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  Her hand moved to the pistol strapped to her thigh. Its weight was reassuring. In the distance, a big cat yowled. The hair on her neck prickled. She glanced back at Raphael to make sure he was still there. He was, but his expression remained deceptively placid. So either he hadn’t heard the cat or he wasn’t bothered by its presence.

  Fine, two could play that game. Chaos straightened her pack and kept her hand on her weapon as she scanned the area around them. She wasn’t afraid of any animal. Even one that might turn out to be four feet high and five hundred pounds.

  The lights from the checkpoint were a dim memory glittering in the distance. If a predator lurked behind a dune there was no way they’d make it back to the gates before it attacked. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. No reason to be concerned. It was more afraid of them than they were of it.

  Raphael touched Chaos and she jumped, letting out a startled yelp.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “You didn’t,” she shot back. “Now what do you want?”

  His lip canted, but he didn’t contradict her. “I wanted to tell you that the cat we heard earlier is stalking us from the west.”

  Chaos spun around so fast the weight of her pack teetered, sending her crashing into the dune. She struggled out of the straps and came up with her pistol in her hand. “Where? Do you see it?” She tried to look everywhere at once.

  Raphael started laughing and couldn’t seem to stop. His shoulders shook and he clutched his flat abdomen.

  “What’s so funny?” Chaos glared at him, giving Raphael her best withering glance.

  “You,” he said, pressing his lips together, trying to keep from laughing again. He didn’t succeed.

  Chaos brushed her clothes off. “You said a cat was stalking us. I don’t think that’s a laughing matter.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “You should’ve seen yourself, jerking your gun this way and that way. I’m lucky you didn’t shoot me.”

  “I wanted to be ready,” she ground out through clenched teeth.

  “It would help if you were facing the right direction,” he said, casually pointing to a spot over her shoulder.

  Chaos turned and searched the darkness for movement.

  “You need not worry,” Raphael said. His lips brushed her ear, sending goosebumps down her spine.

  Chaos hadn’t even heard him move, his footfalls were so silent. Like the cat that was determined to have them as a meal.

  “I will not let the feline touch you. You are mine—to eat.”

  Heat flooded Chaos’ face as his words singed the panic out of her mind. She shivered and swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his black gaze. He was smiling at her, his white teeth glowing in the darkness. At that moment, she didn’t know which was the more dangerous predator, the cat or Raphael.

  “Don’t make me shoot you,” she warned. “I only agreed to allow you to tag along because you said we were headed in the same direction. At least for a while. I can easily change my mind and send you on your way.”

  Raphael snorted, but quickly covered it with a cough. “Whatever you say.”

  “Let’s get moving,” Chaos said, lifting her pack from the sand dune and brushing it off. “I don’t want the cat to get any closer. I’d hate to have to kill it.”

  “You are absolutely right.” Raphael dropped his pack and raced to the top of a nearby dune so quickly she barely tracked his movements. When he reached the top, he slowly turned his head to the west. When he spotted his target, he stopped. A rumble rose from inside of him, building in ferocity. When he released it, the sound came out as a primal roar.

  Chaos heard a feline’s answering snarl closer than she would’ve cared for it to be. Raphael spread his arms wide and hissed, exposing long, sharp fangs. There was another growl, but this one seemed less sure than the previous one.

  The cat was having second thoughts about attacking. Hell, she was having second thoughts. Raphael roared again and strode off in the direction the snarl had come from. Chaos frowned. What was he doing now? Surely he wasn’t crazy enough to confront the animal unarmed.

  He disappeared into the darkness. Chaos listened carefully, but couldn’t hear much over the pounding of her heart. She charged her weapon with the press of her thumb.

  “Raphael?” she called out.

  He didn’t answer.

  Chaos dropped her pack and climbed to the top of the dune. It was so dark that she could barely see her hand in front of her face. Damn him. Where had he gone? The thought that the cat might have gotten to him and drug him off stilled her movements. The disturbing image was followed by a wave of sadness that nearly upended her.

  “Raphael, this isn’t funny. Where are you?” she said in a hushed tone in case it decided to hunt her next.

  She squinted into the darkness as if that would somehow help. Chaos raised her pistol and pressed a tiny button on the side of the barrel. A night-vision scope popped into place. She put her eye up to it and slowly scanned the area.

  There was no movement or heat signature lingering anywhere. For a second, she couldn’t breathe. Her hand went to her chest as she tried to calm down. What if something had happened to him? What if she never saw him again? Panic and something akin to fear overwhelmed her.

  “Where are you damn it?” Her voice broke. She swallowed back the sudden grief.

  “It’s nice to know you missed me.”

  The whisper was so soft it barely registered. When Chaos did, anger flooded her. She spun around and slammed her tiny fist into his face. The punch must have caught him off guard because Raphael rocked back on his heels and fell onto the sand.

  Chaos bent over him, her finger jabbing him in his chest. “Don’t ever do that again. Do you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, ma petite.”

  Not even the blood on his lip could detract from the stupid grin he wore on his handsome face.

  “What are you smiling about?” Chaos shouted, getting madder by the second. She’d been so scared that she’d lost him it hadn’t crossed her mind that he might be playing with her.

  “You wouldn’t have hit me if you didn’t care.” He stood gracefully and brushed off his clothes.

  “You’re making too much out of it,” she said, hoping to misdirect him. “I just didn’t want to have to fill out a report listing cause of death.”

  “If you say so.” The smile refused to leave Raphael’s face. He knew the truth. In a flash of anger, she’d as good as shouted her feelings for him.

  “I swear.” Chaos growled, her fists clenching at her sides. “If the cat doesn’t get you next time, I will.”

  chapter eleven

  T

  he sun had drained Michael more than he realized. Somehow he’d lost a day, sleeping in the half-shadow of the rock. Without the sunlight, he could move more quickly. Not that the sand sucking at his shoes helped. He’d emptied them twice already, but had finally given up on ever getting the tiny granules out of his socks.

  A slight breeze picked up from the south. It wasn’t cool, but it did relieve the stifling heat that still air created. Michael moved steadily, trying to sense Red and Morgan. He hadn’t picked up their scent, but was convinced they’d come this way.

  Going to either coast was useless. Nothing survived near the poisoned seas. The boundary fence lay to the north, which left only one direction: south. Roark was convinced they’d gone to no-man’s-land. Their desperation was even greater than Michael’s if they had.

  Deciding to give it a few more days, he trudged on. Michael scanned the dunes for any sign of life. Nothing moved but the sand, forever shifting and reshaping, erasing all trace of those who dared tread upon it. Seas of beige cascading waves, tumbling, tumbling down.

  A mile farther Michael came upon a pack of wild dogs eating what appeared to be a small deer. It was only when he got closer that Michael realized it was a child, not a doe, wrapped in brown clothing, its tiny limbs
ripped from its body and spread across the desert floor.

  His senses went into overdrive. If a child was here, then that meant people couldn’t be far off. Michael picked up his pace, the thought of fresh blood driving him. Licking his dry lips, he skirted by the ravenous pack. If the kill hadn’t been old, he would’ve joined in on the feast or taken it from them. Nothing like a feeding frenzy to remind him that he was alive.

  It took another four and a half hours, but eventually Michael stumbled upon what looked to be a nomadic settlement—tents huddled in the middle of a rise surrounded by a flaming moat. There was one walkway that led in, but Michael was sure there had to be another. No one was stupid enough to trap themselves without the possibility of escape, especially people living in no-man’s-land.

  Dropping to the sand, he began to belly-crawl forward. People were rushing from place to place within the compound, their movements frenzied. Had they been recently attacked? He thought of the dead child lying in pieces. Tension gripped him as he inhaled deeply. The last thing Michael needed was to be caught off guard by an unseen enemy.

  A flash of movement to his right had his head turning. The shadow disappeared before he could get a good look at it. Not now. Michael slammed his eyes closed, squeezing until the lids hurt. The pain helped him focus. Reminded him of who he used to be.

  “Go away,” he hissed under his breath. Michael’s head began to throb and he felt movement under his skull once again. The chip was burrowing deeper. An impossibility, so it had to be his imagination.

  A shock zapped him, painfully contorting his muscles. Michael gasped. Roark was nowhere near. He would’ve sensed him. That meant the chip had acted on its own. It took Michael a moment to digest the gravity of the situation. He didn’t like the conclusion he came to. What had Roark done to him?

  Michael watched the shadows retreat, but how long they’d stay gone was anyone’s guess. Shaken, he started forward again, dropping lower in the sand. The gentle shoosh as his clothes brushed the grains would be lost to human ears. He didn’t want them to see him before he was ready. He licked his chapped lips. So thirsty. The raw ache for blood burned his insides, demanding to be filled.

  Guards flanked the encampment, their eyes alert, almost fevered. The faint coppery scent of blood tickled Michael’s nose, teasing him with the promise of sustenance. The blood was old, but Michael’s body didn’t care. His stomach growled loud enough for the guards to notice. They both turned, weapons raised.

  “Come out,” the one nearest him shouted, unable to pinpoint his exact location.

  Michael considered not complying for a moment, then slowly rose to his feet, putting his hands in the air. It was all for show of course. He could kill them both in a blink and not strain a muscle. The chip in his brain flared at the thought, flooding his body with endorphins, encouraging him to act on the impulse. Michael fought the urge and a wave a pain swiftly followed. He gulped in air and staggered forward.

  “I’m unarmed,” he said. It was the truth and a lie, since Michael had dropped his assassination kit on the ground where he’d been hiding moments ago. The real weapon lay within him dormant, but ready for use at a moment’s notice. It was the reason he’d survived for so many years. The reason Michael had found his brother, Raphael. And the reason Roark had him chipped.

  “Come forward and don’t try anything or we’ll shoot,” the guard shouted. That wouldn’t happen, since Michael was quite capable of stopping a bullet.

  He did as the guard asked because it suited his purpose. Michael needed to find out whether Red and Morgan had passed this way. The only way to do that was to get closer.

  “Do you have any water?” Michael asked. “I ran out an hour ago.” It wasn’t water he needed, but he figured they’d be far more accommodating than if he’d asked for their blood.

  “Keep your hands where we can see them,” the guard said, not answering.

  Michael walked across the small entryway while flames licked at his flesh from both sides. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Unusual, but not unheard of for his kind. The fire crackled, fed by some kind of liquid fuel and rags.

  “I could really use your help,” Michael said, repeating his request for water. His meek act slipped easily onto his narrow shoulders. Once again he became Michael Travers, lowly assistant.

  One of the guards nodded to a woman, who placed a canister of some sort on a table. She pointed to it and then stepped away.

  “Thank you,” Michael said, reaching for it. The water burned his raw throat, causing him to choke. He wasn’t even sure it was solely water, but at least it was wet. Michael put it down and took a couple of deep breaths, while forcing himself to remain as unthreatening as possible. It wasn’t hard. He was not a big man. Despite the changes in him, Michael had small hands and delicate features. Most people didn’t see him as dangerous until he killed them. It was one of the many reasons he was such a good assassin. Michael took another drink of water. This time it soothed.

  The guard stepped forward when Michael finished, weapon raised. “State your business.”

  Michael watched him, paying special attention to the slight tremor in his hands and the laser pistol strapped to his thigh. It looked new, unlike the weapon in his hands, which had seen better days. Despite the varnish, the wood of the rifle had rotted from age. The inside of the barrel looked clean, but rust dotted the outside in red freckles.

  “I told you. I ran out of supplies and need assistance,” he said.

  “You don’t look like a trader. Where did you come from?” the man asked.

  “The boundary fence.”

  “You’re registered?” He sounded surprised.

  “Yes.” Michael didn’t bother to ask him if he was since anyone living on this side of the fence had chosen not to or couldn’t afford the credits it took to go through the process. Michael turned his head to show the man where his chip was implanted.

  His brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why would so many Regs want to suddenly journey into no-man’s-land?”

  Michael arched a brow. Why indeed? He took another deep breath and caught a familiar scent. It was wild and feminine just like its owner. “Where is she?” he asked

  The guard stilled, his gaze growing wary. “Where’s who?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me,” Michael said, starting toward a tent not far from the table.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot,” the guard shouted, then fired. A blast landed near Michael’s feet.

  He stopped, anger and energy rising inside of him. “That was a mistake,” he said softly, turning to face the man. So softly Michael doubted he heard him.

  “The next shot will be in you,” the guard warned. His bravado was admirable, but it did little to wipe the stink of fear from his skin. The man knew now that he was staring at death.

  Michael watched the other guard off to the right raise his weapon. He was still a good distance away. Smart man. Too bad it wouldn’t help him.

  “The last man who pulled a gun on me didn’t live to take his next breath,” Michael said. The chip in his brain pulsed in approval. Suddenly the need to resist the impulse to kill didn’t seem all that important.

  “Huh?”

  Michael reached out with his mind to the nearest guard and yanked the gun from him, tossing it into the fire beyond. The man stood dumbfounded, gawking at his empty hands. Before the other guard in the distance registered what had happened, Michael mentally grabbed his weapon and slowly turned the muzzle on him. It became a battle of wills. Michael’s was stronger. When the muzzle rested against his chest, Michael blinked and the gun fired, sending a loud crack rumbling thro ugh the air.

  Screams filled the night as people ran out of their tents and lean-tos, weapons drawn.

  Michael became a killing machine, disarming them all at once. He smashed their bones and piled the bodies up near the fire like human kindling. The physical drain was immense. Michael’s power weakened, but no one seemed to notice. When there were only two people l
eft, the first guard and a woman, he stopped his rampage. Once again the chip in his brain flooded his body with endorphins. A reward for a job well done.

  “Now, I’m going to ask you again. Where is she?”

  The woman whimpered. Tears streaked down her grit-covered face, leaving clean trails behind. She glanced at the corpses of her people. “They killed Gray and left,” she said.

  The man shot her a censorious look meant to silence her, but the woman was too far gone to notice.

  “Where did they go?” Michael asked, barely containing the urge to taste her throat.

  “Southwest,” she said, then dropped to the ground and started rocking.

  “You come here.” Michael summoned the guard.

  The man shook his head. Defiant to the end. “Go to hell,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

  “I’m not going to ask you again.” Michael raised his arm, directing his telekinetic power toward the guard. The man’s feet left the ground and he began to float toward him. Michael’s power faltered and the man’s toes dug into the sand.

  The guard shrieked, the fear inside of him exploding like a cork under too much pressure. He struggled against Michael’s mental bonds, but it did him no good. He may be weak from lack of blood, but he was still stronger than any being currently walking on the dead world.

  Michael set the man down in front of him and looked into his leathery face. His gray eyes were wide and he’d wet himself. The acrid odor of urine nearly overpowered the scent of blood coming from the bodies.

  “Bring me the canteen,” Michael said to the woman. For a second, she didn’t move. Her mind had created a safe haven for her to escape in.

  “I said bring me that canteen,” he repeated, but this time louder. Michael pointed to the object on the table.

  She blinked as if waking from a dream, then rose to do as he bade. The woman handed him the canteen, then quickly backed away. Her fingers shook violently as she plunged them into her pockets.

  “Thank you,” he said. Michael’s fangs lengthened in anticipation.