EIGHTEEN
DAKOTA
I still remember a time when rain used to be pretty.
I remember thinking that when I was younger, back before the world violently expired and took every scrap of common sense with it.
Rain against my bedroom window. Rain on the school bus.
Rain making the yard smell green and new while Mom complained about the laundry she’d left outside and Dad would laugh into his coffee like that was the greatest tragedy of that day.
It was sweet. Wholesome. A deeply irritating memory to remember right now, especially considering the rain currently falling feels less like weather and more like a targeted attack on my entire survival strategy.
The first drop hits the brim of Maine’s hat just after we leave the tunnels under the apartment blocks, and I stop dead.
Kaito notices, to absolutely no one’s surprise.
His head turns slightly, dark eyes finding me from under his damp strands of hair turned almost black from the rain.
He’s walking only roughly three steps ahead with Fletcher, helping carry the unconscious pilot between them, but he still manages to keep checking over his shoulder like I might evaporate if he stops watching for too long.
It should be impossible for him to keep checking on me every few seconds, but apparently he’s decided impossible is a lifestyle suggestion more than anything.
Very considerate.
Very thoughtful.
Very worthy of being stabbed.
Another drop lands on my sleeve. And then another. And then the sky opens.
“You absolute bitch,” I whisper.
Ewan, walking behind me as a rear guard, looks up just as rain starts falling harder over the ruined street. “Huh. That’s… atmospheric.”
I glare at the clouds like they’ve become the bane of my life and grumble, “I hate atmosphere.”
“Valid,” he responds like it’s totally reasonable.
Xeon is a few steps ahead and to my left, rifle low while his attention sweeps through the dilapidated shopfronts and broken doorways.
Not close enough to crowd me, but close enough to react if something comes bursting out of the ruins.
Which, obviously, I hate. Because apparently everyone has decided to become useful today.
Rain turns the broken road slick in mere seconds, darkening cracked tarmac and washing through six years of dirt, ash, blood, pollen, old rot, and long-dead hope.
It runs down broken windows, drips from rusted signs, and gathers in potholes deep enough to drown a boot if the boot was stupid enough to trust puddles.
I don’t trust puddles.
Or weather.
Or men.
Or my own stupid biology, which has just started perking up like it heard someone call its name across a crowded room.
The rain turns every bruise into a blaring complaint.
And to make matters worse, my knee throbs with every step, sharp enough to make my jaw tighten whenever I try to put too much weight on it.
My upper arm is aching fiercely under my damp sleeve, and the old cuts from the pharmacy are pulling tight under the bandage like they’re personally offended by the weather.
Which, honestly, is absolutely fair.
I, too, am most deeply offended by weather.
The rain hits my jacket first, soaking into the mud and smoke I spent literal days rubbing into the fabric.
It lures grime from the cuffs, from the knees of my cargo pants, from the bandana covering half of my face.
Every single careful layer I’ve used to bury myself decides now is the time to start loosening under the water.
Smoke thins. Mud streaks. Old fabric loses the stolen scent I worked really hard to put into it. The blockers hold, though. Barely, but it’s something in a world of nothing. It’s like a door with a bad lock and something is heavy-breathing on the other side of it.
My pulse stutters once. It stutters hard.
No. No, not now, damn it.
Not in a street with three compound Alphas, one injured rogue Alpha, an unconscious pilot, and Vector possibly lurking from whatever damp hole organized dickheads go into between dramatic appearances.
The rain runs cold down the back of my neck, and my scent shifts.
I feel it before anyone reacts. The haggard little split under my skin.
Sweetness pushing against chemical bitterness.
Fear making everything worse, because fear is a traitorous bitch with no hobbies other than ruining my already fucked-up life.
I tug the bandana higher on my face and keep walking, even though my knee protests every step, making threats it has every right to make. My arm pulses under the wet fabric, just adding to the misery today is bringing.
Pain is fine. Pain is information. Annoying, assholish information, but information regardless.
Fletcher glances over his shoulder. “Problem?”
“Nope,” I answer shortly. He looks up at the rain, and then back at me, and I point a finger at him. “Don’t. Don’t assess me with weather eyes.”
His brow furrows. “Weather eyes?”
“You know exactly what I mean,” I grumble.
“I don’t,” he says.
“Good,” I grumble. “Stay confused.”
Ewan’s mouth twitches. “For what it’s worth, weather eyes sounds kind of serious. I think you might need a clinic or something, mate. Get tested.”
“Walk faster,” Fletcher responds bluntly.
“See? Weather eyes made him grumpy. I hope it’s not contagious,” Ewan sighs dramatically.
“Everything makes him grumpy,” I mutter.
Ewan nods. “True, but the rain gives it a funny kind of texture.”
Xeon glances back from my left, and his gaze catches on me for a breath too long. Not at my face, but at the air around me.
Shit.
My fingers flex around the knife at my side, and Kaito catches that, too.
Of course he does. He catches every other fucking thing I do.
His gaze drops once, quick and quiet, to the slight hiccup in my step.
I smooth it out immediately. Well, I try to.
My knee fully disagrees with the performance, sending shooting pain up my thigh like a traitor.
Kaito’s grip tightens on the pilot’s arm, his jaw flexing as if he wants to say something but has chosen, very wisely, to continue enjoying the plain fact that he still has teeth.
Then the wind cuts down the street, cold and wet, and directly against my side. My scent shifts again, a sweet, sharp thread slipping loose under the wet fabric and quickly failing blockers.
Kaito’s head turns slightly. Not toward me, but toward Xeon, who doesn’t react much, but his shoulders still by one careful inch.
Shit.
Kaito notices, but he can’t move. Not really.
Not with the pilot sagging between him and Fletcher, and not without making it obvious.
So he does the only thing he can do. He adjusts the pilot higher between them, making the movement look more practical than deliberate, and he lets his own scent spill roughly into the rain.
Burning wood. Worn flannel. Blood. Alpha.
Enough to muddy the air, but not enough to fix it.
My eyes narrow, but Kaito doesn’t look back at me, which is exactly how I know the bastard did it on purpose.
Idiot.
Useful idiot.
I hate those kinds of idiots.
The street ahead is blocked by three toppled cars and a tangle of old fencing.
Beyond it, a cluster of Zeds drag themselves through the rain, drawn by some sound deeper in the district.
Their jaws hang loose, their clothes cling to ruined bodies, and water slicks their cloudy eyes until they almost look alive. At least, from a distance, anyway.
That’s just the universe’s favorite way of being cruel.
Fletcher gestures left. “Cut through here.”
“Here” is a row of old stores with broken awnings and one partially collapsed roof.
“Bad idea,” I mutter with a shake of my head. Scar looks over at me, and I nod toward the water, explaining, “Water is running into that building, not out of it. That means the floor will be rotten.”
He studies the shopfront, and then nods. “Alternate?”
I blink. He’s doing that thing again. Listening. It’s weird as hell.
I point across the road. “Arcade. Back exit links to an indoor market. Market has roof access if the stairs aren’t gone.”
Ewan squints through the rain from behind me and asks, “And you’ve obtained this knowledge how exactly?”
“This may shock you, but I actually pay attention to these things,” I answer bluntly.
“What?” he says. “To collapsing buildings?”
I raise an eyebrow. “To things trying to kill me. Collapsing buildings are just a convenient byproduct.”
“Huh. Love that,” he mutters.
We cross quickly, avoiding the Zeds as they drift toward the distant sounds. Rain hides smaller noises but it makes everything smell more alive. Wet concrete. Rust. Rot, blood, and Alpha.
Kaito’s scent clings despite the rain, burning wood and worn flannel, smoke-warm under the blood and cold water. The kind of scent that should make absolutely no sense in the middle of a drowning city, yet somehow it does.
My Omega leans toward it, and I mentally drag her back by the hair. Absolutely not. Not happening.
The arcade door hangs open like a mouth with a broken jaw. Inside, old gaming systems and machines line the walls, screens dead and plastic guns hanging from zombie shooting games that feel a little tasteless now, even if I can admire the irony.
“Really?” I grumble at one machine where a cartoon undead thing grins under the title ROTTING RAMPAGE III.
Ewan stops beside it. “Wow. Insensitive much?”
“Just a bit,” I mutter.
“Reckon it still works?” Ewan wonders, eyeing it with interest.
I blink. “If it does, I’m leaving you here alone.”
“Harsh,” he says. “But I get it. No offense taken.”
Fletcher gives us both a look, and I smile behind my bandana. “What’s wrong, Scar? Are we disrespecting the tactical arcade?”
“Move,” he bluntly retorts.
And so we move.