.

Shields went up across the field, but not quick enough. Pansies hits met our troops head-on with a sickening crunch, mouths full of jagged teeth snapping through the air.

“Hold the line!” Amaia ordered, her voice cut through the rising panic.

Pure shock halted my steps. Soldiers scrambled to regroup, firing into the horde, Amaia’s orders already unraveling before our eyes. They fired into the horde and I watched as the scout—Park—went down, dragged into the swarm. Pansies poured through Royal Oaks for as far as the eye could see.

Amaia grabbed my arm, yanking me out of my frozen disbelief. “Fall back. Now.”

Her command jolted the soldiers into motion, but the swarm was faster. It surged forward, cutting off escape routes and cornering entire units.

A roar tore through the battlefield.

It wasn’t human. Hell, it wasn’t Pansie. It was something in between. The humanoid appearance was a grotesque mockery, it struck a chord of fear within me. It was deep, guttural, and loud enough to vibrate in my chest. Every head that could spare a second snapped toward the sound.

“What the actual fuck,” I muttered, mouth dry. My stomach twisted as I met Amaia’s eyes.

Amaia looked rattled. Not panicked, not defeated—but rattled. And that scared the shit out of me. The ground trembled, and I realized this wasn’t the end of the simulation. This was something else entirely.