Blood of Eve (Trilogy of Eve 2)

“They’re getting smarter.” Jesse wrinkled his forehead. “But they’re still allergic to water.”

Thank fuck for that. We held our positions and released our arrows into the horde. Roark swept to the edge, taking down the braver bugs that swung their bulbous heads close to the shore.

My aim with the bow was still shit, and as I reached for each arrow from the quiver on my back, I wondered if I’d run out before the last aphid fell. I wondered how many aphids prowled the planet, and how many arrows it would take to even make a dent in their numbers.

There were about seven billion people when the aphid plague hit, spread across seven continents. How many mutated? How many men were still mutating, perishing beneath the aphids’ evolving intelligence? How many humans were we losing every day?

As far as battles went, this one ended quicker than most, thanks to the protection of the stream and the bugs’ hungry drive to get to us but not hungry enough to dive into the water to collect their food. The skin on my index finger burned from the friction of the arrows as I nocked another one and scanned the shore.

Fifteen scaly green bodies covered the ground, a few missing heads, the rest prickling with arrows.

I lowered the bow and ran my hand through Darwin’s dense fur. He licked my fingers then bounded out of the stream, circling and sniffing through the carnage.

“Hot damn.” Shea bumped a shoulder against mine. “Bona-fide warrior princesses for the win. I’m ready to do that again.”

I laughed, delighted with the excitement brightening her face, and dared a peek at Jesse. The quiver on his back was completely full. What on Earth?

He caught my eyes and grinned. “I didn’t want to dirty my arrows unless I had to. That was all you, ladies.” He glanced at the few detached heads. “And Roark.”

I reassessed the gory shoreline. The majority of the arrows hung from some part of a mutated body.

“Most of those are yours, Shea.” I was certain I’d only hit a couple bugs.

And so it went. As the days and nights slipped by, we slowly made our way down the mountain, sticking to the stream, practicing with our bows, and testing our new skill on the dozens of aphids we encountered.

Jesse taught us how to make arrows, and I stayed on his ass about using his words. It wasn’t a walk in the park by any stretch of the imagination. The days were blistering and long, the aphids persistent, and the hike perilously steep. I was forced to shed the weight of my carbine and handgun. Jesse and Roark left bulky supplies along the trail as well. Canned foods, extra water, and the ultrasound machine. The latter was the most difficult to let go.

But the evenings were the hardest. The four of us huddled together, in the shadows, next to the stream, relying on Darwin’s nose and my internal sensor to alert us of aphids.

Beyond the usual dangers and the torment of insomnia, nightfall brought another kind of torture. The proximity of our bodies pressed together, mine sandwiched between Jesse and Roark, produced an agonizing tension. Tension in the form of not one but two erections prodding at my body.

Sexual frustration smothered our bedrolls. If Shea had inherited even a fraction of my libido, she would’ve been miserable too, sleeping at Roark’s back night after night. But she was smart enough to never try anything with my guardians, and I thanked her by not messing around in front of her. Without privacy, there was no fooling around, no self-pleasure, and definitely no sex. Not while guarding Shea. And honoring a vow. And avoiding pregnancy.

Yeah, I dreaded the evenings. We all did.

But a month later, we walked out of the mountains, physically healed and emotionally on our way to better.

As we footed south along Route 220, the days shortened and the nights grew cooler. Shea and I had gained confidence with our bows, but we were only four people strong. We needed more guards. We needed to find nymphs. We needed transportation and food and shelter.

We needed to ensure we didn’t lose another woman the way we’d lost Elaine.

On the third night on Route 220, we bedded down in an abandoned house.

The night that changed everything.

The sound of scratching came to me in a dream. It wanted in, pushing at the edges of my mind and clawing along the exterior of the house. Sharp and menacing. Insistent and desperate. In that hazy stasis between slumber and awareness, I answered instinctively.

Come in.

Vibrations coiled around my spine and whipped through my stomach like live wires, wild and raging and singeing my insides with electrical sparks. I wrapped phantom arms around the sensation, the impulse to soothe it as natural as drawing air. This was what I was born to do.