Nyx (NINE Series, Book #4) Page 17

  She was buying only seconds with her demonstration, she knew that. It was ten against one. They would shoot her dead before she had a chance to fire.

  But it was a final thing she could offer to her family: a head start.

  But Cohen and Sydel weren’t running. Their eyes were bugged out, and sweat shone on their faces. Their bodies stiff. Unmoving. Frozen.

  “You stupid woman,” she heard Bianco rasp.

  His hand was around her ankle, squeezing. Crushing.

  Phaira gasped, feeling the muscles bruise and bleed, the bone on the brink of breaking. Cybernectics.

  With all her strength, she bashed the hilt of the Compact into the Vagus nerves on the side of his neck. Bianco gave a surprised groan, and his body buckled to the asphalt.

  Over the roar of the river, Phaira heard a heavy exhale from Cohen, and a higher-pitched one from Sydel; the control had been lifted. They were stumbling, trying to break into a run.

  Tiny clicks, and ten gold barrels lifting.

  More time. Give them more time.

  Pushing through the searing pain in her leg, Phaira leapt at the group of Savas, drawing her katana and slicing at any gold and white she could see through her blurred vision. Amid the cries, Phaira held her breath as she swirled, waiting for pain to rip through her.

  But there were just clicks in the air. And soon, panicked gasps.

  The signal. The Sava weapons were offline.

  Patrol was here.

  Gold guns clattered to the bridge, useless. And Phaira cut through the open hands and panicked screams that followed. Spatter here, spatter there, on the white stealth suit, different patterns, depending on the artery.

  A shot rang out.

  Phaira flinched. Breach in the signal? It wasn’t possible; no, it wasn’t possible.

  Distracted, she took a punch to the jaw by a Sava and stumbled. Someone took a swipe with a knife, cutting her across the thigh. More fists, more blows, and she was surrounded, and pummeled, and she couldn’t move…

  “Phair!” she heard Cohen’s cry.

  He was coming back for her.

  “No!” she gasped out, her palm extended, as if to push him away, before her arm was grabbed, and she was flipped over, hitting the asphalt hard. Someone stomped on her ribs for good measure, and she gasped for breath, rolling on her side.

  Through the legs of the Sava men and women, she saw the glint of metal, not gold, but silver and tiny, something that could fit in a boot.

  Bianco, lying in a pool of spreading blood, his arm extended. Aiming.

  Another shot rang out.

  Ten feet away, Cohen's body jerked.

  She heard the tear in his skin. She heard the swallow of his surprise as he fell.

  And he was bleeding; there was so much blood pooling in his clavicle, even as Phaira pushed through the group of Savas and put her hands against his pulsing neck, howling at Cohen to stay awake. Not him, not him, this wasn't happening. Her baby, her baby brother. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn't feel her heart, or her extremities. White, searing pain, that was all she could register, so violent that it yanked at her breastbone, threatened to split her ribs. Her stomach was straining to come out of her throat, and every sense was too much: too much copper smell, too much wet.

  It took forever, and no time at all, before Cohen’s mouth went slack, and his eyes dilated, and Phaira could feel the warmth draining out of him. She screamed at him to wake up. She begged to be blasted by a similar shot and black out from the agony; to turn back time and take the shot for him, like she was supposed to do, like she was always ready to do.

  The surviving Savas had gotten ahold of Sydel. She was clawing at them, screaming, trying to pull their hands off her arms and body. Her body was shaking. Her eyes were rolling in her head, and her hair was standing in tufts. Something was building. Familiar, through the dark water of Phaira's perception.

  Then the world exploded in blinding white. Roaring sounds came in waves, again and again. Phaira was torn from Cohen's body, rolling along the ground. Her head was screaming, her skin was burning, and it wouldn't stop. She tucked herself into a ball, her arms over her head, kneeling on the katana blade to hold it down, her screams of pain inaudible to her own ears.

  Just as quickly as it came on, the light was gone.

  Waves of heat passed over Phaira. She smelled burnt hair, and skin. Her own?

  She struggled to open her eyes. The stealthsuit had been partially burned off her, hanging in strips, some still smoldering. She ripped it off, checking for the HALO at the back of her head. Still on.

  Ahead of her, corpses in white suits lay on the ground in a radial pattern, limbs splayed. Sydel was in the middle of the circle, face-down, motionless. The blood around Cohen’s body bubbled. Bianco had been flung into his back, his exposed intestines showing sear marks, as his belly heaved. The other bodies she’d cut down were also giving off steam.

  Everyone was burned. Everyone was dead.

  Footsteps. Someone was coming. Ozias? The patrol? Where were they?

  Through her wavering vision, she could make out a dark silhouette, followed by a line of others, picking through the sea of bodies.

  Stop, she tried to say. Get away from here. But her voice wouldn't work. She coughed, trying to get the burning sensation out of her lungs, blinking furiously to clear her eyes.

  Finally, her vision sharpened.

  Theron Sava stood over Bianco’s shuddering body, his Compact firearm pointed at the man's forehead. His long hair was gone, shaved to the skull, his features stark and sharp, dark circles under his eyes. What had happened?

  Before Phaira could react, Theron pulled the trigger.

  The BANG echoed across the bridge.

  Phaira stared, taking in shuddering breaths. For some reason, she thought killing a NINE would be tougher. But he was blood and brain and bone, what was left of Bianco Sava. He was dead. It was done.

  Now Theron was walking. He wasn’t looking at her, or anyone on the ground. His followers (how many were there?) all in black, silently trailing their leader, picking through the dead bodies. Phaira struggled to push herself to a seat, wincing and hissing through her teeth at the raw burns on her arms.

  Theron’s boots stopped beside Sydel’s limp arm. Phaira heard the click of the safety being removed. Only then did he lift his gaze and look directly at Phaira.

  "It has to be done," he announced. "You know it does."

  "No," Phaira rasped.

  "If not by me, someone else. Look what she's done. Look what all these NINE have done.”

  Phaira pushed herself to her knees, coughing the words. “She didn’t – you can’t just - don’t do this.”

  “No.” There was a strange flatness in his voice. “If I don’t, it’ll never stop. No one will ever stop. Everything deserves to burn to the ground. Everything and everyone.”

  Phaira saw the bones in his wrist move to the skin's surface, the bend of his index finger.

  No, her mind screamed, as she reached out a hand, already knowing that it made no difference. She could smell the gunpowder, about to explode.

  Theron grimaced, and looked down at his Compact. He wasn't pulling the trigger, she realized. His hand was shaking, but the index finger wasn't bending. He banged his palm against the side of it. Jammed?

  A moment. A chance.

  Phaira leapt, and Theron had to lean back to avoid her right hook. His followers went to grab her, but she barely noticed the motion, because she needed to hit something; she needed to crush her fist against someone's face; she needed to exert all this horrible, horrible energy inside of her, and he was the one who started it all. He was the villain from the start, worming between them all: inventing with Renzo, watching over Cohen, sleeping with Phaira. She swung, again and again, and he managed to avoid the blows, but barely, stepping back, sweeping his wrists to block, hearing the smack of her fist in his palm as he threw her arm away, pushed her foot away.

  "Is this what you want
ed?" she yelled at him through her choking tears. "Is it?"

  That last statement was the last time Phaira could recall having any semblance of thought. After that, everything was white and red and black, and her extremities seemed to move independently, and there was blood, and bruising, and his familiar smell. He was fast, but she was faster, and she knew his fighting style now, how he used her energy against her, so she let her instincts take over, and everything was glorious; the pressure on her elbow, the heel of her palm, the toe of her boot, as they made contact, as the sound of crunching hit her ears, his exhale of surprise, and later pain. He got in some hits, too, but she barely felt the crunch of her joints. He was sweating now, and he was growing more vicious. But things were blue, and frozen, and focused, and her only intent was to cripple him, pinpoint every soft spot, all the places that she knew he was vulnerable.

  Backing away from a strike, her foot struck something. Her katana, lost when the blast hit. No, his katana, glinting under the bridge lights.

  Memories flashed, and it made her rage burn even hotter.

  Phaira dropped to her knees, spun to avoid a kick, and snatched up the blade. Then Phaira leapt back to her feet and lashed out with a series of strikes. Theron tried to block with his arms, but his shirt was being cut, one swipe at a time.

  With one last burst of strength, she slashed it across Theron's chest.

  Drops of blood spattered the asphalt.

  Phaira clutched her ribs, heaving, the blade dragging on the ground.

  Blood was everywhere. There was so much of it.

  Theron was stumbling backwards. Theron was going over the bridge rail.

  The river crashed underneath the bridge, churning and black. Theron hung by his left hand, his tattered shirtsleeve exposing his arm. Phaira grabbed his wrist, but both were slick with sweat and blood, and he kept slipping from her grasp.

  "No, you're not," Phaira gasped, straining every muscle she could, trying to hoist him up. "You’re not! I didn’t - please don’t."

  Under the light of the bridge, his face was different. There might have been surprise, or tears in his eyes, but she couldn’t tell in her wild terror.

  And Phaira couldn’t help but think of how strange it was that Theron's mouth didn't make that O-shape, not like Nican, or Kadise, or others who fell at her touch.

  Maybe because he let go of her hand and held her gaze until he hit the water.

  He was gone. He was dead.

  They were all dead.

  This isn’t supposed to happen. It isn't supposed to just be over.

  Her face was tearing apart. Her veins were going to explode.

  Too much. Too loud. Too much.

  Phaira climbed over the railing, bracing herself against the metal infrastructure. Her toes teetered over the edge. She closed her eyes, wishing with all her might that someone would push, but no, she had to take the leap.

  It was time. Finally.

  She let the weight of her body move forward. Felt the shift in balance.

  The open air. The cool wind.

  A hand around her forearm, yanking so hard it made her slip and land on the railing with her already bruised ribs.

  As she gasped with pain, that hand continued to yank, sliding her off the railing and onto the asphalt.

  Feet thundered past her; ambulance sirens; radio calls for help. Swarms of patrol officers, storming the bridge, leaping on the remaining Savas, chopping and kicking, and knocking the Savas in black to the ground.

  And Renzo, collapsing next to her. His eyes were wide and white, and she could make out the sound of his teeth chattering.

  Somehow, his arms were around her, and she was clinging to his unfamiliar, bony body, holding onto him like he was a buoy in the ocean, as the fighting continued around them.

  VI.

  Phaira refused a memorial service. Not because she didn't love Cohen, of course, or didn't want to honor him, but because she wasn't ready to acknowledge that things had changed. Not yet.

  Not while Sydel was still asleep.

  In West Lea Hospital, Phaira sat on the bedside, and stared at Sydel's thin face. What was going on in that mind? Should she put Sydel out of her misery, if in fact, she was in misery?

  The doctors were still trying to pinpoint what exactly was wrong with her, asking Phaira and Renzo question after question about her medical history, what exactly had happened on the Lea Bridge when she collapsed. They didn’t ask about Cohen, of course. There were no more questions to be asked about her little brother, somewhere in the basement of this place, held in the morgue.

  Renzo sat on the other side of the bed. His shoulders were so hunched, his clavicles stuck out from his shirt collar. He hadn't said a word to Phaira since they left the bridge in the ambulance, with Sydel hooked up to machines, Phaira being treated for a cracked rib, lacerations, and a severely bruised ankle. Cohen was in another ambulance, enclosed in an extra-large body bag. Renzo had thrown up at the sight, and Phaira had to refuse the convulsions that threatened to take over her body. It meant that the pain bloomed in her chest instead, like a stain spreading, and pulsing, and threatening to suffocate.

  Cohen wanted to be a hero. More than anything. He wanted to protect us all. We couldn’t stop him. It didn't matter if I ran, if I told him no. He had his own ideas for his life.

  “Miss Phaira. Mr. Renzo."

  Both turned at the sound of the man's voice. Then Phaira sprang to her feet, immediately gasping with pain. She held onto her ribs and remembered how quickly Sydel had healed her ribs in Kings Canyon with just a touch.

  “Dr. Sabik,” Phaira panted, trying to muster a smile, but unable to find the muscles to do so. "I can't - what are you doing here?"

  As she spoke, she caught Renzo’s confused expression in her peripheral vision. No, he’d never met Sabik; he wouldn’t know that the doctor was the one who cured Anandi’s father Emir of his blood disorder. The last time she saw the doctor, he was running with Anandi and a wheelchair-bound Emir, as Phaira stayed behind to confront the patrol that came to arrest them all. She’d never thought to look him up, to see if he survived, if he continued his practice elsewhere.

  "I came to see Anandi."

  Phaira winced again, this time from shame. She didn't realize that Anandi was in the same hospital. How strange, that they were all together.

  Not everyone, her mind reminded her. They haven’t found Theron’s body yet.

  “How is she?” Phaira asked, pushing down her guilt.

  “She has a lot of healing to do,” Dr. Sabik took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses as he spoke. “It will be difficult, but she has a solid chance of pulling through.”

  Doctor speak, Phaira thought. Nothing definitive.

  "This is your friend, yes?" Sabik asked, gesturing at the bed. "Emir told me what happened and asked me to come and look at her. With your permission, of course."

  A spark of hope, somewhere in her brain. If anyone could figure out what was wrong with Sydel, and figure out a way to save her, Sabik could. Look what he had done with Emir and his blood disorder. It was possible. Maybe something was possible.

  Phaira glanced at Renzo, wondering if he might argue.

  Renzo just shrugged, hobbling to the corner of the room.

  "Yes," Phaira said. "Of course."

  Dr. Sabik studied the medical records and charts provided. He consulted with the doctors and nurses on staff. Then he performed a series of neurological tests, shining light into Sydel’s eyes, checking brain waves and reflexes. He nodded to himself as he reviewed the scans and X-rays.

  Then he turned back to Phaira. She braced herself for the worst.

  “I have ideas.”

  Phaira felt the air leave her body.

  “Ideas,” Sabik emphasized, holding up a finger. “I have no definitive answer for why she is not waking up. But I have some ideas for treatment, perhaps a way to stimulate repair to the brain damage, reverse the clotting disorder, and bring her back to consciousness."
<
br />   Would Sydel even want to wake up? Phaira wondered. Would she want to be alive without Cohen? What will I say if she comes back? What will I possibly say?

  “There's a complication, however, before I can treat her for anything.” Sabik held Phaira’s gaze. “There’s a possibility that she’s pregnant.”

  Phaira’s mouth dropped open. She heard Renzo get to his feet behind her. “That - no, that can't be,” she sputtered.

  “The bloodwork suggests otherwise,” Sabik said, gesturing at the medical records. “I’ll know for certain in the next few days. But if she is with child, I need to know if that’s a priority.”

  “A priority,” Phaira repeated, feeling stupid.

  “If Miss Sydel would want to delay treatment until the baby is born,” Sabik explained gently. “What I have in mind, it could affect the pregnancy.”

  I didn't even think that they were sleeping together. Phaira let out a weak laugh. I'm so blind.

  “What, so she’s an incubator for months?” Renzo interrupted, his voice gruff. “She just stays in a coma and grows a human?”

  “If that is the decision, we'll take the baby as soon as it's viable,” Sabik said. “If she holds onto the pregnancy. Then I can begin to treat Sydel.”

  Phaira couldn't even fathom the idea. Did she and Cohen plan this?

  He would have been a great father, better than the rest of us by far.

  This isn't right. How can this be happening?

  "Miss Phaira? What would you like me to do?"

  “I don’t know,” Phaira finally managed. “I don't know what to think. I can't make that decision for her. Neither of us can."

  She sank heavily down on the bed, staring into Sydel's face. Wake up, she demanded. Wake up and tell me what to do.

  "I understand how difficult this information is...." Sabik tried.

  "You don't know about difficult information, whoever you are," Renzo snapped.

  "Ren," Phaira warned. "Stop."

  She looked down at Sydel again. "Where would the treatment take place? Here?"

  "I’m afraid not," Sabik said, lowering his voice. "Any treatment I attempt must take place outside of a hospital. To avoid complications."