Edge of Instinct: Rabids Book 1 (4 page)

“As for the wandering about in the parkways, after the death of your brother I should think you’d have enough sense to realize the dangers I constantly warn you of are hardly a joking matter.” Amiel clenched her teeth. It was so very much like Malinda to use her dead son as a gambit in the effort to demean and guilt trip her remaining living child. And she wasn’t through yet.

“You’ve always been headstrong- your father and brother spoiled you relentlessly. But your behavior as of late has been atrocious. That display of physical violence in the hospital was a new low for you.” She rubbed at her wrist as though suddenly pained by it. Amiel looked away from the bruises she saw there, slightly sickened by the turmoil of emotions they further stirred within. She felt terrible she’d caused that damage, and yet a dark part of her was proud of what they stood for. She shuddered at the thought, staring at the floor as Malinda continued.

“You
know
we are a top contributor for the hospital, and yet you still insist on embarrassing me. I don’t have to remind you how much I hate being embarrassed, do I?” Amiel clenched her teeth, not wanting a second welt to match her other cheek. “I was rather surprised at your irresponsible choice to leave me alone to handle the dealings of your brother’s funeral preparations. I trust you will not be so disrespectful as to miss his funeral tomorrow morning.” Amiel’s teeth clenched harder, so tightly she felt they would surely crack. Her mother had chosen to not so much as visit her son while he spent two weeks in the hospital, dying a painful and prolonged death. No, her mother had deigned to not “torture her soul” with such dealings. Instead, she left her children to face the plight alone. And now she had the audacity to act the martyr. Classic Malinda.

“What time.” She knew well enough by now that no one could ever win an argument against this woman. Malinda Hilden was always right, even when she wasn’t. Or at least that’s what she boasted to all of her high society pals. True to form, Malinda’s haughty smile returned in full force, knowing victory was hers.

“9 AM. Delpenton Cemetery. At the family plot, of course.”

“Of course,” Amiel replied wearily. Malinda scrutinized her for a long moment, tight lipped sneer shifting her pristine features. 

“Good. Now put something on your face and go to bed. You need your beauty sleep. Your face looks as haggard as a homeless tramp’s. We wouldn’t want you looking so ill-used tomorrow in front of the cameras, would we?” Amiel’s heart flip flopped, stopping her dead in her tracks.

“Cameras? Why will
they
be there?”

“Of course they’ll be there, idiot child. How could they not show up for the funeral of Malinda Hilden’s son, a decorated war hero?” Amiel’s eyes narrowed while her mother practically preened over the upcoming attentions from the press. Suddenly she didn’t feel so guilty over the bruises she’d left on that pale skin. Moving far around Geno, she headed up the stairs.

“Oh, and Amiel dearest,” Malinda called up sweetly, once again halting Amiel’s ascent. She stared up at the final step, that unfamiliar surge of anger rising within as though she would throw herself at her mother if she had to endure one more moment of gazing upon her cruel grin.

“No more ugly temper tantrums and late night strolls.” The syrupy threat floated up to her, coy and innocent. Amiel’s grip on the smooth banister became painful as she nodded stiffly and trudged up the last steps. Her heart was doing its little tap dance routine again, and it was enough to make her feel faint.

“What did I ever do to deserve such disrespectful headstrong children?” Malinda’s voice drifted up the stairs as she whined to her henchman, who of course laughed in reply. With the freedom and safety of her room plainly in sight, and her heart beating out a staccatorhy
t
hm Fred Astaire would be jealous of, Amiel released the rebellion her throat was begging for.

“Probably the same thing we did to deserve a horrid mother like you!” she called loudly down the stairs before slamming and locking the door behind her. She sat with her ear pressed to the door, waiting for the thunderous steps of the henchman coming to bust down her door and sit on her. Sighing with shaky relief when silence met her ears, Amiel slid down the length of the door. Jaron had always teased her that she was as timid as a mouse when it came to authority. It was true. Despite Malinda’s insistence that she was a stubborn and spoiled brat, Amiel had been nothing but the ideal child all her life. Seen and not heard. Under normal circumstances Amiel was eager to simply remain silent and receive any verbal berating or consequence thrown at her, whether it was deserved it or not. If someone so much as carried an air of authority, she would cower back, especially if that person was Malinda Hilden.

Today, however, seemed to be the mark of a very different future for Amiel. Her anger simmered directly on the surface now, springing upward like a grease fire at the slightest provocation. Her defiance was making a triumphant appearance it would seem, swiftly rising with a hidden temper that was beginning to frighten her with its existence. She hated that it had taken the death of her dearest friend for it to happen. It wasn’t worth it. She curled up, clutching Jaron’s tags to her chest as she cried herself to sleep right there on the floor.

Amiel

The next day dawned with a determination to do something crazy. Amiel wasn’t entirely sure what that crazy thing was yet, but she could practically taste the need for it- that and the overwhelming urge to hit something. It was an unfamiliar and uncomfortable feeling, this sudden need for violence. She showered, styled her hair, and put on a light coating of makeup. Surprisingly she didn’t have to cover any bruises on her cheek. Only a light shade of redness remained, which could easily be mistaken for a blush once her other cheek was made to match. Amiel moved through the actions, dressing in a sleek black dress with the mechanical movements of a person still deeply nestled in shock. At the funeral pyre Malinda played the part of the properly distressed mother, crying into a dainty lace hanky though careful to not smudge her makeup. She gave equally dainty sobs during appropriate places in the preacher’s speech. Amiel sat numbly in her chair, staring at the gleaming wood box surrounded by fancy expensive flowers.

Somehow her brain was having a difficult time grasping the idea that her brother lay within it. This had not been an open casket funeral. The poison leaking from Jaron’s pores had seen to that. Perhaps if the casket had been open the loss of her brother would feel less surreal than it did at the moment. She was unsure if she should be grateful for that closed lid or not. Malinda gave a particularly agonized whine at her side, and it was all Amiel could do to keep from rolling her eyes. The cameras drank up every ounce of it. Malinda’s whine became a more realistic squeak when the soldiers of Jaron’s company fired salutes in his honor, startling her from her act. Amiel drank in the sounds of the trumpets as they played their own farewell to her brother, trying to imbed them in her memory. When the last note faded, they carefully folded the flag that lay across Jaron’s casket. A soldier approached, holding the flag reverently in his outstretched palms.

“This flag is presented on behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army as a token of appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.” The man’s voice rang out with clear authority, demanding the attention and respect of those present. Amiel’s heart ached as they placed the flag in her mother’s lap, who merely glanced at it before continuing her performance. How she wished she could have been the one to receive the honor that her mother so easily sniffed at.

A female soldier lit a torch, carrying it to the soldier that had presented the flag. The man turned with a click of his heels to offer the torch to Malinda. But when he held it out for her, she merely sniffed and waved it away. Amiel could see the slight stiffening of the soldier’s posture and flash of indignant frustration as it welled in his eyes. Obviously this man had held her brother in the highest regard and Malinda’s slight was a slap in the face to that honor. Amiel stood woodenly, her shaking hand reaching for the torch. The soldier’s eyes shifted to meet hers, searching. She could dimly feel the pain in her own eyes reflected in his, a grieving kinship of sorts founded between them in that moment. The soldier nodded gravely, placing the polished wooden handle in her hand.

Her hand dipped slightly under the weight of the heavy wooden torch, symbolic of the heavy weight of grief that her shoulders currently bore. Her father’s funeral had been much the same, with Malinda refusing the torch then as well. Only that day, it had been fourteen year old Jaron who had carried the torch. Today it was Amiel who carried the torch for Jaron.

Swallowing hard against the tears that were once again demanding escape, she watched as other soldiers reverently carried Jaron’s casket up a pair of removable metal steps to place it on the tall wooden pyre. When the steps were pulled away all eyes turned to Amiel, waiting. Her legs wobbled beneath her on the first step forward, forcing her to pause. She took a deep breath, praying her limbs would hold strong. She managed to pull it together, striding purposefully toward the pyre. She stared up at it for a long moment, vaguely aware of the people standing behind her and the clicking of cameras. How many of them were here to honor her brother and how many of them were just here to watch the show, gathering fuel for the gossip they would spread later?

Her eyes shifted to the torch. This was it. It was real. Jaron was gone, and she was about to send what was left of him into a cold stone crypt. Breath hitching in waves of emotion she pulled the tags to her lips, kissing them in farewell. A solitary tear streaked down her face as she finally bent across the boundary ropes and touched the torch to the pyre.

“Sleep well Jaron,” she murmured, the tear lending a salty bitterness to the desolation she felt inside as it slipped past her lips. Instantly flames licked upward to the casket, sending large billows of sickly sweet smelling smoke into the air. Obviously Malinda had chosen to infuse the wood with sweet smelling incense. Not surprising, she supposed. Her mother would have fainted away at the true smell, and she always jumped at any chance to spend money.

Amiel stood rooted to her spot, watching the flames and smoke carry away what was left of her brother, the heat flowing across her skin in a searing reminder of their purpose. Gentle hands grasped her shoulder’s, urging her away from the heat. She resisted at first, looking angrily over her shoulder. When she realized it was the soldier that gave her the torch, the fight seeped from her muscles. Head bowing in grief she let him lead her to a safer distance from the flames. He quietly took the now useless torch from her hands before moving to stand a few feet away, respectfully giving her space to mourn. Glancing around, she registered the presence of the nurse Cat,
real
tears dripping onto her black dress. To her left the soldiers stood nearby, hands raised in respectful solute, eyes showing the pain of their loss. Looking at them she knew she wasn’t the only one who had lost a brother with Jaron’s death. She felt a stirring of pride, and peace. In the end, it didn’t matter how many fake mourners put on a show. The only thing of import was the fact that those most dear to Jaron were here to say their final farewells.

Amiel stiffened as Malinda stepped to her side, arm looping through to link at the elbows, as though they were best friends. Teeth clenched, Amiel ignored the dainty sniffs at her side, eyes staying locked on her brother’s flaming casket.

“I don’t recall inviting him.” Malinda’s derisive growl tore Amiel’s attention from the fire, eyes tracking to follow her mother’s gaze. Her eyes widened as they fell on a huge man in the distance. His bald head reflected the sunlight, and the large sunglasses and bushy mustache all but concealed any clues to his identity. His leather attire, however, shouted it clearly.

“Is that…?”

“The filthy mongrel that owns the hideous motorcycle shop on main? Yes. Apparently I should have drafted a list for the cemetery gates, to keep out the riffraff.”

“He’s paying his respects Mother! Surely we cannot fault him for showing our family support in this time of need,” Amiel whispered sharply, receiving a raised pencil thin eyebrow in response.

“He’s not welcome,” Malinda stated plainly, motioning to her henchmen. Geno came forward, ever the eager pet. The biker guy seemed to take this as his cue. His head dipped in a respectful nod, before turning and disappearing into the crowd. Malinda’s eyes narrowed, as though displeased with the loss of opportunity to toss the man out on his backside.

“Let’s go. We have guests to entertain.”

“I would like to stay. Just for a few more minutes. Please.” Amiel tacked on the last pleasantry in an attempt to appease Malinda for the time being.

“Fine. But ten minutes only. Geno, you will stay and ensure she follows my orders.” Malinda stalked away, taking half of her entourage with her. Immediately the guests and press retired to the reception home with her mother. Amiel stared at the ashes floating skyward, lost in her sorrow. When ten minutes had passed Geno forced her into the limo, and she was left to steel herself against the next task.

The reception home for the Hilden family was filled with socialites making hollow condolences and well wishes, whilst stuffing their faces with expensive hors d’oeuvres. The air appeared to hold an almost reverent atmosphere, but the deceptively respectful whispers held only gossiping about the wayward son who had run off to his own demise. Unsurprisingly, Maxine DeLauro was nowhere to be seen. Of course that was probably for the best, considering Amiel’s radical mood swings of late. She may have finally satisfied her urge to hit something; Maxine’s face, for example.

Amiel stood at the entrance with her mother, greeting people as they entered, accepting their condolences and nodding at the appropriate times. Truth be told, Amiel wasn’t paying the slightest attention, and should someone ask who she had talked to, she wouldn’t have been able to remember a single face she’d greeted. When the cloying air and incessant gibbering became too much for her, she quietly excused herself to search for an escape route. Stumbling outside, she drew in ragged gulps of fresh air. Her hands shook on the metal railing on the stair landing as she held onto it for strength. She pulled away from the bars to wipe imaginary wrinkles from her dress, lost in the vague and wild abandon of shock and depression. The last time she had felt even half of this pain was at her father’s funeral.

She sighed, thinking back on their father. He had been a tall and handsome man. Actually, Jaron had been an almost exact replica of their father. Amiel was blessed with a feminine version of her father’s looks, though her temperament was said to be like her grandmother. She remembered her father often telling her she was just like his mother. “
The temperament of a lamb and loyalty of a lion,
” her father had always teased. Her Grandmother Amielia was her namesake, though Malinda had demanded they shorten the name, and use her own middle name for Amiel’s. It was a matter of great consternation to their mother, that neither of her children had gained any of her own traits.

Warwick had had mahogany colored hair, green eyes, honey tanned skin, and a thousand watt smile. Amiel remembered him as a good man, though that was often over shadowed by the fact that he let his wife get away with anything and everything. He supported her silently, never refuting anything she said, never stepping in to stand up for his children, or himself for that matter. Should they ever begin to treat their mother in a form she found unsavory, she would chide him and he would instantly step in on her behalf, or simply leave the room. They had loved him deeply but that love was difficult to show when tangled with their feelings of worthlessness, and the fact that he was never on their side. It felt a little like being fed to the lions. Amiel was lucky in the respect that she had only been seven when he died. She had not felt his silent betrayals as deeply as Jaron had.

He had died in a traffic collision caused by the Infected. Several people had been killed in that accident. A pack of Rabids had run into the midst of a busy highway, causing a multiple car pileup. Though her father had died from the impact of flying out of the car’s windshield, her mother had decided the simple involvement of anything to do with Rabids was enough to ‘infect’ him, at least in reputation. She’d had him burned, rather than buried. Warwick’s ashes, along with his son’s now, were placed in the family’s expansive and historical crypt.

Amiel breathed in deeply, refusing to cry again. She wondered how there were any tears left after having shed so many over the last two weeks, particularly the last two days. But still they demanded entrance into the world. The door opened behind her, squeaking slightly. She tensed imagining her mother, Geno, or even the press following her out here to her momentary refuge. Turning, she instead found herself face to face with the soldier from the funeral. Behind him were several men and women in uniform. The colored black and silver bands wrapped respectfully about their lower wrists marked them as being mourning members of Jaron’s company. Her frosty glare melted to her previous expression of loss, and even some relief. She would not have to face the press yet.

“Excuse us for the intrusion, ma’am.” The soldier from the funeral stepped forward hesitantly, as though unsure of their welcome to join her. “We were hoping we could have a word with you.” She smiled wanly, offering her hand to him. He smiled gratefully and gently clasped it. He introduced himself as Alexander Greysen, and then went on to introduce his fellows, all of which were close friends of Jaron’s. She recognized their names as people he had mentioned during a few of his phone calls while stationed in his last holding at Texas. She respectfully shook hands with the woman and two men behind Alexander, warming inside at their varying strengths of Texan accents. Jaron had also gained a faint Texan accent over the years.

“Thank you, for the honor of the torch, Alexander,” she murmured, cringing slightly at the rough sound of her voice- another testament, alongside the red puffy eyes, to her long bouts of crying.

“Absolutely,” he replied emphatically. “I assume you are Amiel?” She nodded mutely. “I thought so. Jare used to talk about you day in and day out. I think we know you better than we know our own siblings by now.” They smiled and laughed quietly, and she couldn’t help but return their smiles.

“That sounds like my brother.”

“He was the most sincere and true friend I have ever had,” Alexander informed her with serious, sad eyes. “He saved my life, twice, during Rabid and Cutthroat attacks alike. He actually saved us all, at one time or another.” He motioned to his companions. “Jaron could fight better than any man I’ve ever seen. When a fight came, it’s like he just zoned in on the action and didn’t stop until every one of the devils were dead or running.” He paused, body going rigid as he rushed on.