Ingrid Seymour - Shatter the Darkness

HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Harper Voyager 2017

Copyright © Ingrid Seymour 2017

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2017

Ingrid Seymour asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9780008113698

Version: 2017-07-25

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page Shatter the Darkness INGRID SEYMOUR

Copyright HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by Harper Voyager 2017 Copyright © Ingrid Seymour 2017 Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2017 Ingrid Seymour asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9780008113698 Version: 2017-07-25

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Epilogue

About the Author

Also by the same author

About the Publisher

The Kevlar vest is tight and uncomfortable around my chest. I push it from the side, trying to find a perfect fit, wondering if I’ll ever get used to wearing it and, more importantly, if I’ll ever understand this new, vicious world in which my life hangs from a thread every time I take to the streets.

My black military boots thud against the concrete sidewalk as I move away from Pacific Place and Elliot Whitehouse’s headquarters. We haven’t moved, in spite of IgNiTe’s attack a month ago. We’re still in the same building. Moving would signify fear, and Elliot is too proud for that.

The late May sun warms my face, and it’s a welcomed feeling that shows me the world has kept its normal course in at least one way.

In the last month, many of the major streets have been cleared by the Eklyptor “government,” but not this one, which is exactly why I prefer it. I don’t have to walk among the invaders who pretend Seattle is theirs and us, humans, the vermin who infest it, and not the other way around. The biggest Eklyptors factions in the city, Whitehouse and Hailstone, are still not seeing eye to eye, but that hasn’t gotten in the way of their Takeover efforts, at least not nearly as much as I’d like. They have divided the city among themselves as if it were a big cake, and each is taking care of its slice diligently enough. Damn them!

I pass a burnt Metro Transit bus, its frame charred and many of its windows melted away by the intense fire that consumed it. Orange traffic cones and pedestrian safety fences lie strewn all over the street like forgotten relics from a faraway past. I skirt around them, then walk ahead, looking over my shoulder every few steps to make sure no one is following me.

My heart flutters, restless. I can’t wait to meet James and confirm he’s okay. I haven’t seen him since he took a bullet trying and failing to kill Whitehouse. He’s been too busy fighting other Eklyptor factions, and this is the first chance he’s gotten to meet me. A month ago when I last saw Aydan, he said James was recovering quickly thanks to his accelerated healing powers. Sometimes it pays to be a Symbiot. Still, I want to see him with my own two eyes.

With a certain skip in my steps, I cross 9th Avenue and continue down Pine Street. I’m eager to reach the van where I stash my motorcycle after each use. I’m dying to ride, to wrap my legs around the rumbling engine, and zip around the city streets on my way to hope.

That’s what IgNiTe, James and the crew are to me: Hope with a capital “H”.

As I pass in front of a gutted deli, I’m startled by my own reflection on one of the few window fronts that survived The Takeover riots. My features look so etched and angular that I hardly recognize myself. I’ve lost weight which is natural considering the stress of living under Whitehouse’s roof and the loss of appetite caused by dining around semi-human creatures all the time. But hey, no one can blame me, not when eating at a trough with a team of pigs would be an upgrade. My brown hair is well past shoulder length, curling slightly at the tips. My skin is sallow—not the healthy golden shade it used to be. I don’t spend much time in the sun anymore, which I sorely miss. Only my brown eyes seem the same, sharp and wide. Though, if I’m honest with myself, the sadness that used to live in their depths seems more profound now.

As I stare at my barely-recognizable image, something moves behind the window. My heart skips a beat. I jump back, hands snatching the gun at my hip, a Glock 22 with its 15-round magazine in place. I aim the weapon, hand shaking. I struggle to focus on whatever is on the other side. It takes me a few seconds to make out a shape huddled under a table. Slowly, my brain processes the information: a dirty sneaker, blue jeans, a puffy blue jacket and long, blond hair under a gray wool cap.

A girl!

A perfectly human girl, judging by the lack of buzzing inside my head.