The Black Tide (Outcast 3)

What was I supposed to do now?

I pulled my finger from hers. Her little face immediately screwed up and big tears welled in her eyes. I closed mine, took a deep breath, and then touched her chest lightly. I’ll be back.

Though I was empathic rather than telepathic, I had no doubt she’d understand me. The seeking skill we both possessed—the same skill that was in part the reason behind my ability to communicate with the ghosts in our bunker, be they young déchet or full-grown, fully trained soldiers—ensured it.

She made no further sound, bu

t those tears remained in her eyes, a silver glimmer that threatened to tumble down her cheeks at any minute.

The door opened and two men—one of them guiding a powered medical stretcher—walked into the room. They quickly examined the man I’d drugged then placed him onto the stretcher and walked out. I hoped the medical facilities weren’t close, because once they ran full blood work, they’d find the drug and the game would be up.

I quickly moved to the next set of cribs. Not only were this group of six older and sicklier looking, their features were decidedly more wraith in design. Their eyes were bigger—more almond shaped—than the little girl’s, and their mouths far smaller. Wraiths had no mouths at all—how they actually fed was anyone’s guess—and it once again suggested these four weren’t full-bloods. I gently touched the nearest child, but there was no response from him, either physically or mentally. All I felt was pain. Terrible, terrible, pain.

I clamped down on the fury that rose and continued to the next row of pods. There were four in this group and, once again, they were a few months older and even further along the scale of becoming wraith. Were the different rows of cribs an indication of development lots? Not only was the little girl far younger than any of these other children, she was also the most “human” looking of any of them.

But why was she the only one in her row? Had the rest of her group died, or was something stranger happening here?

I didn’t bother touching any of the children in the third group. There was no need to—not when the light screen readouts indicated that even with all the tubes inserted into their little bodies, they were barely alive.

As I moved across to the final row of cots, an alarm went off. The light screen above one of the restraint cribs—which held children who resembled full wraiths, right down to the gray, almost translucent skin, and who had no facial features other than their overly large eyes—was flashing red as the heartbeat monitor flatlined. The three scientists swore and immediately began instigating CPR and recovery procedures, but it was all for naught. His soul was already rising—it was almost as if he couldn’t wait to get out of his own body.

As was typical for the newly dead, his form was real and solid looking. All ghosts tended to cling to the shape they’d worn in life initially, but most soon realized that doing so drained their energy far too quickly.

What was interesting about this young ghost, however, was not the fact his ghostly flesh looked real, but rather that it didn’t, in any way, resemble the body that lay in the crib. Instead of wraith features, this ghost had black hair, blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles across his sharp little nose.

So why the change? It was something I’d never witnessed before and it had intuition stirring.

He continued to hover over the crib and the scientists trying to revive him for several more seconds, and then his gaze rose to mine. He could obviously see past the light screen, but then, ghosts generally saw the world as it actually was rather than whatever front or guise was being presented, be it via magic or psychic skill.

Like the others in the restraint cribs, he appeared to be about two years old, but—as with the little girl—there was a much older soul shining out of his blue eyes.

I half reached out, unsure how he’d react or if it was even wise to make an attempt to talk to him. But I needed to know what was going on within this lab and, if he were anything like my little ones, then he would at least be able to give me some idea even if he wasn’t capable of anything too technical.

He continued to study me for several more seconds and then slowly drifted forward. His hand touched mine and energy tingled across my skin as a connection formed—and that meant he was either of shifter origin, or that my inability to use my seeking and psi skills against humans had faded right along with the inability to kill them.

Who are you? I asked softly.

I don’t know.

His mental tone was somewhat harsh, as if communicating was something he was not used to. But then, those who’d raised déchet hadn’t exactly encouraged conversation with their creations, either.

Are of you of this place?

This place is all that I can remember.

Which wasn’t a surprising reply, and yet it was something else that tugged at my instincts. What are they doing to you here?

They test their drugs. It changes us. He paused, his gaze drifting back to his body. It is painful. It is why they strap us down. It is why we are kept quiet.

My fury deepened at his words. The mere fact that these kids were being used as guinea pigs suggested they weren’t lab created but rather born of natural means. It also meant the fourteen kidnapped children we’d been trying to find weren’t the only ones Dream and her cohorts had been experimenting on.

But the kids here weren’t being used to test pathogens capable of altering the DNA of a human to make them vampire—which was a warped means of understanding the process so that they could reverse it—but rather to make wraiths.

Are those of you in this room the only ones they’re testing on? I asked.

Yes. He paused, his gaze moving past me. None of us will survive what they do to us. None of us want to survive.

Even as he said that, another monitor went red. It was the crib next to his. Two of the scientists quickly repeated the recovery procedures, but the result was the same. Another soul rising.