Dead of Eve (Trilogy of Eve 1)

I shivered despite the sultry island breeze. We were surrounded by water, trapped on an island with aphids.

The fort’s main tower eclipsed the stars. We entered the tower’s anteroom ornamented with marble pillars and tropical florae.

Fingers pressed in my arm, the doctor dragged me through massive double doors. Then he removed my gag and bindings and shoved me into the heart of a hall, enclosed by a living wall of aphids.

The Drone prowled around me, chilling my bones with his glacial mien, penetrating with even colder eyes.

I steeled my voice with an equally steeled posture. “Where’s the priest? I demand to see him.”

The Drone’s fist blurred. I dodged it, but not fast enough for the second punch. I wheeled back, void of weapons and tripping on the skirts of my gown. Blood filled my mouth. I spat, speckling the tile with crimson. The air sizzled with excited hunger. Huffing snarls and quivering limbs surrounded me, overwhelmed me.

“Foolish woman.” He rolled his upper lip, revealing human teeth unlike the incisors from my nightmares. A chill oozed from his syllables. “Can you not feel the vibrations of fifty thirsty mouths drumming for your blood?”

I hissed at the bugs and returned to their leader. “You fucking coward. You don’t need the priest. Release him.”

His laugh cracked through the room and stole the strength from my spine. “Bring the bait.”

The Imago appeared in the hall, directing four men with terse commands and a wave of his cigar. They skidded and stumbled with wide eyes and clenched fists. Bruises and gashes marked their naked bodies. Why weren’t they fighting back?

A brown skinned man spat at me in an indistinguishable language. An Asian man warded me off with a wave of trembling hands.

Holy hell. These men feared me. “Does anyone speak English?”

They panted and scooted away, heels scrubbing the tiles to speed up their retreat.

My stomach clenched. The mutants stirred. Their vibrations increased, and their fragile control tipped.

What was leashing them? How long could it hold?

An aphid burst from the blockade. In a blink, the Asian man hit the ground in a torsion of human and aphid limbs. I lunged onto his attacker’s back and wrestled an arm under its mandible. I hoped breathing was an aphid necessity and put all my strength into the choke hold.

Agonizing moments passed. Then the bug collapsed. Not dead, not from a choke hold.

I jumped back, ready for the next attack.

The Asian man moaned through distorted features. Blood bubbled from the puncture in his chest.

My nostrils flared at the metallic smell of his blood. The scent roused something within me, increasing my connection with the aphids. They smelled it, too. Hungered for it. The united resistance wouldn’t hold.

Another aphid jerked. I leapt from its path, rolled onto my shoulder, looked back.

The brown man coughed a wet, surprised gurgle. His gaze dropped to his chest where the mandible’s tusk erupted, skewering his heart to his ribs.

The aphid enclosure decomposed in a mass of spines and twitching green bodies. Another man went down. One remained, defending his ground with kicks and swinging arms.

Helplessness glued my feet to the floor. Our captors, who cared so little for human life, had Roark. What would they do to him? My heart gave a painful thump. Without weapons or allies, I’d been stripped of everything I needed to beat them. Everything except the compulsion to live.

The Drone kept watch from afar. When our eyes collided, he said, “Your speed, your agility…very aphid.”

A claw snapped toward me. I twisted, dodging it, and jumped on its back. We spun as I used its body as a shield against the others. It wrestled in my hold, turning to face me. We rolled to the ground and I landed with my legs squeezing its chest. I angled its mouth away and plunged my thumb into its eye. It bucked, but I kept my Jujitsu mount planted. With a hefty thrust, I pressed my hand further into its socket and met a barrier with my thumb. Its body went limp.

A vise clamped my shoulder, the sharp point of a mouth scraped my neck.

Pop.

The Imago lowered a dart gun. The aphid dropped with a thud. Smoke plumed from its pores. Its skin hissed, crackled. Then it burst in a gruesome rain, leaving a charred heap of black innards. The remaining aphids buzzed and backed away.

A hand caught my arm, yanked me to my feet. The doctor’s jet eyes narrowed. Not a strand of black hair out of place. He stabbed me with a hypodermic and lifted me to his chest.

As the chemical cocktail robbed my vision, his voice stroked my ear. “Nannakola.”

Pain pounded my temples. Through slits, the room rotated, dipped clockwise then counter-clockwise. I gritted my teeth and waited for the sedative hangover to pass.

The room stopped rocking. I lay upon a bed bordered by three stone walls. Steel bars domed over my cell and made up the fourth wall, caging me from the rest of the chamber. A heavy-duty combination lock—like the one on my gun safe—fastened to the gate. The gate was open.