Dead of Eve (Trilogy of Eve 1)

She shook her head. “You’re in our world.”

Their world? My thoughts traced back to the day I saw them by the pool. The day I cremated my father. The day I woke to discover Joel’s death. In those moments, when the absence of life weighed on me, wasn’t it an unbalanced ecosystem? Was I treading outside the world of the living? How was that possible?

I moved to the truck’s window, pressed my face against it. Roark’s chest moved up and down, his eyes closed.

“You brought him here. I like him,” Annie said, her smile forever missing the same two teeth.

Aaron climbed onto the hood and plopped beside her. “I liked the ladybugs bestest.” He clasped his hands to his chest. “Will you bring them again, Mommy?”

Annie elbowed him. “Not now. We got her across the big ocean. She doesn’t have time for ladybirds.”

My legs wobbled. I gripped the side mirror. “What do you mean?” My hand went to my chest, where the tug used to be. “That was you?”

Chin raised, she tapped the toes of her tennis shoes together and hummed.

Aaron huffed, “I help.”

The burn in my throat worked its way to my nose and spread behind my eyes. “Why?”

Their heads swiveled toward the windshield, their eyes locked on Roark.

“Him?” I asked.

“Your fixer.” Annie grinned.

“Fixer?” I stepped toward them until my legs bumped the front tire. “What does he fix?”

She cocked her head. “He fixed your ouchie.” Her finger drew a circle over my heart. “Now you care.”

My throat closed, strangled my voice. “Care?”

“You’ll save them, Mama.”

Them? The nymphs? I couldn’t ask. I wanted to protect my A’s from the world they left. I wanted to spend that time holding them and telling them I would never stop loving them.

I opened my arms, reaching. The vapor that shaped them waved, slipped through my fingers. They didn’t seem to notice.

A choke escaped my lips. I pulled back and tucked my clenched fists under my arms. The blaze in my sinuses swelled. After a lifetime of dry eyes, maybe I would finally cry.

A gasp returned my attention to Aaron. His eyes were wide, staring at the lea beyond the bluff. “He’s here.”

“Who?”

A tremendous roar whooshed from above. The truck wobbled back and forth on its frame.

The sky opened up and peeled away the night in a flash of light. The wind tunneled toward Annie and Aaron, spun their bodies, and carried them away.

I pounded my hands on the hood. “Nooo.”

My screams chased the vortex into the blinding rays of the sun. The saturated ground soaked into my socks. The crisp air penetrated my bones, bringing with it the sudden orchestra of chirping birds, the pushing of water between the banks of River Tweed, and the buzzing of aphids. The truck’s door slammed.

“Evie. What’s wrong?” Roark’s hand brushed my cheek. Then he stilled. “Do ye hear that?”

“Aphids.” Their buzzing amplified in volume and complexity. I raised the carbine and followed the vibrations to the edge of the bluff.

The hum became more deafening, like the buzz of a million flies breeding on ol’ Hurlin’s stallions.

At the edge of the bluff, his hand found mine. Hundreds of aphids corralled below. In the center, two human boys clawed and kicked for their lives.

Could we save them? Distract the bugs somehow?

He tugged my hand. “Too many. We need to get away from this cliff. To the van—”

Scraping footsteps crept over my shoulder. We spun, his sword outstretched, his other hand shoving me behind him.

Aphids encircled us. Carbine leveled, I stepped around him, picking them off, counting down the rounds. Thirty…twenty-nine…twenty-eight…

Buzzing numbed my ears. Beside me, his sword thrashed side to side to stave them off.

The carbine tapped my shoulder. Nine…eight…

There were too many. I needed ammo from the truck, which had vanished behind the quivering swarm.

Two rounds left. The dozen or so remaining aphids shuffled closer with ravenous purpose. We backed to the edge. Their food had nowhere to go.

The buzzing ceased. Roark wrapped his free arm around my waist and mantled me with his body.

A gap opened in the center of the swarm and the mutants calmed. A dark-haired man emerged from the parting.

Roark risked a quick glance at me. I shook my head. Not the Drone. Still, the man’s tawny complexion and ominous eyes were familiar.

Flanked by several aphids, he swaggered closer. His xanadu-tinged uniform stretched across his puffed-out chest and squared shoulders. He stopped a few feet before us and tumbled a chuckle between puffs from his cigar. “So, you’re the menacing little chit who’s been shooting up my soldiers.”

His hair shined as black as his enlarged pupils and clipped close to his skull. A thick scarlet scar zagged his forehead and begged me to sight it with the carbine. I obliged.

“And you are?” I asked around the carbine.

“The Imago.” He rolled the vowels.

I laughed. “The Imago?”