Page 14 of Concluded (The Bureau #13)

A chilles floated in some strange place beyond hunger and fear and pain. Well, not beyond them exactly. They were still with him, but only as vague shadows. What he mostly felt was empty.

The only spring he and Orson had spent together, Orson had invited Achilles to his parents’ house for Easter dinner.

Orson’s family was Protestant, while Achilles’ was Greek Orthodox, so the event had felt like a cultural expedition.

Before the meal, Orson’s mother showed off the eggs she’d decorated for the occasion: chicken eggs she’d hollowed and then decorated with intricate designs in blue and white wax.

Now, Achilles was like those eggs. There was an image of a man on his outside, but nothing inside, and he was very, very fragile.

But he wasn’t yet dead.

Perhaps an hour or so after Martell left—it was impossible to accurately judge time—Ashley had tottered into the room smelling strongly of citrus and alcohol.

She could barely stand upright and slurred her words when she greeted him, but being drunk didn’t stop her from making that gesture and sending Achilles into throes of agony.

Two, three, four times, never quite letting him pass out, never quite allowing the pain to ebb completely away.

She didn’t say anything while she did this, and when his vision was clear enough to make out her expression, it was entirely neutral.

Eventually, still without saying anything, she left. Alone and fettered, Achilles had cried for a while. And now he did… nothing much. He breathed, in and out. He blinked his eyes. Sometimes he licked his cracked lips or flexed his fingers. He wished he could scratch his damnably itchy nose.

“You didn’t come up with a plan,” he scolded himself, but without heat.

When he’d been in that dark, formless place, he’d reviewed the little he’d known about his situation, and had sincerely tried hard to come up with a reasonable idea about what to do once he was plucked out of that place.

But he’d drawn a blank. He’d never been great at strategizing, which was one reason why he was a follower rather than a leader.

Uncounted hours of captivity and several rounds of torture hadn’t brought him any closer to an idea.

He had, however, unequivocally decided on one thing: he wouldn’t give in to Ashley.

“I can take it,” he whispered to himself.

Whatever she dished out. Maybe all those years of being attacked were coming in handy; they’d toughened him up.

“Hooray for being the monsters’ chew toy. ”

There was one other thing he could do now, aside from persisting.

From what he understood, when Agent Clark and his empath had been in a similar situation, hope had been what defeated their captor.

Ashley and her compatriots had cruelty, greed, and indifference on their side, but those could be countered with their opposites: empathy, generosity, and hope.

While Achilles wasn’t optimistic about his own survival, he could at least strive to believe that the balance would soon shift in favor of his side.

And as he’d been reminded by several people lately, sometimes even the smallest effort could make a huge difference.

“I have made a difference.” True, he hadn’t saved the world. But there were some people and NHSs alive today because of him. “I’m glad I worked for the Bureau. Encounters with bear shifters and all.”

As the door to the room opened, he steeled himself for more pain.

But instead of Ashley, it was Martell who entered, carrying a clear plastic water bottle.

His expression was unreadable as he walked over, and without a word he helped Achilles raise his head so he could drink without spilling.

Getting some liquid into his body felt so wonderful that Achilles groaned, causing Martell to back away.

“It’s just water,” Martell said defensively.

“You could do me a favor and poison me.” Achilles wasn’t joking.

“No.” Martell looked down at the floor. Although he was Achilles’ age, at the moment he looked much younger. He also looked as if he’d been running hands through his slightly frizzy dark hair, which was now in snarls. Oddly, Achilles almost felt sorry for him.

“I’m here because of choices I made,” Achilles said. “You, not so much, I think.”

Martell looked up quickly. “Yes! I never asked to have any goddamn supernatural powers. I didn’t seek you people out—you showed up at my door.”

“If you’re hoping I forgive you, I don’t. But you go ahead and tell yourself whatever it takes to face yourself in the mirror.”

“Could you? Face yourself, I mean?”

Achilles thought about this seriously because he had nothing better to do and it took his focus away from the dismal situation. “Yes.”

“Do you believe you’ll go to heaven and I’ll go to hell?”

Maybe this guy had been doomed the moment his parents saddled him with that stupid name. Hell, maybe Achilles had been doomed when his parents decided to honor their heritage by naming him after a mythological warrior.

He shook his head. “I don’t have an opinion on that.” He was confident that something happened to a person after death, because the Bureau sometimes dealt with ghosts. But he’d never given the matter much thought.

But now the issue was a lot more relevant to him, and Martell looked uncertain, so Achilles continued.

“I do believe in redemption, though. That someone can fuck up royally but still end up a good guy. Not because I think a god is keeping track somewhere, and not because I believe that doing good deeds today erases yesterday’s bad ones.

I just think that people can reform. Is this why you came here—to discuss ethics and religion? ”

“I came to give you a drink of water.”

Achilles huffed. “Well, you did that.”

Martell continued to stand there, brow furrowed.

He was working out a problem in his head, but Achilles didn’t know what—or how the potential solutions might impact him.

And gods, Achilles was utterly exhausted and yearned to close his eyes and just…

check out. He’d never been one to give up, though.

Even his resignation from the Bureau had been short-lived.

“You didn’t choose to be here,” he said quietly, “but you have options now. Make the right choice, Martell.”

“What kind of person am I?” Martell answered in an odd, mechanical tone.

“That’s up to you to decide.”

Achilles was sure that Martell was going to walk away. No, dammit. Hope was one of Achilles’ few remaining weapons, so he’d hope for a miracle.

After a long pause, Martell reached into his pocket, pulled out something too small for Achilles to make out, and stared at the object in his palm. “Wish,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Make a wish, Agent Spanos.”

Achilles firmed his jaw. “I want to be free.”

Martell nodded, curled his hand into a fist, and closed his eyes.

His entire body shuddered and his face flushed; a small moan escaped his throat.

Then he opened his eyes and pressed the object into Achilles’ right hand.

The thing was small and smooth, like a pea, but hard. And it was almost hot enough to burn.

“Make a wish,” Martell repeated.

What the hell—might as well. “I wish to get the hell out of here. Alive and intact.”

A quick electrical thrill ran through Achilles’ overtaxed nervous system. It teetered on the edge of pain but didn’t quite topple over, and then it was gone. The item in his hand crumbled to dust… and the chains at his ankles and wrists disappeared.

He wanted to sob with relief, but it was far too soon for that. He was still inside a building, possibly somewhere far from assistance, and he was so weak that he wasn’t sure whether he could even stand on his own. But dammit, he’d go down fighting.

“Help me,” he demanded.

Martell took a step back and then, thank all the heavens, came forward and steadied Achilles as he got off the table and onto his feet.

At which point Achilles promptly collapsed to the floor with a swallowed curse, little dignity left as he swayed on his knees, panting and naked.

Luckily, pride had never been one of his major faults.

Without a word, Martell tugged him upright and settled Achilles’ arm around his shoulders.

In fact, he bore a good portion of Achilles’ weight as they struggled out of the room and down a long, glaringly white hallway.

Although Achilles had lost some muscle mass since the bear-shifter mauling, he was still heavy, and although Martell wasn’t a small man, Achilles couldn’t have been an easy burden.

Martell grunted slightly with the effort—they both did—but he didn’t complain.

Goddammit, there were stairs—but at least they were descending. Achilles doubted very much that he could have walked up even half a flight. Not only was his body weak and shivery, but he was lightheaded. Twice he started to fall, but Martell caught him each time.

Another long hallway at the bottom of the stairs, then a turn into a third.

With the dizziness, Achilles felt as if he were trapped in an Escher drawing.

He half expected to find himself walking upside down.

But at last they entered a high-ceilinged room with a sweeping grand staircase on one side and, on the other, what appeared to be—thank the gods—a tall exterior door.

Which would have been a lovely sight if Ashley Dunn hadn’t been standing in front of the door, hands on hips, head slowly shaking.

“I expected better of you,” she said, apparently addressing Dee.

Achilles growled, “Get out of the way.”

She ignored him. “I get it, babe. He’s real pretty, even all beat up like this. You can fuck him, if you want. I wouldn’t mind watching that. Just dump him on the floor, and we can get him all tied up.”

“No,” said Martell.

“Aw, c’mon. You know you want to. It’ll be fun.” She had a playful smile, as if she were enticing Martell to eat an extra dessert.

Achilles said, “Don’t.” He was gratified that it sounded more like an order than a plea. It seemed that he hadn’t abandoned all of his dignity.

Martell looked at Dunn and then at Achilles, his eyes weirdly absent of emotion, then suddenly shrugged out from under Achilles’ arm. Achilles folded to his knees, while Martell shuffled to her side, head hanging, shoulders drooping.

“That’s a good boy,” Dunn crooned. She raised a hand toward Achilles, fingers crooked. But just as the first wave of agony hit Achilles, Martell launched himself at Dunn, taking them both to the floor with a crash.

They thrashed together, he roaring something wordless as she screeched like a wounded harpy. With pain still echoing through him, Achilles got onto all fours and crawled over to them, because he’d already abandoned his dignity, hadn’t he? And no way did he want that monster zapping him again.

When the bear shifter had gutted him, Achilles had lain there, bleeding and helpless, watching Santiago die. At least this time he could try .

Every cell in his body hurt, and his movements felt like wading through molasses. When he reached them, Achilles wedged his arms between the two struggling bodies, stiffened one hand, and with as much force as he could muster, jammed his fingers into Dunn’s neck.

She made a terrible strangled gasp and stopped fighting, instead clutching desperately at her throat.

Even if she had the vulnerabilities of an ordinary human, the damage he’d done to her trachea might not kill her.

But it was the best he could do in the current circumstances, and at least it would slow her down.

“Get us out of here,” Achilles said to Martell, who’d let go of Dunn and was staring, wide-eyed. “Now.”

Luckily he obeyed, hauling Achilles upright.

Although Achilles did his best to help, Martell had to pretty much drag him out the front door and down a gravel walkway.

Which would have hurt Achilles’ bare feet if he wasn’t already overloaded with negative sensations.

It was dark outside except for the lights from the house, and the air was cold.

He couldn’t make out any details around them.

Martell brought them to a stop, which wasn’t good. “Find help,” Achilles ordered. Talking was hard. “Phone.”

“I don’t…. There’s nobody for miles. I don’t have a phone.”

Shit. But surely Dunn hadn’t brought them here on foot. “Car.”

“Over there. But I don’t have the keys.”

Achilles wanted to cry. Couldn’t anything just be goddamn easy ?

He was capable of hot-wiring some vehicles; it was one of the varied skills the Bureau taught.

But some cars were almost impossible to hot-wire, and he was currently in no shape to do it himself or even talk Martell through it.

Still, maybe they could do the wish thing when they got in the car.

And sitting there seemed like a better idea than tottering here in the open, in the cold. “Just take us there.”

Once again Martell was obedient. Achilles stepped on something thorny along the way.

And despite Martell’s shared body heat, Achilles shivered hard enough to rattle his teeth.

For all he knew, Dunn was preparing to fly outside like a vengeful spirit in a horror movie, her fingers ready to inflict more agony.

“Hurry,” Achilles gasped. He saw the car maybe twenty yards away.

Martell was panting. “Trying. You’re heavy.” Which was true enough.

They’d closed half the distance to the car when an earthquake struck, or at least that’s what it felt like.

The ground shuddered so violently that they were knocked down.

Before they could regain their footing, the house and car disappeared with an enormous boom that stole the air from Achilles’ lungs and left his ears ringing.

Then he and Martell were alone in the dark. On their asses in the middle of nowhere.

The world wobbled again. Achilles felt himself toppling onto his side but couldn’t stop it… nor could he prevent the engulfing wave of nothingness that washed over him.