The White Renegade (Viral Airwaves) (6 page)

Alex let out a stifled laugh, and Seraphin dared to look at them. Despite the chuckle, there was no mirth on their expression, only concern. “You would. There’s something you should know, I think. Before you go out again.” They fiddled with their jacket. A dull brown one, not the red clothing Seraphin liked so much. “Your father came to see me after you left. Had a bit of drink in him, and even more guilt. Said you would always belong, difference notwithstanding.”

Seraphin’s fingers tightened on the handle of the leather case. He wasn’t sure what to think of it. Why did his father never say these things to his face, instead? “What did you do?”

“Told him off. It’s easy as all hell to come to me and wail. I don’t have any patience for jerks seeking pity long after the act, like their guilt is more dramatic than the damage they did.” Alex shrugged and continued in a calmer tone. “I just think he’d be proud, right now, and you’d want to know that.”

“I’m likely to get killed and end the bloodline.”

“Perhaps.”

They remained silent, Seraphin’s hand caressing the top of the case. Alex was right. The entire Holt ancestry was watching, and Seraphin was convinced each one of them would be proud. The thought calmed him, soothed some of his grief. If he could do this for them—put this one bullet in General Vermen—then perhaps he would have earned his place.

“Thanks, Alex,” he said. “I’d like to be alone.”

His friend squeezed his shoulder, then left without a word. Seraphin breathed deeply, taking in the scent of lilies again. Slowly, Seraphin undid the clips on the case. The lid sighed as he opened it. Inside, the family’s old flint-and-lock pistol was displayed on rich red velvet. The old weapon had been passed from one generation to the next, as much a family heirloom as any
skeptar
. Unlike his father, Seraphin intended to use it.

He pulled up his sleeve again and undid the knot holding his
skeptar.
Seraphin unwrapped the string with care and reverence, then reached for the pistol. The bone handle was smooth beneath his trembling fingers. These were the only links to his ancestors. He didn’t want to lose either of them. Seraphin took the precious red string and tied one end near the trigger. The knot in his throat unwound as he wrapped the rest of the
skeptar
around the handle. His hands steadied. When he finally pulled that trigger, the braid would be itchy under his palms. His ancestors would be right with him.

With renewed determination, Seraphin removed the holster from the case, straightened up to tie it around his waist, and slid the pistol in it. The added weight was both strange and comforting. Everything about this felt right. A strange calm sunk into Seraphin, down to his bones, and he left the bedroom.

Alex had grown jittery. They spun to face Seraphin as soon as he left the room, wringing their hands. Seraphin met their gaze and managed a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine. Whatever happens.”

Doubt was written all over Alex’s expression, but they nodded. “I want to do more for you.”

“You came here. That’s … already a lot.” Alex was not only alive, but they had waited for him. They had come to the house on the off chance Seraphin would do the same, just to be there for him.

“If there’s anything else you need, tell me.”

Alex hadn’t hesitated at all. They stared at him with the defiant expression that said they would brook no refusal. Seraphin forced himself to think of the future, to imagine what might happen
after
tonight. It proved a difficult exercise.

“Pack supplies for me,” he said at last. “Food, changes of clothes, a rechargeable heater. Anything I might need to survive on my own. Bring them to my tree. I’ll be along to pick them up as soon as possible.”

“Understood.”

Neither of them said a word about his chances of survival. Seraphin drew his old friend into a final hug. This might very well be the last time he held anyone, and Seraphin clung to this miniscule parcel of human warmth.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For everything.”

Then he willed himself out of Alex’s arms, and into the chill autumn night.

*

The sky was lengthening into a prey-dawn gray by the time Seraphin made it back to the perimeter of the Union’s encampment. Though he hadn’t slept at all, he had never felt more awake. Birds had started singing to one another, leaves brushed against his skin, and the cold wind gave him goosebumps. The weight at his waist served as a reminder of his mission. It would be over soon, one way or another.

Crashes through the undergrowth warned him of an approaching soldier. Seraphin bit back a swear, spotted a low hanging branch, and scrambled up the large pine tree. He crouched amidst the needles, coaching his short breath into the most discreet pant he could. As Seraphin’s fingers tightened around the branch, Stern walked right under him. He strode without care for the plants he crushed, his shoulders hunched, his hands in tight fists. His lips were pressed in a tight, alarmed line. Seraphin hesitated, then remembered how Stern had helped him stay on his feet as the pub burned down.

“Stern!” He called out in a low whisper, before dropping from his tree. “Is something wrong?”

His friend jumped a little when he heard his name, but surprise never lasted with Stern. He straightened up and recovered his seriousness quickly. “They are looking for you.”

Seraphin’s hand went to his new pistol. For a brief moment, Stern’s eyebrows shot up. Then he frowned—the concerned expression of a worried friend. Seraphin wondered how much he’d guessed, and if he was going to try to convince him otherwise.

“General Vermen wants to speak with you,” Stern said. “You won’t have another chance.”

“I won’t need one.”

Stern nodded, then shoved his hands into his pockets. He came out with an impressive amount of bills, which he extended to Seraphin. The Regarian didn’t reach for them. What was Stern thinking?

“You’re not likely to see that money again.”

Stern met his gaze. “Let’s just say I decided to bet on you. This is my money. Take it, you’ll need it more than me.”

The little reference made Seraphin smile. He hesitated a moment longer, but Stern had a point. He accepted the money and shoved it in his pocket. He considered asking Stern to follow him. Even if he did escape, he would have the army at his heels. Trustworthy friends like Stern and Alex would be worth a thousand times the money Stern just gave him. But this was his duty alone. He couldn’t ask such a thing from Stern—the man was too likely to agree and follow him into almost certain death.

“Thank you,” Seraphin said. “I won’t forget.”

“Don’t. What I saw last night … it wasn’t a fight. It was a massacre. I will pray for your bullet to hit its mark. We know it’ll be well deserved. I’ll stick to the army for now to see how it shakes out, but if you ever need a friend, you can count on me.” Stern extended a hand, which Seraphin shook with firm pleasure. “Good luck.”

“I’m going to need all the protection my ancestors can provide,” Seraphin said. “Stay on alert, soldier, because I heard one of those traitorous Regarians was about to cause a commotion.”

Stern snickered, gave a quick pat to his shoulders, then stepped back. “Looking forward to it.”

After a quick nod, Stern continued on his way. Dawn’s gray light framed his silhouette as he disappeared between the trunks. It was strange, how fast he’d come to rely on the other soldier. Seraphin had come to expect the same unwavering support Alex would’ve given, and to his surprise Stern had never disappointed. The young Regarian never understood how he’d gained such loyalty. As Seraphin made his way towards the encampment, his friend’s offer remained at the back of his mind. He hoped he’d live long enough to ask for help again.

For now, however, General Klaus Vermen waited for him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Seraphin’s passage never went unnoticed, but the amount of stares he garnered as he walked into their camp disturbed him. The rumor must have spread that General Vermen had sent for him, and Seraphin was nowhere to be found. He was glad most soldiers were still either asleep or in a drunken stupor. Those left whispered to one another without care for being noticed. Seraphin had no trouble imagining the suppositions. He was the squad’s only Regarian and he had vanished for a night. Seraphin held his chin up, striding with forced pride as he approached the large command tent. The sun had just peeked over the horizon. It reflected against the small row of army bikes, throwing blinding light into Seraphin’s sensitive eyes. When he reached the tent, Seraphin lifted his glasses to wipe the tears out of his eyes, then took a deep breath. He might have to be quick about his business, depending on the general’s mood. The Regarian touched his
skeptar
, then pushed the tent flap aside with renewed determination.

The general sat behind his desk, relaxed. A large map of Regaria was spread on the desk’s surface, but dozens of papers masked most of it. Vermen was studying one of them. When Seraphin stepped in, he looked up and smiled.

“The Regarian rat has returned,” he said. “Did you believe no one would notice if you slipped away to sell information to your little friends?”

Seraphin stiffened. Not that it bothered him to be called a traitor—not with what he was about to do—but Vermen might be wary of him. Except the general then laughed and relaxed into his chair. If he realized he was in danger, he didn’t show it. He snatched one of the sheets of paper on his desk and showed it to Seraphin. The Regarian couldn’t read it at this distance, but that was a perfect excuse to step closer.

“This is a list of Iswood’s residents, with notes about those likely to be part of the resistance movement.” General Vermen had the same cruel smile as the previous night. Angry bile roiled in Seraphin’s stomach. “You never told me Holt was such a common family name in northern Regaria.”

“It’s not.”

The general tilted his head to the side. His eyes narrowed, but his smile remained. He had to know, Seraphin thought. Vermen was playing with him, mocking him.

“It’s on my list. Three times.”

Damian. Helen. Leanna. His name should’ve appeared next to them. He should never have left. Seraphin lifted his chin, met the general’s dark eyes. Did Vermen not understand at all what Seraphin had come to do? Was the idea anyone would dare so far-fetched?

“They were my family. I am the only son.”

His rock-hard tone tipped General Vermen at last. The officer’s eyes widened and he jumped from his chair. Seraphin brought the pistol out in one smooth movement and pointed it at his head. He was just a few feet away. Too close to miss.

“You wondered about my aim,” he said.

Vermen’s cruel smile turned into a grimace of outrage. He glared at Seraphin, his cheeks flushed red, his fingers crumpling the list. The Regarian took another step forward. The
skeptar
prickled his skin. His heart beat so loudly he was certain Vermen would hear it, too.

“My only regret is that I won’t get to watch your execution,” General Vermen said. “You won’t escape.”

“Then I, at least, will die without regrets.”

That was a lie. There was so much Seraphin wished he’d done, or hadn’t done. So much he wanted a chance to do. But this needed to be done. This bullet was for his father and mother, for all of their ancestors, and for Leanna. Even wide awake, staring at the general, Seraphin could see the moment her skull had shattered under a bullet. He was willing to die for the opportunity to put General Vermen through the same.

“At least have the decency to look into my eyes when you pull the trigger, boy.”

Their gazes locked together. There was a challenge in Vermen’s dark eyes.
You can’t do it,
they said.
Not the coward who’d watched his family die.
Anger wasn’t always enough to shoot another. It took a special kind of courage to end a man’s life and watch the light go from his eyes. The inhuman, hollow kind.

Seraphin could be inhuman and hollow.

His ancestors were with him, in the string against his palm. His hand remained steady. Vermen’s pupils dilated with surprise as Seraphin squeezed the trigger.

The pistol kicked and the stench of burned gunpowder nearly choked him. Blood and brain spattered the tent as the general fell. The desk hid most of the corpse, with his black boots sticking out on one side. Seraphin stared at the pattern on the wall, ears ringing. To the end, there had been no fear in General Klaus Vermen. He had died ruthless and angry, as he’d lived. Seraphin exhaled, relief supplanting the shock and disgust. His family was avenged. He could wear his
skeptar
with pride until the day he died.

Which might not be all that far away.

Someone yelled in the sleepy encampment outside, then the alarm blared. Seraphin shoved the pistol back into its holster and sprinted out of the tent. He had to get out now, before they understood what had happened. Seraphin thanked his ancestors for the drunken celebrations of the previous night as he scanned his surroundings for the best route. Soldiers were rising, confused and scrambling.

The glare of sun reflecting on metal blinded him as he searched, drawing a hiss of pain from Seraphin. He wiped his eyes, then the cause of this painful light crossed his mind. The motorcycles! Army bikes, unused and fully charged, waiting for him.

The Regarian dashed in their direction, squinting in an attempt to protect his eyes. Tears blurred his vision but he pushed forward. Not a single guard protected the vehicles. Seraphin vaulted over the fence protecting them, landing in a stumble and almost falling to the ground. Adrenaline was keeping him moving, but he could feel the fatigue in his muscles. Not enough sleep. He climbed on top of the motorcycle just as he heard the first soldier shout his name. The keys were still in it. Seraphin let out a short, almost hysterical laugh. His ancestors were watching over him.

He kickstarted the engine as soldiers gathered behind him, a fair distance from the fence, forming a line. Sergeant Dresden was with them. “Take that bike down, and Holt with it if you must!”

The first shots rang out as he drove back, away from the motorcycles. One caught the fence, another whizzed past his head. The others were so wide Seraphin suspected the soldiers’ hangover affected their aim. His grip tightened and he hunched closer to the handles. The moment he was out of the bikes’ lane and facing the road, he pressed the accelerator hard. Sparks came out of the bike at the sudden demand, and it jumped a little, but then he was off, the engine whirring under him.