Never Forgotten Page 19

  After half an aisle Dad tugs on my sleeve again. The frown crinkling his forehead makes me realize I wasn’t paying attention, which isn’t good enough. I flaked out in class today too—not that there’s much left to tell the newbies—but still, it’s been such a struggle to pay attention all day. I keep thinking that CityBoy coffee at an apartment which Manvyke frequents is just too much of a coincidence. He has to be holding her there. Doing something with her.

  “Anamae!” I spin to face my father’s glower, but break into a full-fledged grin because, my gosh, he just called me by my actual name, not some version of hers or close to hers, like Ana.

  I throw my arms around his neck and ask, “What did you want to say?”

  He pulls back, confused, no doubt, at my sudden outburst. “You were about to walk right past.”

  Sure enough, Martha stands behind a long table that’s covered in a hand-embroidered cloth and set out with the wares we sell to make a little income to keep the resistance crew at the base fed. Dad’s scowl turns into a grin, and he extends his hand to the woman straightening out jars of preserves. After a hearty hello, he walks behind and dumps his shoulder satchel on the chair. It’s good to see him happy. I guess he feels like he has a purpose.

  “How was the walk?” Martha asks.

  “Good,” I answer before Dad can tattle.

  Her gaze shifts to Will who I can see has frozen, his eyes locked on the stall two up and across from us. Alert energy rolls off him by the bucketload and, by the way his hand is hidden under his shirt, I’d bet he’s going for his slingshot with the tasing pellets. I follow the line of his gaze and, holy hell, there’re two of them; both green agents by the empty stars on their sleeves and, shit, I know that guy. It’s Jax’s old partner, Kalon. I don’t know the other dude. Although they are giving off the appearance of laidback browsers, the sharpness of their stares prevents them from blending into the crowd to anyone who is more than a casual observer.

  “Is that . . .” Martha trails off.

  “Richard,” I say to Dad, “can you sort out those jars—”

  “Yes,” Martha says, “there’s a box down here somewhere.”

  “Get under the table,” Will hisses to me.

  “I know that guy.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m not hiding, Will. He might know if Xane’s all right.”

  “Under,” Will orders, and the tone of his voice leaves no room for argument, so I scoot around behind the table and crouch with dad. Martha shifts a box to the front of the hanging tablecloth and motions me to get all the way under, whispering, “Good girl.”

  I don’t feel good. I feel like a total coward, running away at the first sign of danger and leaving Will and Martha up there to deal with it alone, but I’m not an idiot. Kalon would recognize me for sure, then we’d all be in real danger. The question I want answered though, is why are they here? Are they searching for resistance, or is it merely a coincidence? Maybe this is because I used the cover-up yesterday at the apartments. I hope there’s no way to trace its movement after use or we’re screwed.

  “What is this?” I suck in a breath at the sound of Kalon’s voice.

  “A healing salve,” Martha answers. “It helps speed the recovery process by drawing out any swelling. Quite a good buy that one, at ten dollars a jar.”

  “Ten dollars! You’re kidding yourself, lady.” The tips of a pair of Collective boots appear under the cloth mere inches from my face. And even though they’ve stopped talking, the shoes don’t move. Nor do I breathe.

  Dad shuffles back and I clamp a hand around his arm. He can’t be seen, he can’t make a freaking sound. “What?” he says.

  Oh my god. Does he not understand how much danger we’re in right now? I shove a hand against his mouth and everything above remains deathly silent. His eyes bug out and he’d better not start screaming. My other hand shoots to my pendant as if I can hide whatever trace the tech might put out. The minutes drag. The feet don’t move, until finally . . . they do.

  Nothing more happens except my father staring into my eyes like I’m the crazy one.

  It takes a full twenty minutes before I hear Martha say, “All clear.”

  Backing out of the hidey-hole, I position myself in the corner with my back to the busy aisle and tell them, “I think it’s time we got home.”

  “Go on without me,” Will says. “I’ll stay with Martha.”

  She points across the way to a blond girl sipping a can of soda. “It’s okay love, I’m covered.”

  Will crosses his arms over his chest. “An extra set of eyes won’t hurt.”

  “Let’s go then,” Dad says and I couldn’t agree more. It’s well past time he was back in the safe house. As we walk home, and I scan behind us every few seconds, I know that coffee cup or not, Manvyke’s hiding something in that building from the rest of the Collective and that’s not good. She’s there, but the proof is pretty flimsy, so I can’t ask Beau to authorize a full-on assault team. We’re going to have to hedge our bets and break in without his consent.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Jax

  The blue glow through the cavern casts eerie shadows over not only the piles of treasure, but my brother’s face. I toss the light-thrower to Cynnie and block his path to her. “We have to,” I tell her even though I agree that stealing something from this place feels wrong, key or not. “There’s no other way.”

  Nik chuckles, the sound so much like our father I cringe. What happened to him? When did he turn into a monster? Before I was shipped off we were tight. Sure, he was the shitty older brother, but he looked out for me, shielded me and Emalee from our father’s fitful rages—our parent’s fights. At heart he was good and now he’s nothing but wrong.

  “Why thank you, little brother. Finding this place was excruciatingly difficult. You and the traitor did the hard work for me.”

  I square up, bringing my blade out in front. “Don’t think we’re letting you take it, Nikias.” His name curls around my tongue like a bad taste.

  “Cynnie . . .” Hopefully she’ll pick up on the warning in my tone. “Find it.”

  Nik’s attention moves over my shoulder and his hand tightens around the gleaming short sword in his fist. “How’s life working out for you, traitor? The guilt of betraying your own people eating you up yet?”

  “Shut up,” Cynnie snaps.

  With that gloating smile on his face, I hope she can’t see him. She should have kept quiet and not given him the satisfaction of seeing he got under her skin.

  The sounds of movement, the ring of metal clinking against metal and shuffle of heavy items comes from behind me. Good, she’s searching. Find it fast, Cynnie.

  Nik takes a step toward me. I raise my blade.

  “Are you going to try and stop me?” he says.

  No trying about it. “I am stopping you.”

  He darts around to my left and I block his way past.

  Metal clinking and the clunk of pottery lids opening and closing means Cynnie has sped up her search. I make sure she’s all right and Nik slams into my side. His shoulder jars against mine, shoving me against the sarcophagus in the center of the tomb. Pain shoots through my back. For a second, I can’t move as it radiates to my chest, but I have to find this thing before he does. This isn’t one of our childhood games. The winner won’t be beating on the loser. The stakes are far higher.

  I push off the stone.

  And Nik’s already shoving his weight against the lid of the ancient coffin. It’s not moving. He’ll never get it to budge, but his efforts might just buy us some time. I peer around the chamber to look for anything remotely resembling a sword. Way too many objects fit the bill. It’s near impossible to figure it out.

  Cynnie continues rifling through the piles on the ground. Tossing objects to the side. Thing is, the cloak looks like jewelry—this sword could look like just about anything. Keeping my blade handy and one eye on Nik who’s preoccupied with grunting and shoving again
st the impossibly heavy stone lid, I spot a bunch of weapons propped against the wall. Making straight for them, I snatch up a sword and heft it between my hands. It’s heavy and rust covers a whole side of the blade. Not this one; time wouldn’t mar a key. I toss it aside and pick out a javelin or maybe it’s some kind of spear. The wood’s light and I run my hands over it, nothing special about this one either. If only I had the tech detector this would be so much quicker. Damn Frank and his meager tech supplies. I’d kill to get my hands on the stuff I’m used to relying on.

  Nik grunts. I hazard a look in his direction and the lid’s actually moving. That grand coffin couldn’t belong to Philip. Maybe Alexander is buried here, too, or someone more important than both of them, but who the hell is more important than Alexander the Great? Shit, Nik could be right. I rush to the side of the stone structure just as Nik grunts again and stone grates against stone.

  I lay my sword with you, Father.

  If this is Philip II’s real resting place then the sword is in there. A gap about an inch wide calls my attention to where Nik’s fingers work hard to dig into it, but he can’t get his wrist through. He lets out a frustrated groan, then his palms plant against the lid and he shoves.

  Damn it, he’s right.

  I slap my hands onto the stone and pulling strength from deep within me, I push. The lid grinds forward increasing the gap by two inches. Nik’s eyes narrow in a way that’s part question, part challenge. We both shove again at the exact same time. It gives a few more inches. Nik thrusts his hand into the gap. The light-thrower in his fist illuminates another coffin inside of this one. Smaller and shaped like a body, an image of that Wadjet thing rests over the chest. Only this one is slightly different. Two serpents twine their way up the sword with a shield overhead.

  This is the right place.

  The key’s here.

  A pharaoh-like staff rests by the body.

  Several knots distort the wood’s crooked length. One end tapers off to a point while the other forms a T shaped handle. The light thrower’s glow shimmers over the staff giving it the look of metal and, I’ll be damned, this is the key.

  Hand extended, I make a flying dive for the staff just about winding myself when my stomach slams into the side of the sarcophagus. My hand closes around the cool metal-wood. I buck against the coffin to lift myself up. I’ve got to get this thing out before he realizes. The staff won’t move. I yank it toward me, but it won’t budge from its spot. Heart pounding against my ribs and inhaling with a mighty heave, I’m thrown backward. My shoulders slam against the hard ground. Nik’s foot planted against my chest holds me down. Both my hands grip the staff that is the sword.

  Where the hell is Cynnie? I need help.

  Nik’s glare bores into mine, angry and gloating. Bastard thinks he’s won. I swing the staff around and whack it into the back of his knees. He buckles, pitching forward, his knee slamming into my chest forcing all the air out of me. For a second I can’t breathe through the searing pain in my lungs. Gasping for breath, I slide my hands along the staff and my palm slips over a raised knot. I slam the weapon into his back at the same time I buck him off me. I spring to my feet. Cynnie’s got an actual sword poised and ready to fight.

  “Get us out of here,” I yell.

  Cynnie raises her borrowed sword over Nik, but doesn’t strike, just stares at him. Nik spots her hesitation and jumps to his feet. His filthy hands close around the other end of the staff.

  I yank it back. The end slams into the sarcophagus.

  A humming zap cuts through the chamber and cool liquid swamps my feet.

  “Founding fathers!” Nik’s mouth drops.

  The sword slips from Cynnie’s hands. In a fluid movement, Nik scoops the weapon from the ground to slam the hilt into Cynnie’s chin and she flies backward. Landing flat on her rear with a crack. Asswipe. Anger blazes through me and sharpens my vision to zero in on my brother. I swing the staff around, still holding it by the wrong end. I’ll knock his damn head off his shoulders. He swoops in from the left and his sword connects with the key.

  On impact, the blade melts like ice turned to water.

  Nik curses again and the F-bomb slips out of my mouth too. His glower crashes into mine and his mouth twists into a mocking smile. My hands tighten around the staff and I catch a glimpse of Cynnie, still laid out flat like a frickin’ boxer down for the count.

  “She looked hot last time I saw her you know. Glowing, even. Her new guy must give her something you couldn’t.”

  What the hell? He saw Mae. And not alone, but with Will, it had to be Will. She was with him. Even though I knew this would happen, and suspected they were already together before I left, my gut twists in a way that makes me want to hurt someone. Something. Myself, for being so damned stupid.

  Nik smiles that self-satisfied, arrogant grin. I lunge at him. About time I wiped that frickin’ smirk right off his face.

  “He was protective too. Jumped right in front of her like he didn’t give a damn about anything but her. Girls love that shit.”

  Aiming right for the soft flesh of his side—I won’t miss, my aim’s perfect—I swing the staff through the air with so much force behind it my feet skid in the dirt. His hand comes out of nowhere and the staff slams into his palm with a crack.

  “She sure looked happy.” Nik shakes his head.

  The bastard is definitely the target of my fury. When the staff won’t budge, my hand balls into a tight fist and I throw a punch at his jaw.

  It connects with nothing. He’s gone.

  And so is the key.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Jax

  The momentum of my intended punch drives me to the ground. My fist plows into the dirt, followed by my shoulder, pain exploding through my whole body. It doesn’t hurt as much as the sting of hatred in my heart though. Nik knew just what he was doing. Stole the key right out my hands.

  I aim a series of kicks at the stone coffin; so frickin’ stupid. And what the hell was he saying about Mae? How did he know she looked happy, that she was with Will? He must have seen her, been hunting her down for the Tarlequin. Nausea twists my gut and my blood turns to ice. I spin around, my tunneling vision hitting on Cynnie and I instantly drop to her side, setting a hand against her cheek.

  She groans.

  “Cynnie, you okay?”

  Stupid, frickin’ no good lying son of a—my fist pounds into the hard ground.

  Eyes still closed, she brings a small hand to her jaw and it brushes against my wrist. Her mouth barely opens as she squeaks out, “Hurts.”

  A growl, almost animalistic, tightens my throat. If I ever lay eyes on my brother again, I’ll beat the living shit out of him. He’s more worthless than an oversized tick stuck to the inside of a dog’s ear and he’ll go after Mae next.

  “Cynnie, you’ve got to wake up.”

  Her lids drag open and her green eyes meet mine, confusion stealing across her face. I let my hand drop as she sits up. Her brows knit together. “He’s gone?”

  Slipping my arm around her waist, I pull her to her feet. She’s so light it doesn’t take much effort and we both nearly topple over. With a series of taps on the port band we’re out of here, sliding through the inverted space of nothing and landing back in the warehouse.

  I steer Cynnie toward a crate and sit her down. We’re not staying, but she can sit for the few minutes it will take me to set the coordinates. I turn around and that’s when I notice everything has gone to hell.

  Frank’s not sleeping. Far from it, he’s still slumped against the wall like he was when we left, but now his mouth’s stuffed with a gag that wraps around his jaw. His bound feet are still and a stream of blood trickles down his face as his head lolls to the side.

  For the second time in minutes my blood stills in my veins.

  Reaching for my blade, I swing around and find Harris. Still conscious and sitting on a crate with his back stiff, he’s in a worse state than Frank. He’d be better off if
he was unconscious. He’s more beaten up than Cynnie that day I pulled her out of the path of Nik’s fists. He probably can’t see out of either of his eyes and his face is completely ruined. Fiery heat flares through me, clouds my vision red.

  I swing around and Cynnie’s eyes are wide like she’s slipped into shock. Damn it, I’ve got to get her out of here right now because whoever did this is more than likely still here. Two steps to the port-all and just as I punch in the coordinates, her shaky voice calls my name.

  On full alert, I pivot so fast black dots swamp my vision for a moment.

  Johnny crouches by Cynnie. His hand fisted in her hair tips her head back to expose her neck to which his knife is pressed.

  “Fu—” I won’t let Nik’s foul language rub off on me.

  In a single stride, my hand clamps around the psycho’s throat. My elbow knocks his knife away from Cynnie as I pin him to the wall. “What the hell are you doing?”

  He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t even move. Just frickin’ hangs there, his hands clinging to my wrists, his eyes boring into mine. I thrust him against the wall. “What did you do?”

  His eyes bug as he wets his dark lips with his tongue.

  I shove him again and shout, “What the hell did you do to Frank?”

  The little shit just stares at me.

  “Jax,” Cynnie’s voice is a mile away. “Jax, let him down.”

  I’m not letting the little twerp go anywhere. He’s a threat to every person in this safe house. Johnny splutters and gasps. His face . . . shit. I drop my hand from his throat and someone’s pulling me back. Frick. Johnny coughs and gasps; the noises coming from him churn my stomach, but the anger doesn’t fade. Spinner steps around me and fists his hand in the kid’s shirt.

  “What happened here?” the older man demands.

  I shrug off whoever’s hand rests on my back and say, “Deal with the little bastard, he did this to Frank and . . .” I gesture toward my friend, “and Harris.”

  Spinner’s eyes narrow. “That true?” he asks Johnny and I know I’ve left the troublemaker in the right hands.