Chapter 34
Callan
The first Rogue I’d ever killed died a quick death.
I was sixteen, and I was scared—farther out than I should have been, and I blame Delia for that. She’d pushed me too hard that day, going on and on about my duty to our people and how much time I didn’t have left.
I was sixteen.
I’d crossed the border into Streatham, and I found the Rogue scavenging through an old building.
An old trinket shop I used to visit as a boy.
I remembered meeting the owner once—another poor soul who didn’t make it out that night.
And now there was this foul, yellow-eyed Rogue going through things that used to belong to us. To our people.
I lunged before I could think twice about it, and my knife pierced his chest, sliding straight through his heart. Dark blood spilled out over the shop floor, and I watched his miserable life drain from his body.
That’s all it took. A few seconds were all it took to rid the world of his kind, and I decided that if I had to dedicate my life and all its seconds to that cause, I would.
I decided it would be worth it.
And I was never the same after that.
Blood leaks through my fingers. My blood, unfortunately.
Devon is somewhere by the door, simultaneously keeping watch and trying to convince me to get the fuck out of here.
I’ve killed three, but I saw a fourth scramble down the row of broken pews.
He isn’t the one who ripped open the skin at my side—his friend is somewhere behind me, likely still bleeding out, his face beaten beyond recognition.
“Callan,” Devon snarls.
I ignore him, trudging forward, my right leg growing sluggish. I hear a clatter behind the altar, and I increase my pace.
The darkening night provides low visibility. All I have is the moonlight streaming in from the shattered stained-glass windows—hence why Devon wants us to leave so badly. He hasn’t even seen my wound yet. He’ll drag me out of here by my shirt when he does.
When I round the altar, the Rogue behind it jumps back, yellow eyes flaring as he reaches for his magic.
But mine rips through the air before he gets a chance, hurling his body against the back wall.
He slides down it, falling to the ground hard, then he lies there a moment before attempting to crawl out of the way.
I’m there in a few easy steps. My boot comes down on his wrist, and his fingers flatten out at the pressure.
He lets out a strangled scream, his other hand coming up in defense, but I grab it quickly, slamming it to the ground beside him.
With both his hands restrained, I dip into his mind, pain flaring in my chest at the resistance I’m met with.
Messing with Rogue memories is nearly impossible. Whatever their brain is composed of is like poison to that fraction of my power, but I push through the pain anyway and dig as deep as I’m able.
There’s a memory of him winning a round of poker, sitting around a table of six in a dark, dimly lit room.
Then I see him attending a party, hosted in the grand ballroom of the Estate.
Our Estate. But the memory is too hazy for me to make out any of the faces he sees, so I try for one more, a throbbing pain starting up at the top of my spinal cord.
This one is clearer—more recent.
He’s laughing with a group of men, the group that lay dead behind me, and two of them are holding an emaciated woman, her head hung too low for me to see her face.
Without hesitation, they toss her onto what looks like a pile of bodies in different stages of decomposition.
When her head rolls back, there’s no life in her face, but her eyes are distinctly Solian—staring up blankly at the sky.
The group laughs some more, then one of them warns the others, “Keep your masks up. She’s still fresh.”
The set of eyes I’m watching through turns, exposing the rest of the crumbling building.
Ripping out of his memory, I fight for my next breath, tightening my grip on the Rouge’s wrists.
That building…it was the same one Iris had stumbled out of. She must have been tossed onto the same pile of deceased. Alive.
“What are you doing to them?” I snarl in his ear.
Fighting against my hold, his words are muffled against the ground, “Nothing!”
I slam his head into the floor, and his nose crunches against the hardwood. “Lie to me again, and it will be the last thing you do.”
“Nothing,” he gasps. “I swear, we didn’t—”
I roll him on his back, pin his arms down with my knees, and wrap my hands around his neck. As I squeeze, blood rushes to my ears. I press harder, spurred on by the flare of his golden irises, but all I see is red. It takes over my body and all my senses.
Gold. Red. Black.
Death, capture, and more death.
Smoke and flames and families being ripped apart. Homes being destroyed. A once vibrant city being extinguished, smothered, and forgotten.
By him. By his kind.
“He’s dead, Cal.” Devon’s voice snaps me back into my body.
My hands are still wrapped around the Rogue’s neck. I’d squeezed so tight that I broke skin, dark blood spilling through my fingers. His skin is grey, and his eyes are wide and unseeing, faded to a muted yellow.
Yes, dead.
Peeling my hands away, I stand, wincing as I’m made aware of my injuries again.
“What the fuck?” Devon curses, snatching my arm and lifting my shirt. The glare he cuts me with is sharper than the blade that stabbed me. “We’re going back. Now.”
I don’t fight him on it, stumbling down the altar steps and shrugging off the hand he has wrapped around my bicep.
The night air is cool against my sticky skin as Devon leads us out, checking both directions before deciding it’s safe to move forward.
I fill my lungs with the breeze, letting it cleanse the anger and adrenaline and violence still buzzing beneath my skin.
The city surrounding the Estate is quiet and dark—ideal for us to slip through—and before long we’re over the border, approaching the illusion the bunker hides behind.
Before I can take another step closer, Devon blocks my path. His dark eyes are narrowed, and his expression is stern. There’s blood on him too, matted to his dreadlocks, but it isn’t his.
“You know that I respect you, right?”
I shrug. “Sometimes.”
“No. All of the time. I respect you as our leader, and I’ve believed in you from the start.
I always will. But you’re treading the line between courageous and careless, and we can’t afford that.
Lucina can’t afford that. So respectfully, Captain, please get your shit together.
If not for your sake or ours,” he juts his chin in the direction of the Streatham, “for hers.”
Certain that I heard him, Devon dips his head and turns, stalking off to the bunker.
I’d love to lie to myself and claim I don’t know what he’s talking about, but that would make me a shitty leader. More shitty than I have been. I did get lost back there—I’ll admit it. I slipped into an old habit, and Devon witnessed it. If the roles were reversed, I’d call him out on it too.
I’m just agitated and exhausted. Out of every Rogue mind I siphoned through, I caught nothing of the Hound.
Everything except their final memories were blurry or useless, and even the clear pictures I got led me nowhere.
Only to more anger and no release of any tension. If anything, it’s gotten worse.
Prodding my wound with my fingers, I wince, cursing myself for having let it happen.
Devon is right. I need to get my shit together.
Pulling my shirt over my head, I take a second to clean the wound with the fabric to the best of my ability. The last thing my coven needs is to see me limping back to camp with a gory mess at my side.
The wound is deep, but the blood is clotting, so I continue to apply pressure with the shirt, hissing through my teeth at the contact. When it’s the best it’s going to get, I straighten my spine and force the limp out of my step as I cross the illusion and approach the fire with my head high.
Easton jumps to his feet. “What the fuck?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him, gladly taking the mender pill Devon holds out to me.
“What the hell happened?” Hunter asks, laying down the cards he and Nix had been playing with. Phoenix throws his down.
“We followed a group to the church,” I explain, eyeing Devon, who thankfully keeps his mouth shut. “I got them, but not before one of them got me.”
Easton glances from me to Devon. “Did you at least get anything useful?”
Devon shakes his head, snatching an empty bowl and silently filling it with his dinner.
The effects of the pill hit almost instantly—skin stitching back together until there’s just an angry red welt where the knife wound had been.
“Pax isn’t back yet?” I ask, changing the subject.
Hunter exchanges a look with Easton, but it’s Phoenix who responds, “Oh, he’s back alright.” He’s grinning from the log he sits on.
My face falls. “What the hell does that mean?”
The bunker door opens, and I turn in time to see Pax emerge. He’s talking to someone behind him, “You’ll be safe down there tonight, and as soon as Callan gets back—”
He sees me then, and his words cut off abruptly.
I move forward. “Who are you talking to?”
Pax doesn’t move. “Don’t be mad.”
I take another step towards him. “Pax, who are you talking to?”
A head of cinnamon hair, woven into twin braids over her shoulders, pops up from behind him, green eyes burning in the reflection of the flames. Kimber smiles back at me. “You wanted to know about the Hound?”
For a long moment, all I do is stare at her, too angry to even look at Pax.
“She insisted,” I hear him say, and Kimber swallows, nervously glancing between us.
“Callan,” Pax starts again, “you asked for all we know about the Hound, and Kimber is—”
“I know who Kimber is,” I grit out. “What I don’t know is why you thought bringing her here was even in the realm of a good idea. I asked you to bring back information on the Hound, not the daughter of the fucking Nyrith to convey it.”
Silence follows my words. There is nothing but the crackle of the fire.