Kelly Meding - Another Kind of Dead

“You didn’t come to meet me,” Bastian says, his voice dripping with disappointment, colored by gentle mocking. “Afraid?”

Seeing him again frightens me. Frightens me because this strange offer of a fulfilling job and hard training is real. “I told you once, I’m not blowing you.”

“Well, good, because I told you I’d never ask you to. I have no interest in you as a sexual being, Evangeline, only as a fighter.”

I blink, sure he’s off his nut again. “I don’t know how to box.”

“I don’t mean boxing, and you’ll be taught. You’ll be taught a great many things about this city. You will be shown a whole new world you never knew existed, and if you are strong enough, tough enough, and have wits enough to survive training, you’ll have a career that will save lives in ways you can’t imagine.”

“That’ll be tough to do while I’m in jail again.”

He smiles, and damn, he’s handsome. “If you agree to sign up for this adventure, I can help you out with that small problem.”

I perk up. “Really? You can get me off the hook with the cops?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Speak it.” I unfold myself and stand, giving him my full attention.

“I can make these charges go away, but only if you willingly agree to this program. You can’t run, you can’t change your mind, or you’ll be back in jail faster than you can spit.” He’s still smiling, no mirth in his eyes now.

“Blackmail?”

“Absolutely not. It’s a choice you must make, but you have to make it now.”

I stare at him and those lovely navy eyes. I’ve known enough untrustworthy bastards that I can spot them pretty quick. Bastian isn’t one of those men. He is sincere, but he’s also elusive. Makes hefty promises without proof of payoff.

Anything’s better than jail, though, right? I hadn’t really thought through the consequences of breaking into the Juvie director’s house and beating him senseless. Hadn’t realized it would land me right back where I’d just escaped, only in the adult version. Where my scrappy fighting won’t amount to much against grown women who take what they want when they want it.

“So what is this program exactly?” I ask. “Some sort of covert military project?”

“Covert, yes; military, no. We run it ourselves, with some oversight from a private corporation. If you pass training requirements, you’ll be provided with a steady paycheck and a place to live, along with coverage for medical expenses incurred while on the job.”

Oka-ay. Never heard medical insurance explained quite like this. Good perks, though. And way better than the option of jail.

“All right, then,” I say, planting both hands on my hips. “Where do I sign up?”

We three Hunters seemed to hold a collective breath while Bastian stood on that stoop reading his folder, as though any movement from us would draw his attention. It wasn’t that he was scary—quite the opposite, given his good looks, easygoing demeanor, and slight accent. I’d learned within months of my recruitment that he was originally from the Ukraine. I could only guess at Milo and David’s apprehension. Mine stemmed from the simple desire not to be seen—and, less simply, a buried resentment toward the person who’d tricked me into this life.

Hard training had been an understatement, and the final exam wasn’t even mentioned until a week before our six months were up. Fulfilling life wasn’t far from the truth; he’d just forgotten to mention the “short, brutal” part of that career description. He didn’t comment on our projected life span of two to four years after we entered the field. And Dregs? Ha!

I glanced at the young men in my company. Their apprehension was etched on their faces and seemed to telegraph one thing: if Bastian came over, they’d probably beat him senseless. Justice for pain endured, lives lost, and the memories of it all. It occurred to me that in the last four years, I’d not seen Bastian once before now.

He had the covert thing down pat.

“Unbelievable,” Milo whispered.

“What’s that, man?” David asked.

“Just really thinking about the fact that half the people Bastian brings to this place end up dead.”

“Technically, it’s closer to one hundred percent,” I said. Both of them turned to look at me; I shrugged one shoulder. “Most Hunters die within three years. You don’t get past the mortality thing.”

“Unless you’re you,” Milo said.

“Hey, I still technically died. The girl who went through hell here is long gone, ashes scattered to the wind. I didn’t ask to be brought back, and I’m done fucking apologizing for it.”

An uneasy silence settled over the car. The next time I looked, Bastian was gone, probably off to drag more uninformed teenagers into a new, brief, pain-filled life. Recruits we desperately needed, as our cache of trained Hunters was diminishing at an alarming rate.

Just as the air in the SUV started reaching unbearable stuffiness, the building door swung open. Kismet emerged first, Wyatt right behind her with a lunch bag of some sort in his hands. Blue nylon, square, nondescript. Had to have our bargaining chips in it. They were in the middle of a conversation that abruptly stopped when they yanked on their door handles.

“Took long enough,” I said as Wyatt fell into the seat beside me.

He settled the bag on his lap, color high in his cheeks. “Took some time to convince Erickson to let us have what we needed.”

“Erickson?”

“The guy who runs R&D.” He said it as if I should know exactly who Erickson was. I replied with a blank stare that finally registered. Hunters were forbidden from entering that building, and no one told us what exactly went on in there under the broad label of Research and Development. Or who worked there. He leaned close until his cheek brushed mine and whispered, “It’s where they developed the anticoag and fragging rounds we use, among other things.”

Aha. Grateful for the info—and additionally curious about what else Erickson and his pals were cooking up within those walls—I turned my attention back to the rest of the van. Milo looked away too sharply; he’d been listening, probably just as curious, and annoyed that I’d gotten an answer he hadn’t. Wyatt had already broken one rule by bringing an unbound fugitive onto the premises, so what was one more?

“We’ve still got two hours before Thackery’s supposed to call,” David said. “What’s our next move?”

“We meet Felix at his apartment,” Kismet said. “Then we sit tight until Thackery calls and we know what we’re dealing with.”

“We sit tight?” I echoed. “All of us?”

She didn’t stop driving, even as she met my gaze in the rearview mirror, steely determination in her eyes. “Yes, all of us, because until I have some damned clue what to tell the brass about all this, I’m not letting you two out of my sight.”

I made a rude noise but didn’t argue further. Admittedly, it was better than reporting me right away, or telling Milo to shoot me in the head. I resigned myself to being babysat by Kismet and her team, and settled back for the long ride into the city.

The apartment Kismet’s Triad shared was on the opposite side of Mercy’s Lot from mine, closer to downtown and the Anjean tributary. Other low-rent apartment buildings surrounded theirs, all made of the same brick façade and cheap plaster that had sprung up fifty-odd years ago. Tiny terraces barely large enough for two people to stand on, security bars on most of the windows, untended flower boxes, and postage-stamp grassy areas for kids to play.

No one paid much attention to the six of us as we followed Milo through a space-numbered parking lot toward one of the five-story buildings. The bricks looked power-washed and the sidewalks neatly swept. No graffiti, no hookers or homeless wandering around. Definitely a step up from the place I’d once called home. Into an echoing lobby/stairwell and past a row of metal mailboxes, we marched up to the third floor, our footsteps reverberating hollowly.