her
head. She would not think of that. It would go into her mental bag
of painful memories. A friend’s voice mingled with the roar of
flames. She sighed. Her bag was getting full.
“ So what do I do now?”
Mirage repeated, this time angry. There was no answer and Mirage
stood, letting the rain fall.
* * * *
He was soaked. That was
the first thing Michal realized. The second was—he was alive . It didn’t take
long for his memories to flood him and his eyes flew open. He was
welcomed back to consciousness with a peal of angry thunder.
Michael yelled hoarsely, doubling over and clutching his
stomach.
There was something trying
to claw through him.
Michael tore his mask from his face so
he could breathe easier and rain instantly pelted his face, his
lank, dripping hair falling against his eyes. Something churned
inside him. He could feel the incorporeal claws against the inside
of his abdomen, like something stretching ragged wings for
flight.
Michael was alone but he knew it
wouldn’t be long until the police came. He needed to leave. After a
moment he tried to sit up but pain lanced through his body,
doubling him over again.
He could feel the pressure in the back
of his mind, heavy with loneliness and pain. Michael shook his head
with a growl as he leaned back. He could hear the siren now, moving
further away. The sound was a different tone, a higher pitch that
signaled it was from the Emissary hospital. Was Mirage on that
ambulance? Had she been hurt, perhaps even killed? Somehow, his
heart told him no. Perhaps he was in more danger than the police
offered right now.
Michael focused on getting away,
pushing the squirming pain aside. If Wayne had taught him one
thing, it was how to ignore pain. He tried to stand again and
finally succeeded, grabbing his mask from the ground and putting it
back on his face. The metal was slick and cold against his skin.
His weapons were still strapped to him, his gun a few feet from
where he’d fallen. He began to walk, skirting past the larger part
of the rubble. A hand stuck out from the pile of charred wood, but
it was still and stiff. Michael knew dead when he saw it. Mirage
had managed to kill five Humanitarians with her home and the
Shades’ help.
Michael walked past them without a
second glance.
Her sixth murder was sprawled across
the ground, her eyes open wide. The blow from the tree had broken
her sapphire mask to where only half of it still remained on her
face. The rain had soaked through Ms. Wanderson’s clothing, making
her a second skin that hid nothing, her perfect corkscrew curls now
twirled wet clumps. Derrick was gone. His father must have helped
him before running with who was left of the Humanitarians. What had
his son, the Monarch-to-be, been? Nothing when faced with the
police and an angry Child of Power. No honor amongst thieves and
murderers.
Michael gave himself a mental
assessment. Was he hurt? Surprisingly, no. There was a lingering
presence in the back of his mind and he could still feel an awful
churning in his stomach, but there were no physical injuries. His
last memory was of the Shades encircling him—of the powerful glow
that hadn’t been Mirage in her eyes.
I hear his blood’s
melody. What had she meant when she’d said
that? He didn’t understand what had happened.
Michael pulled his phone out and
dialed his father’s cell. Wayne answered it after the fifth ring,
but like usual he didn’t say anything, waiting for Michael to
speak.
“ I survived and I’m
unharmed. Status on the others?”
“ The Dark Child killed
Taylur, his two sons and his wife and Mullins, along with
Wanderson.”
“ Derrick?”
“ The doctors are working
on him now. A cracked skull and his back is badly
injured.”
“ I’m making my way back
home. I have no need of a doctor.”
“ Don’t get caught. The
police are out for blood.” The first time his father’s voice had
had any inflection. Michael could imagine the sadistic
head. She would not think of that. It would go into her mental bag
of painful memories. A friend’s voice mingled with the roar of
flames. She sighed. Her bag was getting full.
“ So what do I do now?”
Mirage repeated, this time angry. There was no answer and Mirage
stood, letting the rain fall.
* * * *
He was soaked. That was
the first thing Michal realized. The second was—he was alive . It didn’t take
long for his memories to flood him and his eyes flew open. He was
welcomed back to consciousness with a peal of angry thunder.
Michael yelled hoarsely, doubling over and clutching his
stomach.
There was something trying
to claw through him.
Michael tore his mask from his face so
he could breathe easier and rain instantly pelted his face, his
lank, dripping hair falling against his eyes. Something churned
inside him. He could feel the incorporeal claws against the inside
of his abdomen, like something stretching ragged wings for
flight.
Michael was alone but he knew it
wouldn’t be long until the police came. He needed to leave. After a
moment he tried to sit up but pain lanced through his body,
doubling him over again.
He could feel the pressure in the back
of his mind, heavy with loneliness and pain. Michael shook his head
with a growl as he leaned back. He could hear the siren now, moving
further away. The sound was a different tone, a higher pitch that
signaled it was from the Emissary hospital. Was Mirage on that
ambulance? Had she been hurt, perhaps even killed? Somehow, his
heart told him no. Perhaps he was in more danger than the police
offered right now.
Michael focused on getting away,
pushing the squirming pain aside. If Wayne had taught him one
thing, it was how to ignore pain. He tried to stand again and
finally succeeded, grabbing his mask from the ground and putting it
back on his face. The metal was slick and cold against his skin.
His weapons were still strapped to him, his gun a few feet from
where he’d fallen. He began to walk, skirting past the larger part
of the rubble. A hand stuck out from the pile of charred wood, but
it was still and stiff. Michael knew dead when he saw it. Mirage
had managed to kill five Humanitarians with her home and the
Shades’ help.
Michael walked past them without a
second glance.
Her sixth murder was sprawled across
the ground, her eyes open wide. The blow from the tree had broken
her sapphire mask to where only half of it still remained on her
face. The rain had soaked through Ms. Wanderson’s clothing, making
her a second skin that hid nothing, her perfect corkscrew curls now
twirled wet clumps. Derrick was gone. His father must have helped
him before running with who was left of the Humanitarians. What had
his son, the Monarch-to-be, been? Nothing when faced with the
police and an angry Child of Power. No honor amongst thieves and
murderers.
Michael gave himself a mental
assessment. Was he hurt? Surprisingly, no. There was a lingering
presence in the back of his mind and he could still feel an awful
churning in his stomach, but there were no physical injuries. His
last memory was of the Shades encircling him—of the powerful glow
that hadn’t been Mirage in her eyes.
I hear his blood’s
melody. What had she meant when she’d said
that? He didn’t understand what had happened.
Michael pulled his phone out and
dialed his father’s cell. Wayne answered it after the fifth ring,
but like usual he didn’t say anything, waiting for Michael to
speak.
“ I survived and I’m
unharmed. Status on the others?”
“ The Dark Child killed
Taylur, his two sons and his wife and Mullins, along with
Wanderson.”
“ Derrick?”
“ The doctors are working
on him now. A cracked skull and his back is badly
injured.”
“ I’m making my way back
home. I have no need of a doctor.”
“ Don’t get caught. The
police are out for blood.” The first time his father’s voice had
had any inflection. Michael could imagine the sadistic
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