Page 20 of Unnatural (Men and Monsters #2)

Sam wasn’t the only monster on the New York subway, even if, that particular day, he was the largest, so he barely received a glance.

He kept his head down, cap pulled low, and sat near the back, disembarking when the train pulled into the familiar station.

Sam came up out of the ground and walked the six blocks to the door situated between the Vietnamese restaurant and the dry-cleaning shop, the one he’d stayed at before leaving for his last job in Macau.

Although he was nervous, he worked to keep his heart rate steady, his training kicking in the way it was meant to do.

He rapped twice, paused, and then gave four quick knocks and a light kick to the bottom of the door.

A moment later, in response to the specific signal, the door was pulled open.

Amon stared at him indifferently. He had training too. Sam had had no idea if anyone would be at the apartment, and he was no happier to see Amon than he’d be to see anyone else.

“Sam. What are you doing here?”

Sam knew he meant here , at this apartment, as well as he meant here , on this earth, but Sam only answered for the former. “I was in the area. I thought I’d see if anyone was home.” Home wasn’t the right word for a place so transitory, but he couldn’t think of another. Why did you come here, Sam?

Amon stepped back, allowing Sam to enter. “Doc won’t be happy about this.”

“I know.” Doc wasn’t happy about a lot of things when it came to Sam. Hence the fact that he was living in a barn and considering when he was going to kill himself.

“We thought you were dead,” Amon said, and Sam knew that by “we,” he meant himself and the others he’d been trained with.

If they’d been “team members” once by virtue of the fact that they’d trained together, they weren’t any longer.

Their work was solitary. And for that, Sam was grateful.

At least he had been the only one affected by his own weakness.

Sam just shrugged.

Amon stared at him. “Do you need assistance?”

Sam let out a short laugh. He knew Amon was asking if he needed help killing himself, and a part of Sam was strangely touched by the offer.

And a part of him wanted to take him up on it because he knew Amon would do a much better job than he had done himself, which was to say he’d definitely end up dead. “No.”

Amon had always been different from Sam.

He’d not only taken to the training, he’d seemed to relish it.

It was why he was sent on the most dangerous missions, the ones where violence was likely and hands-on combat might very well be necessary.

If he was here in the city apartment, he was being sent on another job.

It was where they stayed prior to departing for the location of their next assignment.

He knew the location of this apartment had been chosen for the lack of cameras in the area, at least for the time being.

If that changed, new technology was installed nearby, or any other number of reasons, the location would be moved.

Sometimes two members stayed at the current temporary apartment, but rarely more than that.

Their work was intermittent, and they had a whole group to divide it among.

Sam took off the ball cap and ran a hand over his choppy hair before putting it back into place.

“Something unexpected came up,” he said in answer to Amon’s quizzical look about what Sam wanted if it wasn’t help with offing himself.

“I’m dealing with it first.” There are apples to be picked, fences to repair, and I can’t seem to let go of a girl I barely knew once a decade ago.

I can’t seem to let go of this world that she’s still in. Somewhere.

Amon’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he tipped his chin anyway. “I won’t call Doc and tell him you were here.”

Sam nodded, even if he was vaguely surprised. Amon was as committed to their mission as any of them were, and perhaps even more so. A buzz of suspicion vibrated very subtly somewhere inside Sam. Why was he willing to break rules now?

“Anyway,” Amon said, “I have to go because I have a job today.” He walked to the table near where Sam was standing and grabbed a piece of paper.

Sam caught the word Deercroft and the number 1358.

Before he read anything else, Amon crumpled the piece of paper, walked to the sink, brought out a lighter, and set it on fire.

He watched it burn for a moment before dropping it in the sink, running water over the ashes and rinsing them down the drain.

Amon went to the bookcase and pulled out a drawer, loading a pistol into the holster at his side and pulling his jacket closed. He turned and looked at Sam. There was something in his expression that Sam had never seen before. A stark resoluteness that caused that buzz to intensify.

“A job,” Sam repeated.

Amon looked away, and Sam saw the very slight sheen of perspiration on Amon’s forehead.

“Yes. A job.” He met Sam’s eyes. “We have to do what’s necessary.

The mission is what matters. The mission is all that matters.

” He moved toward the door, and Sam walked with him.

“Goodbye, Sam,” Amon said, and Sam could tell he meant it as a permanent one.

Sam looked at the man he’d known for as long as he had memory.

He had a sudden, vivid glimpse of Amon as a boy, maybe nine or ten, laughing at Sam who had slipped on a patch of ice and sprawled gracelessly yet unhurt.

Sam had seen him laugh many times after that day, but there had always been an edge of menace in it, the shine—subtle at first and then distinct—of violence.

That late winter day was the last time Amon had laughed with joyful abandon.

“Goodbye, Amon.” Sam didn’t shake his hand.

Truthfully, though his gut instincts were telling him something was going on under the surface that Sam wasn’t quite grasping, he wasn’t worried for Amon, nor was he going to miss him.

Sam was a monster, but so was Amon. They’d both been raised to be.

Amon had just taken to it very naturally. And with more commitment.

A door behind him opened, and Sam turned, surprised to see Morana emerge from one of the bedrooms. Behind her, the sheets were rumpled, and Sam spotted some blood.

Morana and Amon had obviously used each other.

It was common. Those in the program all knew what to expect from each other, and many of them enjoyed being hurt.

And doing the hurting. Sam had never participated.

Sam had never touched any woman’s naked body.

He’d been aroused before, but he’d attended to it himself.

He didn’t like the feel of hands on his naked skin.

But even more than that, he didn’t want to risk unleashing the monster inside him. He didn’t want to risk losing control.

Amon looked over his shoulder, hesitating when Sam didn’t close the door and follow, but then he glanced at Morana, obviously deciding she could make sure the door was locked behind Sam. Amon headed down the hall and out of sight.

Sam stood awkwardly at the doorway but still inside the apartment. “Morana,” he greeted.

“Hi, Sam.” There was something on her face he couldn’t quite read. Surprise, but maybe…gladness too. As though, opposite of Amon, she’d expected that he was dead and wasn’t disappointed to see that he was actually still alive. “What are you doing here?”

“Just stopping by. Are you…leaving on a job too?”

Morana’s eyes were glued to Sam as she moved even closer.

Her robe slipped a tad, and he saw that there were bruises on her collarbone.

She pulled the silken material back in place, covering the marks, and when Sam met her eyes again, he swore he saw shame there.

Her gaze darted away momentarily. “Yes. I leave in a few hours.” She reached out her arm, and Sam stilled as she touched him tentatively.

What are you doing? Morana had never touched him before.

Morana had rarely talked to him before. “Do you ever think…do you ever think there’s some other version of yourself living a different life somewhere? ”

He stared, waiting for her to say more, to explain the question or the reason for it so he knew how to answer. “No.”

A smile played across her lips, and that surprised Sam too.

He didn’t think he’d ever seen Morana smile.

He’d grown up with her, yet he couldn’t have described anything about her teeth.

Did one stick out in front? Was the bottom row crooked?

Were they bright white, or did they have a yellowish cast like Amon’s? Sam had no idea.

“I think about that, another life I might have lived,” she said. “I think about that a lot. Especially right before a mission. I hope there are other versions of me out there.”

Sam didn’t know what to say. He had no idea what she was talking about.

He thought about asking about her mission.

Was this one particularly dangerous? Did she expect to die?

Was that why she was talking like this? About some alternate existence?

He was confused. He didn’t think Morana was sent on dangerous assignments.

She was short and skinny, and she had a slight limp from a surgery that hadn’t gone quite right.

But she was a genius with computers and was assigned jobs that required that expertise, both in the field and virtually.

He didn’t know all of what the others did, but he knew that was her skill.

That had always been her skill. And it was one the rest of them did not possess.

“I’m glad you came here, Sam, and that I got to see you. I’m glad you still could.”

He’d read her right then. Amon might not have been glad to see him alive.

Amon would have helped him follow through with being dead if Sam had simply said the word.

But Morana was glad he was not. He felt a…

lukewarmth, at least, in his chest, and he recognized it as what might have been a friendship. If.

And maybe that was part of what she meant by another version of her living a different life. If. So many ifs. But what was the point of that?

Sam dipped his chin. He almost said thank you, but that wasn’t right because frankly, he was planning on following through with the final command. He just hadn’t done it yet.

“They named us after monsters,” she said. “Did you know that?”

“Monsters?”

“I looked it up. All our names are so unusual, you know?” She went to the kitchen island.

After taking a sip, she said, “Amon comes from a Greek spell book that lists seventy-two demons. Amon is the Marquis of Hell.” She set the water down and leaned back against the counter.

“Morana is a Slavic goddess of death. And in the Talmud, Samael is an archangel.” She paused, her lips tipping the barest bit.

“The goddess and the angel. Almost like we were made for each other, right, Samael? Anyway, I could go on. All the others from the program are named similarly. All monster inspired.”

Sam considered her, thought about how he felt like a monster and looked like one too. “Fitting, I guess,” he finally said.

“Do you think? Do you think they meant to make us monsters? Or do you think we already were?”

A cell phone rang in the back room, startling Sam slightly. This whole conversation felt…surreal.

Morana glanced back. “That’s my call,” she said.

For a few beats, they simply stared at each other. Sam felt troubled and odd, like he should say something but also like he didn’t know this woman well enough to know what that might be. “Good luck, Morana,” he finally said. “I hope it goes well.”

“By whose definition?” she asked. But then she smiled and waved her hand as if to disregard her statement. “Good luck to you too, Samael.”

Sam left the apartment. Back out on the street, he pulled his ball cap low again, stuffing his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders, trying to make himself as indistinct as possible as he walked back toward the subway station. Why did you come here? What was the purpose?

But Sam had no purpose. Not small or large nor anything in between. I am nothing alone. I am a tool for the greater good. That’s what they’d told him at least.

The thought had always brought both comfort and despair. But now there was only despair because his one purpose had been taken from him.

They named us after monsters.

Half an hour later or so, he was back in the red pickup truck.

He sat there, still feeling off-kilter about his visit to the apartment.

Morana had confused him. But he was more concerned about what he’d seen on the paper that Amon had burned.

The instructions for his job, Sam knew, because he’d received similar instructions before.

Deercroft.

1358.

Military time: one fifty-eight. What time was it now? Sam wasn’t sure. He didn’t have a phone. That had been taken from him. But he knew it was somewhere around one o’clock.

Deercroft.

They named us after monsters.

Sam turned the key in the ignition and then shut the truck off again, letting out a soft growl, directed toward himself. How many more bad ideas are you going to have before you die, Sam?

More importantly, how many more are you going to follow?

There was a café just up the block that had a sign advertising internet, and he jumped from the truck, heading in that direction. He paid the woman at the counter for thirty minutes, her gaze lingering on him as he turned away.

He sat down in the plastic chair, far too small for his large frame, clicked on the browser, and typed in Deercroft, New York .

A list of hits came up, and he clicked on the first one. A private school. Deercroft Academy was a private elementary school in the city.

Sam’s hand fell from the mouse, and he sat there for a moment, picturing the sheen of perspiration on Amon’s forehead, the man who had been trained not to sweat.

We have to do what’s necessary. The mission is what matters. The mission is all that matters.

Sam couldn’t stop a mission. Missions were happening all over the world. The other program members were carrying out missions everywhere, some perhaps right that second. He didn’t know where. He didn’t know why.

You know this time though , his mind whispered. Deercroft. One fifty-eight.

Each mission is for the greater good.

The greater good.

What did that mean though? No one had ever defined it for him.

Sam glanced at the time on the computer. One twenty-seven.

He hesitated only a moment before scooting back, the chair falling to the floor with a loud clatter. Sam didn’t bother to pick it up. He turned and headed for the door.