Chapter Twenty-Three
The bus ride from Lakeside to the community’s main topside entrance took forty-five minutes and added a layer of near-suffocating, crammed-in torture onto Breen he could’ve done without.
The max load for a school bus was seventy-two, and they were over capacity by at least sixteen. In addition to nine community members, four from the Spec Ops Team—Dev, Gábor, Thomal, and Breen—and five rescuers—Jacken, Nyko, Arc, Pandra, and Dr. Jess, who had stocked the bus with medical supplies, but not enough to deal with this—there were seventy-nine bad guys: fifty-two injured—a decent portion, gravely—seven uninjured—who managed this feat by running off and hiding in the trees—and twenty women, nearly identical in appearance, with dark hair and block-like, masculine features. Almost half of the bad guys—forty-three in all—were killed outright in a slaughter for the history books.
The rest Dev refused to leave without. They’re our people, and we take care of our own.
So now bodies were stacked, in some cases literally, on top of each other, while Dr. Jess hurried among the wounded, tending to them as efficiently as he could.
Jacken and Nyko assisted, Pandra, too, but reluctantly. She hadn’t wanted to leave Thomal’s side, although he refused to feed until the rest of his team could.
With so many people sharing the same oxygen space, Breen could barely breathe. He was also nauseous from all the blood flowing from wounds. Not from the sight, but because the cloying scent had pasted itself onto the mucus membranes of his nostrils.
There was so much blood, a red tide of it had gathered in the center aisle. It steadily flowed toward the front of the bus, where it waterfalled sluggishly down the steps, then oozed out from underneath the door’s rubber flaps, becoming a red spray as soon as the wind hit it. Any highway patrolman who spotted that would absolutely pull them over, and then they’d find themselves in the very sticky position of having to explain a busload of carnage. And, really, how was that explainable?
Arc was more than a little tense as he drove the bus.
When they finally drove onto Ţărână’s elevator, tucking themselves safely away from unwanted scrutiny, a communal gust of relief was released. And then they could also open the bus doors and unload many of the injured onto the huge platform.
Breen climbed off the bus as fast as his lame leg would allow. Shakily clutching the IV bag Dr. Jess had attached to him, he hop-stumbled down the stairs, sucking in huge mouthfuls of air, and collapsed against the bus’s rear wheel.
More of the wounded were unloaded, and within five minutes the platform was a lake of blood.
The butt of Breen’s pants got soaked, which was just another discomfort to add onto others: near-useless arms, plus a knife wound in his leg that was rapidly sending his blood-need toward a dangerous point of no return. The interior of the elevator regularly orbited around him, and a viscous quicksand kept trying to pull him under. Only a twisty fear—of never waking out of a blood-coma if he let himself go unconscious—kept his eyes open, if just halfway.
Through the slit of his eyelids, he was vaguely aware that the bad guys on the platform were unnaturally quiet for men who were hurt as bad as they were. They should’ve been moaning, but they weren’t making much of any noise. Some rapid breathing was going on, and that was about it. Probably they were scared, figuring a bunch of a whole lot worse was heading their way after what they’d done to Dev.
The long-haired guard and Nicolae were slumped side by side against the rear wall. Dr. Jess had judged their wounds bad enough to warrant scarce and valuable bandages and IVs—same as Breen got—but the two men had already soaked through several layers of gauze. Their complexions were as white as new bathroom caulk.
About halfway through the twenty-minute elevator ride down, Breen started to heave. He didn’t stop until he was pretty sure he’d turned his stomach inside out and barfed it partway up his throat. It now sat like a wet flap at the back of his tongue. Finally, thank Christ, after what seemed like the length of an episode of Glee, the elevator came to a stop with a small lurch and a winded gasp.
The large door chugged open.
Toni was revealed, standing directly in front, Charlize, Marissa, and Chelsea hovering a step or two behind her. Beyond the anxious wives, the rest of the Warrior Class was waiting near a stack of stretchers and medical supplies.
Not much rattled Toni, but when the opening elevator door released the lake of blood, that did. She gaped as the red tide oozed lava-like off the platform and blub-blubbed around her low-heeled shoes. “My God,” she breathed.
Little Chelsea gasped.
Marissa cried out.
Charlize took one look at all the blood, and her knees bent sideways. She collapsed to the garage floor in a dead faint.
“Shit,” Breen croaked.
Sedge rushed over and knelt beside her.
Jacken splashed to the edge of the elevator platform.
Toni’s eyes stretched wider on her blood-drenched husband. “You texted me ‘plan for incoming wounded.’” She was astounded. “That’s all you said.”
He gestured behind him at the carnage. “I didn’t exactly have time for more.”
A clattering noise came from inside the bus.
Jacken checked over his shoulder, then barked, “Marissa.”
Marissa rushed forward, her expression stricken.
“Prepare yourself,” Jacken growled.
Dev was lugged out of the bus, Nyko and Arc each manning an arm. Dev’s head lolled back and forth on his shoulders as if his neck was no more than a flower stem, and—
Marissa’s hands flew to her face, and she shrieked.
Well, how could anyone really expect her to prepare for how Dev looked right now? He wasn’t even fit for a chum bucket.
Arc gestured her down. “On your knees, Marissa.”
Sobbing, she kneeled.
Dev was placed on top of her, and she toppled over under the weight of his limp body.
Nyko held Dev up by the back of the belt to keep his full weight off Marissa—God knew Dev couldn’t do it himself.
Dev latched onto his wife and fed greedily.
Marissa kept weeping.
The scene was both messed up and a heaven-sent relief.
Toni watched it all with searing blue eyes. “What the hell is this?” she snapped, glaring down at Dev’s back.
“I have no idea,” Jacken answered her. “No one’s been able to give me the full story—just that these people are Vârcolac.”
“What?” Toni exclaimed. “How is such a thing possible?”
Jacken chopped at the air. “That’s the current what the fuck of the hour, isn’t it?”
Dev moaned, and Breen’s own fangs pressed down. Hunger shuddered up his spine, and he checked on Charlize.
Sedge had placed a rolled towel underneath her head. She was still out cold but looked comfortable.
Gábor trudged out of the bus.
His wife, Chelsea, blinked a couple of times as she took in her husband’s appearance—arms like swollen plums, savagely bright eyes, and an expression locked into homicidal rage. “Uh oh,” she said on a low breath.
Thomal and Pandra exited the bus next.
As Thomal passed by his brother, Arc, he clasped fists briefly with him, then he stepped off the platform and came to stand next to Gábor over Dev.
Nyko helped Dev shift to Marissa’s side.
“Both of you, go home,” Dev said hoarsely, propping himself unsteadily on his elbows. “Be with your wives and heal. Gábor—” He reached out sideways and wrapped a hand around Gábor’s ankle. “Let Chelsea fix you, man. Do you hear me?”
Gábor glared across the room at a wall hung with a wide selection of tools, a couple of fan belts, sparkplugs, a grease gun.
“That’s an order.” Dev let go.
Chelsea slipped her palm in her husband’s and led him away.
Pandra urged Thomal to leave, too.
“Where’s Breen?” Dev asked.
Dr. Jess came to the edge of the elevator platform. His suit was totaled, although his black hair was still miraculously neat. “I’m sending him to the hospital right now.” He gestured to a couple of homeguard warriors, Jeddin—Breen’s X-Box buddy—and Kasson—owner of a surfer boy cowlick.
The two picked up a stretcher.
“Take extra good care of him,” Dev said. “He got that leg wound saving my ass.”
Breen peered down at the IV needle in his arm, the veins under his skin looking kind of shrunken. Dev’s voice had been filled with a lot of pride, and Breen fiddled awkwardly with the IV tube. He didn’t know how to take it. He’d never been complimented before—besides, Dank move! for an exceptionally skillful Xbox kill or, Nice way to bust it! following an extra hard training session.
Kasson and Jeddin brought the stretcher onto the platform and set it down next to him. “Hey, man,” Jeddin said, flipping his white-blond hair off his forehead, “you look like you came outta someone’s ass.”
“Toni,” Dev said, sounding like he had a fistful of sediment congesting his larynx.
Toni crouched down next to him. “Yes.”
“Promise me you’ll take care of the others.”
Toni’s eyebrows pressed together. She glanced up at her husband.
Jacken made a yeah, I know, can you believe it? gesture.
She transferred her attention over to Dr. Jess.
“I’ve already triaged them,” he told her quietly. “About fifteen need major surgery, while the others can probably be treated with suturing.”
Several short, measured breaths left Toni’s lips, then her mouth screwed up tight at the corners. “Dev, do you have any idea what you look like?”
“I’ll be okay. I just need Marissa and sleep and pain meds and… But the rest of them…they’ve been chopped into fajita meat.”
Toni didn’t speak. She shook her head.
Marissa carefully caressed her fingers through her husband’s hair.
“You’re the leader of our people,” Dev kept on, “and these are our people.”
Toni dragged a hand over her mouth. She shook her head again.
“These are people who…who shouldn’t even be alive because of what my father did.” Dev angled his head up to look at Toni. “I need you to think as a leader right now, not as my friend. Okay?”
Toni’s jawbone stuck out against her flesh. With a biting sound, she thrust to her feet and marched to the edge of the platform. “Do you see the man you hurt?” She glared at the bad guys. “He’s fighting for your undeserved survival.”
The accused sat, sprawled, and lay in frozen terror. No one really understood English, but Toni’s expression and her tone got her point across extremely well.
Jeddin and Kasson hefted Breen onto the stretcher, setting the IV bag on his belly.
“Charlize,” Breen squawked. He was pretty sure he couldn’t go another second without her blood.
She was just now swaying to a sitting position. As soon as she saw all the blood again, she blanched.
Toni swept another incensed gaze over the bad guys. “Who’s in charge here?” She enunciated the question with steely precision. “Who?”
“I am.”
Toni whipped her attention over as Skunk Streak struggled to his feet from out of the bloody mass.
He walked forward stiffly. The wound from the knife he’d taken to the back still leaked, but somehow he managed to put a decent amount of rigidity into his spine as he faced down Toni. “I am Octav Rázóczi, ruler of these people,” he said in a cold, ruthless voice. “In the name of the entire Vârcolac race, I have led my people to exact a rightful and just blood debt against the son of Grigore Nichita, betrayer of our people.”
“Look at this man.” Toni made a slice motion down at Dev. “This isn’t the image of a blood debt. It’s murder.”
“As it should be.” Skunk Streak’s chin went up, his tone turning as superior and snide as his posture. “It is mere unfortunate happenstance that Son of Grigore Nichita isn’t dead. Grigore Nichita’s actions led to the death of thousands. The level of the blood debt exacted on his son is in accordance with the laws of Dantură Pravilă.”
“Dantură Pravilă,” Toni said through set teeth, “is no longer followed. The Străvechi—”
“A human,” Skunk Streak spat, “would have no knowledge of such matters.”
Toni gave Skunk Streak a thousand-yard stare.
Not the smartest tone for a guy to use when his nuts were currently poised in a vise of her choosing—although Skunk Streak obviously didn’t know that.
“And you don’t speak for the entire Vârcolac race,” Toni corrected coldly. “The people here”—she made a town-wide gesture—“are of that race, and every one of them takes exception to what you did to Devid Nichita.”
“Then the people here have not endured the loss of family, nor suffered the near-extinction of the Vârcolac way of life, as we have.” Skunk Streak sneered. “My only regret is that I myself did not have the chance to apply the bullwhip to Son of Grigore Nichita in the name of my sister, who was killed in the siege of Constanţa Harbor along with so many others.” Fury blazed from his eyes, and there was malice in his voice. “May the son of Grigore Nichita always bear the scars of those deaths. May my sister, Pettrila Rázóczi”—he shook a clenched fist at Toni and elevated his volume—“finally be avenged!”
Skunk Streak’s melodramatic declaration echoed off the walls of the garage and faded by degrees into a holy shit, say what? silence.
Breen’s brain wasn’t working at full speed, but even he could compute what that name meant: Pettrila Rázóczi was the maiden name of Pettrila Nichita.
Dev’s mother.
Releasing a wet snort, Dev lowered his forehead to the garage floor. His shoulders quaked.
Skunk Streak frowned at what looked like a show of laughter.
“You imbecile,” Toni hissed.
Skunk Streak’s attention swung back to her, and he gave her an incinerating glare.
“You utter and complete idiot.” Toni exhaled down her nose, a condescending sound that actually outdid Skunk Streak. “You just tried to kill your own nephew.”