Page 31 of Ashes & Aether

Instead, she stands on the stairs, clutching her torn sleeve like she’s hiding stolen documents, projecting an aura of complete, unbothered indifference.

It is entirely unnatural.

“Let me look at the arm, Maggie,” I request softly, rising to my feet. I keep my hands visible, non-threatening.

“My medics will handle it.” She turns her back to me, looking up the stairwell. “Captain Miller! Secure the lower landing! I want damage reports on the generators in five minutes.”

She strides up the stairs, leaving me standing among the corpses.

I watch her go, my eyes fixed on the bloody, shredded fabric she holds so desperately against her body.

A human who does not fear the Ghorvek virus. A human who refuses Avaren medical technology with a vehemence that borders on violent. A human who always wears tailored, long-sleeved suits.

She is hiding something. Something massive. Something that terrifies her far more than the monsters trying to break down her doors.

I wipe a smear of black Ghorvek blood from my cheek.

I am going to find out what is beneath that sleeve, Maggie. And when I do, you will have nowhere left to hide.

8

MAGGIE

Iclose the door to my quarters behind me and lean my forehead against the cold metal, breathing in the scent of freshly pressed clothes. My fingers grip the shredded fabric of my left sleeve. The combat adrenaline burns off, leaving a stinging ache radiating from my forearm. The walk from the stairwell required every ounce of my discipline. Soldiers saluted me. Medics offered assistance. I bypassed them all, keeping my spine rigid and my face an impassive mask while the torn cotton rubbed against raw flesh. I had mere minutes to get to safety. Not mine. Theirs.

I push off the door and step toward the tiny ensuite bathroom. I unbutton the ruined white blouse with one hand, wrestling with the small buttons. The shredded cotton falls away, dropping into the basin.

I turn the tap, and old water spits from the faucet, sputtering before smoothing into a thin stream. I thrust my arm under the water, and blood swirls down the drain.

I stare at my skin. The old scar is there, a jagged, raised white circle left by Gareth Pike’s execution toy two and a half years ago. Right across the center of the puckered tissue runs a new line. Two parallel slashes. Shallow.

I lied to the alien. The concrete wall did not do this. The Ghorvek’s claw tore through my sleeve and scraped my flesh.

As the water runs over the fresh cuts, the sting sharpens. I catalog my physical state. My heart rate is elevated, but dropping. I’m breathing steadily. There’s no blurred vision. No burning in the veins.

The first time this happened, I locked myself in this exact room and waited to lose my mind. I held a gun beneath my chin, shivering, sweating, waiting for the ravenous hunger to consume my humanity. I spent hours staring at the blank concrete, picturing the moment the virus would hijack my nervous system and turn me into one of the mindless husks roaming the surface.

Today, I feel nothing but resignation.

I exhausted my capacity for panic years ago. I have no terror left to give. If my luck has run its course, if a direct strike from the creature carries a higher viral load than a bite from a starved captive, then my reign ends tonight. I will turn into a husk.

I shut off the tap.

If I turn, I will become a threat to the bunker. I will hunt my own people. Someone will have to put me down.

An image flashes behind my eyes. The Avaren. Orien.

The spymaster possesses the speed and the weaponry to decapitate me before I can tear a single human throat out. He will do it efficiently. He will step into the line of fire, swing that weapon with the terrifying, fluid grace I witnessed on two occasions now, and remove the threat Margaret Elmsleigh poses to the world.

My chest tightens as a sudden ache blooms behind my ribs, completely unrelated to the scratch on my arm.

I grip the edge of the basin, my knuckles turning white. I don’t want him to kill me. I don’t want those alien amber eyes to look at me with the cold detachment he reserves for the monsters. I despise the thought of becoming another faceless casualty on his blade.

Damn it all. I seem to be growing fond of the insufferable alien.

The realization infuriates me. It annoys me far more than the throbbing wound on my arm. I yank a roll of gauze from the small first-aid kit above the sink, then wrap the white fabric tight around my forearm, snapping the knot with my teeth. The sting grounds me. Fondness is a vulnerability. Fondness makes you hesitate. I do not have room for it.

I discard the ruined blouse in the trash bin, then open my narrow locker and pull out a fresh shirt. Crisp white cotton. Long sleeves. I button it to the throat. I slip my dark tailored jacket over my shoulders, adjusting the lapels. Lastly, I pull the silver compact from my pocket and reapply the deep-red lipstick, checking the mirror for any cracks in the foundation.