Page 12

CHAPTER 12

ROKKON

T he woods are thick, the air damp and heavy with the scent of pine and decaying leaves. My boots crunch softly against the underbrush, the sound swallowed by the night. The image inducer is off, my scales hidden beneath black clothing, a ski mask pulled tight over my face. Humans might call this overkill, but I’m not here to blend in—I’m here to end things. Quietly, if possible. Brutally, if not.

A faint buzz of Vicki’s unease pulses through the jalshagar bond, warm but distant. She’s upset, but not in immediate danger. I push it aside for now. Focus on the mission. Focus on the factory up ahead, its silhouette jagged against the moonlit sky. The meth lab.

Four guards. Idiots. They’re clustered near the entrance, crouched around a small fire, laughing and passing around a bottle. Their voices carry through the night, snippets of bravado and nonsense.

“—so I told her, ‘Babe, if I wanted to hear you whine, I’d call your mom.’”

“Shut up, Dave. You’ve never been within ten feet of a woman who wasn’t paid to?—”

I’m on them before they can finish. Two heads smash together with a satisfying crack. They crumple like sacks of grain before the other two even realize I’m there. One reaches for his gun, but I’m faster—my hand closes around his wrist, twisting until bone snaps. His scream dies in his throat as my other hand silences him. The last one drops the bottle, fumbling for his weapon, but I kick his legs out from under him. He hits the ground hard, and I plant a boot on his chest, pinning him.

“Where’s Fester?” I growl, my voice low, guttural. He doesn’t answer, just stares up at me wide-eyed, gasping for breath. I lean in, my weight pressing down. “I’ll ask once more. Where’s Fester.”

“H-he ain’t here, man!” he chokes out. “He’s at the Dew Drop! What the hell are you?”

I don’t bother answering. A quick tap to his temple and he’s unconscious. I leave them lying there, four bodies in the dirt, and move toward the factory. The door creaks open, and I step inside, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. Two more guards—this time, they’re alert.

“Hey! Who the?—”

I don’t let them finish. The first one goes down with a knee to the stomach, the second with a punch to the jaw. They’re out before they hit the ground. I step over them, climbing the stairs to the second floor. The meth lab.

The smell hits me first—chemicals, sharp and acrid, burning my nostrils. The lab is a mess of glassware and tubing, the air thick with fumes. Three people: a man in a stained apron, two women in nothing but rubber gloves and clear masks. They freeze when they see me.

The man—Julio, I’m guessing—takes a step back, his hands raised. “Whoa, whoa, man! We’re just cooking! We don’t want no trouble!”

I glance at the women. Their eyes are wide, terrified, but not of me. Of him. “You two. Out. Now.”

They don’t need to be told twice. They bolt, their bare feet slapping against the floor as they disappear down the stairs. Julio watches them go, then turns back to me, his hands still up. “Look, man, I’m just the cook. Fester’s the one you want.”

“Where is he?” I step closer, my voice a low growl. “And don’t say the Dew Drop. I already know that.”

“He’s—he’s at the Dew Drop, I swear!” Julio stammers, backing up until he hits a table. “He’s got a private room there! What do you want with him?”

I grab him by the front of his apron, lifting him off the ground. He squirms, his feet dangling uselessly. “I want him to stop threatening my jalshagar’s family. Tell me how to find him.”

“I can’t! He’ll kill me!”

I slam him against the table, glassware clattering to the floor. He winces, his face pale. “So will I. Choose.”

He hesitates, then nods frantically. “Okay, okay! He’s got a basement in the Dew Drop, behind the bar. There’s a hidden door. Code’s 4488. That’s all I know, I swear!”

I drop him, and he collapses onto the table, gasping. I turn away, heading for the stairs. One more stop tonight. Fester’s about to learn what happens when you cross a Vakutan and his mate.

The Dew Drop Inn is quiet, the lights off. Through the window, I see Sal slumped in a chair, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. The old man’s one eye is shut, his chin resting on his chest. Good. No distractions.

I move around the back, the image inducer off, my scales catching the faint moonlight. The lock on the door gives way with a soft click, and I step inside, the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke hitting me like a punch. I scan the room—nothing out of place. Just a shithole bar like any other.

Behind the bar, I find what I’m looking for. A hidden door, barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it. I punch in the code Julio gave me— 4488 . The door hisses open, revealing a steep staircase leading down into darkness. My lips curl into a grin. Too easy.

Still, something feels off. Fester’s a man who fancies himself a gentleman, a kingpin who drinks whiskey and wears suits. This? A dingy basement under a dive bar? Doesn’t fit. But I’m not exactly in the mood to second-guess myself. Humans can’t hurt me. What’s the worst that could happen?

I descend the stairs, the air growing colder, damper. The basement is bare—concrete walls, concrete floor. No furniture, no signs of life. Just emptiness. My instincts prickle, but I dismiss them. Maybe Fester’s smarter than I gave him credit for. Maybe he’s paranoid enough to hole up in a place like this.

Then the door slams shut above me.

I whirl around, my body tensing. A voice crackles over an unseen intercom, smooth and mocking.

“Whoever you are, congratulations. You made one of my people talk and give up my location. Bravo.” Fester’s voice, dripping with sarcasm. “One problem—I would never be so stupid as to tell any of my underlings where I hang my hat, so to speak. I’ve needed to fill in the foundation of the Dew Drop for years now. You get to be part of that foundation—forever.”

Before I can react, the sound of machinery fills the room. Wet cement begins pouring from a hole in the ceiling, thick and heavy, splattering against the floor. I move toward the stairs, but as soon as my foot hits the bottom rung, there’s a sharp crack . The explosive charge sends me flying back, my body slamming into the wall. My vision blurs, the air knocked from my lungs.

I shake it off quickly—Vakutan healing already mending the damage—but by the time I’m on my feet, the cement is rising fast. It’s up to my ankles, then my knees. I lunge for the stairs again, but the charge has warped the metal, making them impassable. I try the door, slamming my fists against it, but it’s reinforced. No give.

The cement reaches my waist, then my chest. I tilt my head back, trying to keep my mouth and nose clear, but the stuff splatters up from below, and I inhale some of it. It’s gritty, choking, filling my lungs. I struggle, thrashing, but the weight of it pins me in place. The room’s almost full by the time I go under, the world disappearing into gray.

Not how I thought this night would end. But Fester? He’s got another thing coming if he thinks wet cement can take me out.

The cement encases me, crushing and suffocating, but I don’t panic. Panic is for humans. I’m Vakutan. I’ve survived worse. The weight presses down, pinning me, but I draw on my reserves, on the fire in my veins that humans could never understand. My muscles strain, my scales rippling with the effort. And then, with a roar that shakes the walls, I punch upward—once, twice, three times—until the cement fractures.

The floor above me shatters, wood splintering as I burst through, coughing up a lungful of wet cement. It’s gritty, vile, clinging to my throat as I spit it out. My lungs burn, but I’m alive. Fester’s little trap didn’t work. The bar reeks of stale beer and cheap whiskey, and in the dim light, I see Sal, the one-eyed bartender, staring at me like I’ve just crawled out of hell.

“What in the name of—” Sal starts, but I don’t let him finish. A bar stool flies across the room, catching him square in the head. He crumples like a paper doll, out cold before he hits the floor. No time for questions. No time for backup.

I drag myself to my feet, cement cracking and falling from my body in chunks. My boots are a lost cause, so I kick them off, along with my ruined pants and shirt. The cool night air hits my skin as I stumble out the door, leaving a trail of wet cement behind me like some kind of deranged breadcrumb trail.

The woods are dark, the moon a pale sliver overhead. I move fast, my bare feet slapping against the damp earth. The jalshagar bond hums faintly in the back of my mind—Vicki’s worry, her unease, like a faint whisper. She’s safe for now, and that’s all that matters.

I reach the edge of Vicki’s childhood home, the shambolic trailer surrounded by rusted cars and junk. A clothesline sags under the weight of a few sheets, and I grab one, wrapping it around my waist like a toga. It’s ridiculous, but it’s better than running around naked. Besides, Fester’s men won’t care what I’m wearing when I come for them.

Crouching in the shadows, I take a moment to steady myself. My lungs still ache, my skin raw where the cement clung to it. But the fire in my chest isn’t just from the fight—it’s rage. Cold, seething rage. Fester thought he could trap me, bury me alive, and walk away. He thought wrong.

“Fester,” I mutter to myself, my voice a low growl. “You’re going to regret this.”

And as I stand there, the makeshift toga fluttering in the breeze, I make a silent promise: Fester N. Boyle will be broken.