Shadows (Ashes Trilogy 2)

Yes, yes! Peter nodded as hard as he could, which probably didn’t amount to more than a jiggle. “G-go. H-hurry. Radio R-Rule for h-help.”

“You’re telling me to leave? Peter, even if we make it through, it might be hours before we could mount any kind of rescue.”

“You have to. G-get the guys out.” For a long moment, Weller’s seamed face was so blank, Peter wasn’t sure the older man understood. “L-leave m-me. Get th-them out.”

“That an order?” Weller said, roughly. “You understand, you’re telling me to leave you behind.”

“Y-y-yesss.” Peter chattered. “G-g-go.”

“All right.” And then Weller did a curious thing. He took Peter’s head between his hands, leaned down, and kissed Peter on the forehead.

“When the time comes,” Weller murmured, “you remember my Mandy. You remember it was me did this.” And then he was gone.

What? Peter tried focusing on the words, but it was like trying to tear through cobwebs with one hand. Mandy? Or . . . Manny? Who? What did Weller . . . But then his thoughts disintegrated completely as a blossom of fresh pain unfurled in a deep blood rose in the center of his chest. There was more gunfire, but Peter heard that only faintly and as nothing more substantial than distant pops, like the bang snaps he and his friends used to throw at one another on a dare. All that mattered was Weller had left, and that was good because there was no time to waste. It was getting harder to breathe past the deadening fist closing around his lungs. Almost not worth the effort.

“Daaad.” An airy moan. “Daaad . . .”

“S’okay, T-Ty.” Peter tried reaching for the boy’s hand. He wasn’t sure his fingers worked. He was shuddering uncontrollably now, and yet his arms no longer felt as if they were even there at all. He thought his hand closed around something, but it had all the life and warmth of a stone. “I’m h-here.”

Tyler said nothing. But was there a slight pressure? He wasn’t sure. And then—when?—Peter heard a whump and a louder boom. Explosion? Maybe. Too tired to lift his head. Just get it shot off anyway.

Things were going soft. The light was fading, drawing out of the morning like the blood in his veins. My fault. A thick, churning fog drifted across his vision. Or maybe thunderclouds, the storm finally catching up. Tyler’s just a kid. Not right . . . not . . . Chris . . . have to get word to him . . . explain . . . tell him about . . . about . . .

The thought fizzled. Tell Chris . . . what? He didn’t know. His ragged thoughts were fraying, his mind unraveling, and then something dark blossomed before his eyes, blotting out the light. The sky had torn. Space bled through, but it was full dark, without stars, and Peter was sinking, falling fast in a final swoon, falling and falling and falling into a black and silent forever.

Sometime after.

Later.

How long? No idea. Time didn’t really matter anymore. He was floating, not falling now. His body was as shimmery as a soap bubble, his thoughts no more substantial than mist. Dying . . . lifted . . . angels . . . but where . . .

A sudden, hard jolt of white pain ruptured the darkness, and he moaned.

“Hey,” someone said. “Got us a live one.”

13

When they hauled her to her feet, she couldn’t believe she was still alive. A thick fog of unreality settled over Alex’s mind, muffling even the insistent mutter of pain from her hacked shoulder.

A brother. Chris had a brother. He’d never mentioned one, much less a twin, but there was no doubt. Same face, and floating above that roadkill reek, that shadowy scent was a dead ringer, too. The only difference was that healed slash drawn across Wolf ’s neck. He might have other scars. Perhaps he’d been in a really bad accident. She could be wrong about the suicide thing, but her gut said not. Regardless, the fact remained that these boys, Chris and Wolf, were brothers. No, more than that: they were identical twins.

Which meant that if she’d guessed right and Chris was Jess’s grandson—and Yeager’s—so was Wolf. Had Jess and Yeager been married? It occurred to her that she hadn’t a clue about Jess’s history, or even her last name. All Alex knew was that Jess said she’d seen her daughters die. Chris had said that his mom left when he was just a baby. He’d never known her.

So what if Chris’s mother—one of Jess’s daughters—had run back to Rule but with only Wolf ? Of course, the boy wouldn’t have been Wolf then; he’d have had a name and friends, a life.

But why? She stared, stupid with shock and bewilderment, as Wolf approached with her snowshoes in one hand and the backpack Jess had supplied in the other. He’d shucked the wolf skin, pushing the lupine mask back like a hood. Why only you, and not Chris? There was nothing she could glean from his scent either, which remained as inscrutable as his expression. In this, Chris was the same as well: guarded and secretive, good at erecting barriers, putting up walls. When he let her in and opened himself, however, there was a sweetness there. Chris’s only desire had been to care for and protect her—and look where that had gotten them both.

Numb, she could only watch as Wolf bent to a knee, took hold of her left boot, and guided her foot into a snowshoe, gently clipping her in the way he might a child and with something almost like tenderness. He followed suit with the right. When he was finished, he pushed to his feet and slid a hand around her uninjured arm. Wolf tugged—and she followed, heart hammering, on legs as stiff as wooden pegs. What choice did she have anyway? Whatever Wolf and the others had in mind would not happen here. If they’d wanted to place her head on that pyramid, Wolf would’ve cut her throat, not skinned a slice of Alex-bologna.

So she went: out of the circle, past the flayed wolves—the empty sockets of all those skulls staring after and into forever— and away from Rule. Away from Jess and Nathan, the other girls, Kincaid. Away from Chris and into whatever future awaited.

Which, she thought, might be very short.

* * *

After a half hour or so, her brain kicked in again as the shock drained away. Her head ached, a steady pounding like the beat of a bass drum. Her shoulder throbbed in harmony with her pulse and hurt like hell. With the wound open to the wind and cold, now that Wolf had so nicely sliced away that portion of her parka and shirt, the pain was like nails being hammered into the exposed meat. Her nose was full with the tang of wet rust from congealing blood, though some still oozed in a warm, wet trickle down her forearm to seep into the ruined sleeve of her parka. Her wrist was damp, too, the glove a little squelchy. No pumpers, as Kincaid would say, and no glimmer of bone, which she supposed was all good, but the knowledge that she wouldn’t bleed to death gave only slim comfort.