Page 30 of The Brave (Black Arrowhead #6)

S eptimus one-handedly leaped over the railing and landed on his feet. In the cloak of darkness, he shoved Krys like an afterthought as he stalked toward Atticus.

Krys flashed his middle finger before blindly rushing to the back of the building.

Septimus stood a few feet away, taunting Atticus with a smile. “Come hither, blondie. It’s been ages since I tasted your blood. Has it seasoned with time? Let me finish my leftovers.”

The lights suddenly switched on.

When Septimus squinted from the blinding shock, Atticus exploded into action. He torpedoed forward and struck his enemy with moves he’d learned from the greatest martial artists. He relentlessly attacked, keeping Septimus on the defense.

Septimus blocked some of the strikes, but his reflexes weren’t as quick. His punches, however, were precise and excruciating. Atticus roared in pain from a blow to the eye that shattered his eye socket and blinded him instantly. A kick to the abdomen left him reeling in pain.

“I’m stronger!” Septimus beat him again and again.

Atticus circled his nemesis, stalling in hopes of his injuries healing. He spat blood on the floor. “You may be stronger, but you’re slow.”

Krys jogged into view but kept his distance. He dragged the impaled Vampire far away, making sure that Septimus couldn’t remove the stake and have the two of them gang up on Atticus.

“You’ve squandered your existence.” Atticus gripped his adversary’s wrist and flipped himself until his legs locked around the Vampire’s neck.

The momentum brought Septimus down fast and hard. Atticus felt his fangs punch out as he spun around and reeled back his arm to strike. He had waited for this moment—for the day he could avenge Matilda’s death.

Septimus crossed his arms in front of his face to block the attack.

Atticus seized his wrists and squeezed them so hard that the bones crunched. Then he pinned his arms to the floor. “You’re a blight,” he growled.

“See me as you wish, but I have outlived you all.”

“Not for long.” Atticus savagely bit into his neck and ripped out a huge chunk of flesh.

The moment ancient blood touched his tongue, his injuries healed and vision returned to his eye. When he saw the blood pouring onto the white floor, he raised his head and roared.

He had never felt more Vampire than in this moment.

Atticus sucked the blood out before the wound could heal while Septimus struggled beneath him. His wrists were still broken, and that made Atticus squeeze them tighter.

Instead of swallowing the blood, Atticus spat it out onto the floor. He could taste Septimus’s long life, his arrogance, and an undercurrent of fear.

Atticus smiled, blood dripping from his mouth. “Your worthless life is slipping away. Are you afraid?” He leaned in tight, fury burning in his eyes. “I can hear your heart slowing down. Can you feel it? That’s time slipping through your fingers. That’s your future going black. Is that what your victims felt the moment they knew they were going to die? I’m going to burn you to ashes. No one will weep for you, Septimus. No one will mourn you. No one will even remember you—including me.” Atticus leaned back. “I’ve already forgotten you.”

Septimus knocked Atticus from behind with his knees. Not enough to throw him off, but Atticus let go of a wrist to catch his fall.

The air whooshed out of his lungs when Septimus punched him in the chest, fracturing ribs. The pain was blinding, and he struggled to breathe.

A part of him wanted to draw this out. The pain made it real, and he wanted to make this moment last forever.

Septimus rolled over and pushed himself up, blood gushing from the open wound. He had lost so much that his neck wouldn’t heal, not without time or the aid of another Vampire’s blood.

He stood over Atticus and delivered a punishing kick to the stomach. “ Worthless ,” he growled. Then another pulverizing kick. “Pathetic.”

Racked with pain, Atticus rolled over. He grinned while licking blood from around his mouth—the Vampire blood healed him instantly.

Septimus blinked with panic when he realized that he had lost. His healing blood was all over Atticus’s face and on the floor.

Atticus sprang to his feet and gripped Septimus by the collar. He relished the moment and wanted to make this man suffer in ways untold, but an urgent feeling rinsed over him. He needed to be home with Joy—not here.

Before Septimus could strike, Atticus ripped out the other side of his neck, tearing off the tattoo. Blood gushed down the Vampire’s chest until his skin turned ashen.

Atticus glared into his black eyes, listening to the delicious sound of his heart growing weaker with every thump. “You deserve to be flayed and left in the sun, but I’ll leave the punishment to your maker.” Atticus shoved him to the ground and stalked over to the gasoline. He poured it all over Septimus, reveling in the screams when the accelerant touched the Vampire’s open wounds.

He finally looked up at Krys, who was now dressed. “Got a light?”

“It would be a damn shame if I didn’t.” Krys fished around in his back pocket and pulled out a pack of matches. “You never know when you might need one on a mission.” He tossed the pack, and Atticus caught it.

After striking a match, Atticus admired the flame and made peace with what he was about to do. How many innocents had suffered at the hands of this monster? How many had needlessly died? Only one truly mattered to him, and that was enough.

He remembered the dead bodies in the tavern and the way Matilda’s body had been carelessly tossed aside as if her life didn’t matter—as if her dreams didn’t matter. She was dust in the ground, whereas her killer had enjoyed the spoils of immortality. Then he thought about Joy’s wolves, who’d been caged and experimented on. Joy had survived, but she would never be the same.

Clutching his throat, Septimus gasped and gurgled, his black hair splayed, blood pooling beneath him. “I know a demon when I see one,” he rasped. “You’re no different than me. Love will never change what you are.”

Atticus lit the match. “Love changed everything I am. I would burn for her.” He flicked the tiny flame, and it ignited Septimus into a fireball. “And so will you.”

The Vampire writhed but was too weak to stand and put out the fire. Atticus muted the screams and the roar of the flames. He didn’t want to give Septimus the power of remembrance. After three thousand years, he finally walked away and left the past behind him.

Krys pulled his long hair behind his head and held it for a moment. “Should we grab the computers for Lucian?”

“For what? The documents in here could end our existence if they got out, and we can’t trust the higher authority. They have an informant.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Burn it.” He walked toward the canisters of gasoline. “Burn it all.”

Atticus and Krys meticulously opened every single drawer, box, and closet to douse them in gasoline. It was important that nothing remained, even if that took all night. Atticus crushed the laptops and computers. Any smaller electronic devices they found—including phones—they added to a pile in the center. After checking the back office, they began setting it ablaze.

Krys was skeptical the foam on the walls would catch fire, but it turned out that they weren’t flame retardant.

Toxic fumes and smoke quickly filled the large building. Atticus headed toward the exit, striking matches and lighting up the impaled Vampire. Fire licked at his heels as he walked out into fresh air.

Krys ran out and joined him. Suddenly a shrill scream sounded from inside.

“I thought you checked all the rooms?” Krys cocked his head, and when another scream rang out in a high octave, he charged into the burning building without hesitation.

Atticus had forgotten to check the last room where they kept the victims, assuming it was empty. As he ran after Krys, he cursed himself for not having been more thorough.

Krys emerged from a cloud of black smoke with a young person in his arms.

“Hurry!” Atticus guided him to the exit, where they dodged a falling piece of burning foam that peeled away from the ceiling.

Once outside, Krys coughed and gasped for air as he staggered and fell to his knees. In his arms was a petrified black-haired boy in a hospital gown. He looked around twelve, but it was anyone’s guess. When he caught sight of Atticus, his eyes widened in terror.

“I won’t hurt you, boy. Do you have family?”

The child scooted away from them. “No,” he squeaked.

Krys jerked his head at the kid. “Scrub him.”

“I don’t like using my gifts on children, and we can’t send him off alone. He’s too young to have gone through his first change, and a boy walking around in a hospital gown will attract attention.”

The gangly kid turned his attention to the fire inside the building and back to them. “I won’t tell anyone what you did.”

Krys coughed and then sat back on his heels. “Where’s your family?”

No response.

After a moment of silence, Atticus looked around. “We can’t stay here; the smoke will bring out the fire department when someone notices. We’ll take the boy with us and find out where he comes from.”

“I’ll go where I wanna go,” the kid said while standing up. “And… I’m not a boy.”

When Atticus took a minute to study her, he realized his error. His flawed assumption had been based on her short hair. Now he noticed her feminine face, slender fingers, and other small nuances that suggested her gender might be female.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Fourteen.”

Krys’s eyes glinted angrily.

Her hollow cheeks, flat chest, bony limbs, and pasty complexion were all signs of malnutrition and neglect. But fourteen? It made Atticus wish he hadn’t tuned out those dying screams. This was no place for anyone, let alone a child.

With his clothes still smoldering, Krys stood and spoke privately to Atticus. “We didn’t plan for a kid.”

“Be that as it may, we can’t leave her.”

“Then charm her and find out where her family is.”

While Atticus didn’t like erasing a child’s memories, extracting information was entirely different.

When he approached the girl, she hopped behind Krys and clutched his arm.

Krys scowled at Atticus. “You might wanna clean off your face first, Dracula.”

Atticus wiped the blood from his mouth, but it was pointless. It was everywhere. “What’s your name? We’re not part of that group, so you have nothing to fear.”

She glanced back at smoke pouring through the door. “You almost let me burn up in there. What if you’re with them?”

Atticus bowed. “I’m Atticus Rain. And we’re not with them.”

She stepped away from Krys and crossed her arms. It dawned on Atticus that she must have been cold.

“Krys, give her your shirt.”

“You got the long-sleeve,” he said.

“It’s soaked in blood.”

Krys stripped off his white T-shirt and handed it to her.

The girl held it out and stared at the smiling sun, then gave Krys a skeptical glance. After putting it on over her gown, she tugged nervously on her earlobe.

Atticus approached and caught her gaze. He reeled her in and held her mind. “Tell me your name.”

“I don’t know.”

“Where do you come from?”

“I don’t know.”

“Fuck. Her memory was scrubbed.” Krys reached down and threw a rock across the parking lot.

There was no undoing a memory wipe—not unless she regained pieces of it on her own. Atticus could scrub her memory of this place, but then she’d be left with nothing. If they turned her over to the authorities, she would reveal what took place and, more specifically, describe Atticus and Krys.

“We’re friends and want to help you. Can you trust us?”

Her eyebrows angled in the center. “I don’t trust anyone.”

He stopped the connection of charming but still held her attention. “We have to leave, but we also can’t leave you alone. It’s too dangerous. Do you know what Breed you are?”

She shrugged.

When he took her hand, she wrenched it free and hid behind Krys again.

“I’m not going to harm you, child.”

Krys gave a mirthless chuckle. “Looks like she knows a fanghole when she sees one.”

The girl frowned. “I’ll just take my chances alone.”

When she began to stalk off, Krys snatched her collar. “No you don’t, kid. You’re stayin’ with us.”

“I don’t want to be your prisoner.”

“Where do you think you’ll go, huh? What kind of asshole would I be if I left a little girl alone in the middle of the woods? If the humans get ahold of you, they’ll throw you into the foster system. We’ll figure this shit out when we get home.” He wiped his goatee and locked eyes with Atticus. “Whatever beef we had between us—we’re good now. You saved my ass back there. Respect.”

Atticus inclined his head. “I’ll get the truck.”

While Atticus ran to the road, he heard Krys’s phone chime. Once out of the light’s reach, he shadow walked up the dark road.

“Atticus!” Krys yelled from a distance much too far for Atticus to respond and be heard. “Haul ass! Joy’s having the baby!”