Kelly Meding - Requiem for the Dead

Wyatt went up first, and at the third floor landing, he paused to listen. Gave the all-clear signal before opening the door. We filed out into a quiet hallway. Wyatt growled again, and I could see the effort it took to not let the Lupa take over. To keep the bi-shift under control. He listened at the door. Held up two fingers.

Two people inside.

I swallowed down a flutter of fear.

Wyatt tested the door—unlocked. He pushed it open and charged inside. The kitchen and main rooms were empty, but the place was a disaster. Chairs overturned, books off shelves, pottery shattered on the floor. Two pizza boxes were broken open, their contents spilled on the carpet. Something about the chaos was too ordered, as if the ransacking was for show. A distraction.

We found them in the bedroom.

Mark and Peter were unconscious on the bed, stripped and beaten, their pale skin livid with blossoming bruises. Their hands were cuffed behind their backs, and those awful silver collars were blistering the delicate skin on their throats. A blast of fury ripped through me so unexpectedly that I almost hit my knees—and it wasn't only my fury affecting me. Wyatt's rage filled the small room.

"Where's John?" I asked. If Wyatt only heard two heartbeats—no. Not going there.

Wyatt let the bi-shift take over, and I avoided seeing it by grabbing some blankets from his hall closet. Marcus left us alone to search the apartment, and when I returned to the bedroom, Wyatt had snapped the cuffs apart. We turned the boys onto their backs, then covered them up. Their heartbeats seemed strong, their pulses steady.

"Vale's scent is all over them," Wyatt said, his voice horrifying and rough through his bi-shift teeth. "And another scent I don't know."

"So two Felia took down three Lupa?" It seemed a little impossible. Even if the pups couldn't fight, they should have left more of Vale's blood on the floor. Unless…

I pulled Mark's blanket down and checked his arms and torso. On his left shoulder, I found the puncture sight. "Wyatt, sniff that for me."

He did without question. "Medicinal."

"Fucker used the same tranq darts on them that he used on us. I bet you a year's salary."

"No bet. It's the same odor." Wyatt's eyes went flat silver. "Which means the coward beat them after they were unconscious."

Oh shit. I grabbed his hands before he could move away and punch a hole in the wall. Yanked him down so we were at eye level, and stared into the twisted face of my partner. "I need you to stay calm and focused, Truman. Calm and focused, do you hear me?"

His answer was a rumble from deep in his chest.

"We will take care of Mark and Peter, and then we fill find John. Okay?"

He nodded.

"Good. We have to get those collars off. Can you summon them?"

He blinked hard several times and some of the silver went away. I let go of him. He backed away and worked to return to human form.

Marcus appeared in the bedroom doorway, his face impassive. "There's no sign of the third boy," he reported. "But both Vale and a second scent permeate the place. I smelled it before, at the Tuck house. And I found something else."

I followed him back into the living room. He pointed at the apartment door, which was closed, and my stomach dropped to my knees. Painted on the door in dripping, splotchy red letters was a note: I don't like being lied to, Stone.

Shit, shit, and double-shit.

"It's Lupa blood," Marcus said.

John. The bookworm of the bunch. Oh God. Wyatt was going to rip Vale's guts out with pliers and feed them to him a bite at a time.

"How in the blue fuck did Vale find out I'm alive?"

Marcus's stare had are you an idiot all over it. "He'd have smelled you in this apartment."

I gave him an identical glare. "Maybe, but Vale is being hunted by the Assembly and the Watchtower. He'd be laying low, waiting for his ransom demands to be met, not randomly beating and kidnapping teenagers. Coming here makes no sense unless he was looking for leverage over me and Wyatt."

"Perhaps he is attempting to punish those of us he held captive."

"Still seems too risky." The power of the Break rippled the air of the apartment, standing the hair on my arms on end. Wyatt was using his Gift to get those collars off. "No one except the people at the Watchtower knew Wyatt left the compound, and no one outside the Watchtower except Elder Dane and Demetrius knew I was alive—shit."

"What?"

Ice scraped up my spine. "Marcus, what if Vale has a mole inside the Watchtower? What if someone is telling him everything we're up to?"

He looked like he wanted to deny the possibility, then bit off the thought. "Who?"

"I have no idea, but up until a few hours ago, everyone except a few very trusted people thought I was dead. Now Vale shows up here, kidnaps John, and leaves me a love note? Vale has proven that he acts recklessly when he's cornered or seriously pissed off, and I'm guessing right now it's the latter. I played him, and then I sicced the Assembly on his sorry ass."

So much for Wyatt's song and dance about trusting everyone I work with equally.

"Evy, what are you—?" Wyatt's words stopped, as did his footsteps. He was two paces inside the living room, eyes fixed on the door and those horrible words. He looked exhausted, but that disappeared under a brand new wave of hate.

"I'm sorry," I said.

Surprise flashed in his eyes. "For what? Vale did this, not you. He attacked defenseless children."

Marcus snorted at something, probably "defenseless children." The Lupa pups were hardly defenseless, but I understood Wyatt's meaning.

"Vale knocked them out with drugs and then beat the shit out of them," I said.

That got a flash of anger out of Marcus. "Vale continues to prove himself the worst sort of coward."

"Are the collars off?" I asked Wyatt.

"They are," Wyatt said. "Marcus, did you find a cell phone anywhere?"

"No, I haven't," he said.

"You think Vale took it?" I asked.

"Likely," Wyatt said. "He can't use John against us if he can't contact us." His head snapped in the direction of the bedroom, and then he took off.

I followed him. Mark was waking up, groggy and disoriented. The collar line on his throat was red and weeping, and he had a bruise on his jaw the size of an apple—or a grown man's fist. A surge of hate for Vale filled me to bursting, quelled somewhat by the sight of Wyatt climbing onto the bed and pulling Mark into his arms. Mark clung to him, to the familiar body and scent, even as his mind fought to catch up.

"Peter," he mumbled. "John. Where's John?"

"Hush, Mark, you're in shock," Wyatt said. "Peter's right here. I'm here."

"John?"

"He'll be fine. I'll make sure he's fine."

I backed out, giving them their privacy, my heart aching for their pain. People I cared about were still suffering because of me, and I hated that. Hated it so much. And I had no way of taking their pain away.

"They need medical attention," I said to Marcus, who was photographing the apartment with his phone.

"I assumed as much," he said. "I'll call Astrid and inform her of the situation. If she agrees, we'll take them back to the Watchtower. Under careful guard, of course."

"Of course." I didn't expect them to attack unless something happened to Wyatt, but I understood the need for caution. A few weeks ago, they'd topped our Most Wanted list, and for most people, nothing had changed.

Marcus moved away to make the call. I walked into the dining room and sat in a chair. Stared at the table where, six hours ago, I'd eaten Chinese food with Wyatt and the pups. Three teenage boys who craved love and attention—two of whom were hurt, and one of whom was missing. A long chain of events had led to this moment, and the chain always linked back to me. My resurrection. My refusal to lay down and die once and for all. I had more things in my life to live for now than I had four months ago, and a lot more to lose. A lot more to save, too, if my death meant they could live and be safe.