The Mad Lieutenant (The Lost Planet 3)

She falls against me, and when her arms squeeze me, I realize it was intentional. A Molly hug. “You’re sweet,” she says, her head tilting up, so she can see me. “But not only am I lost on a planet I never knew existed, I’m also a wanted criminal.” Her brows furrow together. “I’ve never felt so hopeless about something. All I can do is trust she’s happy wherever she is.”

As we travel, thoughts of my mother come back to mind.

***

“W-We’ll find each other again,” Mother rasps. Her eyes are wild as black liquid oozes from the corners, leaving a dark, wet trail as they escape into her hair. “In The Eternals.”

Her hands are bound, so she won’t claw at her skin anymore. I have to fist my hands to keep from scratching at my own flesh. Whatever Mother has, I think I have it, too.

“Don’t leave me,” I beg, my voice a mere whisper.

“One d-day I’ll be f-free,” she croaks, her mind once again slipping into the madness.

“Mother,” I whimper.

She coughs, and her entire body shudders. Spittle hits my face. They say she’s contagious. I don’t know what contagious means. All I know is she’s sick.

“Who will feed me, Mother?”

“They will, my heart.”

“Who will make sure I’m not cold at night, Mother?”

“They…will…”

“Who will—”

“Free me, beast,” she hisses, her fangs bared. “Free me, so I can rip them from my bones!”

My eyes widen. “What, Mother? What’s in your bones?”

“THEY ARE INSIDE ME!” she screams, her entire body flailing on the bed.

Panic rises up inside of me. I pull the small magknife that belonged to my father before he went to The Eternals from my belt. My hands shake as I try to saw through the zuta-metal clamp around her wrists.

It’s not working!

“Mother,” I cry out. “Let me go get—”

“No!” she shouts. “They’ll take you from me! I’ll suffer alone! No mort should ever suffer alone!”

Liquid heat streaks down my cheeks. I hastily swipe it away and let out a sob when I realize my tears are black like hers.

I’m scared.

Will they bind me, too?

“They’re coming,” she snarls. “Run, Draven! Run!”

I give my mother one last stare before I scamper off. I’ve barely made it to the door to swipe my keycard when it rolls open. A mort several years older than me and dressed completely in zu-gear, yanks me up by the arms.

“Let me go!” I wail. “Mother! Mother!”

“Run, Draven!” she calls out.

I squirm in his strong grip. When I see his eyes behind the glass, betrayal cuts me open.

Breccan.

He’s always so nice to me and teaches me things. How to hunt. How to scout for danger. How to read. He even looks after little Hadrian now.

But now…

“You’re sick,” he says, his voice tight with sadness. “We must try and—”

Images of those things inside of me eating away at my bones suddenly blackens my thoughts. I grow feral in his grip and screech as I squirm to get away. My claws rake along his zu-gear, but don’t puncture the material.

He shouts to someone to bring the sedative.

The next few moments are a blur.

Then nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Mother? Are we in The Eternals?

No one answers…

***

“Draven!” Molly cries out, dragging me from the past. “You’re trembling. What’s wrong?”

My bones buzz with the reminder of the past. The way my bones felt as though things were crawling inside of them, gnawing them hollow. I know I’m free from The Rades, but that disease still haunts me. That disease took my mother.

I look around frantically, trying to place exactly where we are. Anything to steal my attention away from that fateful night when she went to The Eternals and I went to a reform cell.

Maybe not right away.

But eventually.

At first, they tried to treat me.

But then, they simply wanted to keep me away from the others.

Breccan, only eighteen revolutions old, held me when I was too weak. He roared with me when I needed to rage over the injustice of it all. He listened when I needed to talk. I was ten revolutions old, but during those many micro-revolutions, I aged well beyond my years. When the madness became too great to handle, I spent what felt like eons locked away in the dark. Those times still come to me in the form of terrors in the night. I can’t shake those memories away no matter how I try.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Molly urges.

And with a shaky sigh, I do.

We walk, and I talk. I tell her of my mother—before the dreadful disease took her. I tell her of watching her suffer. I tell her of my own suffering. The pain still ravages my heart, and this, too, I tell her. By the time I’ve finished, we’ve reached the mouth of the crevasse, and Molly is sobbing.

“Don’t cry, my mate,” I rumble. “I do not wish to push my anguish into your arms.”