Dead of Eve (Trilogy of Eve 1)

“Michio,” I whispered, “Do you know this man?”

He stepped around me and shook his head. “You understand English?” he asked him.

The man nodded.

“I’m Dr. Michio Nealy. I work for the Shard. I’ve been on an undercover mission. You might have heard—.”

“Aiman Jabara?” He dropped the can, eyes bulging.

“Yes.” Michio took a step closer. “And you are?”

He thumped his chest. “Njall.” His eyes darted to the cage behind him and his chin dropped to his chest as he stepped to the side. “Her name Frida.” His English broke through a heavy Icelandic accent. “My wife.”

A hiss sprayed from the cage. Dull hair webbed her pallid face in thin strands. A hospital gown clung to her sunken frame. Tiny pupils flicked between us and a heavy rasp pushed from her lungs.

My heart banged against my ribs. Her gaze moved my feet closer. Until she opened her mouth. A tube slid in and out. Finger-like bits wiggled over the moving parts.

“I come after you left, Dr. Nealy,” Njall said as we stared at the cage. “For my wife, you see.”

“What happened here?” Michio eyes remained fixed on Frida.

“Lots of boom boom. I hide here. A week, maybe.”

Damn. We missed them by a mere week?

“Kona.” He pointed to me. “She cures? The Shard hoped.” He grabbed Michio’s arm, pulled him toward the cage. “Please.”

“Her name is Evie.” Michio’s tone was possessive as he stretched to his intimidating full height. “I’ve only tested her blood in the lab. Frida would be an experiment. You understand?”

“Please.” Puffy red skin weighted his eyes.

Michio searched my face. “Evie?”

“What do I need to do?”

He made a list of supplies and sent Jesse and Roark down the hall to collect. They returned a few minutes later with syringes, vials and a dart gun. Then he pricked my arm, filling a hollow reservoir of a tranquilizer dart with my blood.

Capture gun loaded, he aimed it at the cage. Njall shoved his fist in his mouth.

The dart sailed and landed in the nymph’s throat. She thrashed and dropped to her knees and a painful spasm erupted in my gut.

The next few moments bludgeoned by. Every sound, every stir was punctuated by a pounding in my head. Frida writhed on the floor of her cage. Annie’s chilling hum crept through the hall. And hundreds of vibrating strings knitted over my ribs, around my spine and fisted my stomach.

My lungs wheezed. I clutched the pain in my belly and ran toward the door. An army was coming.

Annie’s lilt chased me through the corridor. So did Jesse and Roark.

At the platform, Roark’s arm blocked my advance. “Aw Jaysus, your eyes.”

I didn’t give a shit how freaky my eyes looked. I fisted his cassock. “There’s an army outside. Help me stop them.”

His muscles stiffened. “Damn the devil’s hairy bollocks.”

Jesse stood next to him, brows drawn and jaw jerking. I snapped my fingers in his face. “I’ll need you, too.”

Roark’s sword swooshed as he slid it from his leather scabbard. “Get bloody on with it then.”

We united with Tallis and Georges on the balcony and updated them as we flew down the tunnel. I shed my coat and top as I ran. Roark and Jesse did the same.

The ringing in my gut whirled in a circular motion and spun up my spine. How many spots would I walk away with? Oh hell, I just needed to walk away.

“Alis volat propriis,” Georges panted at my back. “They say you fight like them, Spotted Wing. I will savourer le show.”

I huffed and burst through the door. Sweet lord, it was so cold I had to force my limbs to cooperate.

Across the field, two aphids looked up from a hollowed-out body turned on its side. Daylight shined through the hole in the chest. Long blond hair swam around it. Goddammit. Ivar? His son?

One aphid snarled. The other clicked back. Their orbs turned to me.

Human screams rode in on the wind and my bones shivered.

“Stay with her, Beckett,” Roark said. “Tallis and Georges with me.” They darted for the river, where the shrieks quieted.

Oh, Roark. His name jumped into my throat and died there. He could handle himself. He’d come back.

Hundreds of insectile bodies shimmered on the horizon. A mile away? I trained the carbine on the two feeding. Could I hit the eyes at that distance? Jesse’s feathered arrows shifted in the quiver on his bare back.

“Give me an arrow, Jesse.”

He scowled at me.

“Can you make the kill shot from here?”

“Can’t you hold them while I run over there?” he asked.

“And give the army time to move closer?” I held out my hand.

He plucked out an arrow and pressed it into my waiting palm.

I punched the ice pick tip into the crease of my elbow. The burn reached my fingertips.

“You’re mad,” Jesse said.

Blood flowed onto the point. Then I handed it back to the still scowling Lakota. “You don’t have to hit the eyes. Trust me.”