Reborn (Alpha's Claim Book 3) (11 page)

The woman shot one final time, the bleeding man took one to the chest, and she lowered her weapon.

Visibly shaken, far more frightened than he was, the lady offered, “Why don’t you step inside for a minute. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

She’d just saved his life. It was the best damn tea he’d ever drunk.

He learned her name was Margery, that all her family had died or gone missing as the occupation continued. She and several of her friends had taken refuge together in that apartment—safety in numbers—until those numbers started diminishing too. Being over sixty and a single woman in Thólos was a death sentence... she’d begun to despair, until she found faith in herself.

The woman reached into a pocket of her coat and pulled out something Corday had seen before, something almost everyone in the city still whispered about: Claire’s flyer.

“If she can stand up, so can I.” The way her gnarled fingers brushed the photo spoke of reverence. It spoke of pity and compassion—something Corday had not seen amongst the mustering rebel forces. No, they were hard; they had to be to have chosen to make themselves living weapons to serve the
greater good
.

Looking at Claire’s picture was like a knife in the heart. Brown eyes shining with pain, he glanced away from the paper. “Claire was my friend.”

“She’s my friend too.” Margery said, that same trembling hand reaching forward to pat Corday’s hand. “Though I have never met her.”

It seemed Claire had gotten her last wish; some part of Thólos had become inspired. And because of it, one old woman had just saved his life.

Claire O’Donnell was right.

Corday sat there like a dunce, worrying the ring on his finger as he talked about his time with the missing Omega. He let Margery fuss over him until the adrenaline wore off and her hands stopped shaking. He told her everything he could remember about his friend.

His supplies were gone, hers were meager, yet she packed him a bag of food anyway.

“There are more of us, you know,” Margery offered, “passing around the flyer. We help each other.” She gave him a fresh copy of Claire’s picture, held out the food, as if she could draw him to the cause.” Rheumy eyes shone bright as she smiled. “We have to help each other.”

Reluctantly, he took her scant offering, certain it would do harm to the woman’s morale if he did not let her do her part.

He was hours late by the time he returned to base, hours Corday had spent regathering the supplies Leslie Kantor needed, but he was not going to skulk in.

“Leslie,” Corday called to the woman walking down the polished marble lobby of the Premier’s mansion.

Her head was bent over a COMscreen, the Alpha female busy passing a litany of orders to the men following at her heels. Hearing someone use her name, glancing up to see one of the few who would presume to address Lady Kantor familiarly, she smiled.

Stopping in her tracks, she asked those circling to give her a minute. “Dear Corday, I have been worried.”

China blue eyes got one glimpse of his face and she reached out cold fingers to trace the growing bruise. Despite the others nearby, Leslie took his hand, led him to a place where they both might sit. “What happened?”

“I was jumped by some thugs. They are all dead.”

Her agitation was replaced with an expression of approval. “Well done. And to cheer you up, let me share fresh news of your Claire.”

That was the last thing Corday had anticipated to hear. He forgot the pain in his jaw, far too focused on listening to anything relevant Leslie might know.

“The maps you analyzed, I have looked them over, as have the team chosen to free her. Based on food delivery locations, we don’t believe she is in the Citadel proper,” Leslie brought forward her COMscreen, pointing to a far corner of a schematic, “but here.”

The place she pointed to was the top floor accommodations of a neighboring structure suspected to serve as barracks and training rooms to several of Shepherd’s newer recruits.

“The food Shepherd has delivered here is of a finer quality than the rations sent to his Followers.” The brunette was beautiful, she was charming, and she smiled at him as if the world were wonderful only because he existed. “Women’s clothing was also seen being delivered. There is a room near the top, a window overlooking the land outside the Dome. This is where he keeps her.”

Shepherd kept her underground, in his den where none could see her, not in some lavish apartment with sunshine and views. Claire had told Corday those facts herself. Leslie was wrong, or lying. That didn’t stop him from vocally taking her side. “I knew you’d find her.”

“In five days, you’ll have your Omega back.”

There was something in between her wonderful news that sent a chill down Corday’s spine. He said what he knew Leslie wanted to hear. “If she is not in the Citadel, then in five days, I won’t be breaking my oath to her. She can be collected later. The freedom of our people is paramount. Your uncle tasked me with your protection. Only you can save us. I choose to follow you into battle.”

Lady Kantor threw her arms around Corday, hugging him hard. It all felt so staged, nothing like the warmth that he’d found in Claire’s embrace.

It felt as cold as the air outside the Dome.

Five days were left before Shepherd would face the fire. The Citadel would be burned to ash, a great many citizens’ lives lost while they huddled in homes crushed by falling debris. Buildings would collapse, panic would ensue. The survivors would have to take responsibility for rebuilding their future together or they would freeze and starve.

The woman standing elegantly before him, the way she spoke of sacrifice, saw in herself only a hero. The surviving masses would cheer her, a savior who led them out of the dark. Little would they understand, Leslie’s plan may very well doom the Dome. The culpability was his, as were the lies, the desperation.

Enforcer Samuel Corday would be remembered as a monster, and he knew it. He was going to assassinate the woman he smiled at; he was going to allow her to carry out her plan.

There were no other options.

Lady Kantor’s rebels remained on a tight schedule, the last bombs being assembled that very morning. In forty-eight hours they would be strapped to the bodies of twelve of the
chosen
, and then an attack organized to exacting detail would be unleashed in the midst of the afternoon—right when the Citadel was most crowded, when the causeways were full, when the highest probability of casualties would be likely.

Shepherd was going to die in those first fiery seconds, a great deal of his men were going to die.

Anyone within the blast radius was going to die.

There were not enough medics under the Dome to save even a portion of the civilians who would be wounded. And while their people suffered, armed rebels would be climbing over their charred bodies, bringing war upon all Followers yet unclaimed by the flames.

When their embrace ended, Corday took Lady Kantor’s hand, made a point of doing so before the rebels gathered in the halls. He smiled his lopsided grin and thanked her. “To your victory.”

Leslie placed her other hand atop his, wrapping his fingers in her hold. “To
our
victory, dear friend.”

“For a man who is supposed to be some kind of scary soldier, you certainly fidget a lot when posing,” Claire complained, dipping the brush in blue.

“I have better things to do, Miss O’Donnell, than stand around so that I can amuse you.”

She could not stop her snicker at Jules’s petulance. He hated every moment of her painting him, yet submitted to having her do it when asked... which meant the Beta had his own agenda. Looking up from the half-finished work, Claire looked to those unfeeling, but vibrantly colored, blue eyes.

Lifeless was easy to paint.

She translated what she saw, the scruffy quality of the man, the air of danger. “Are you going to tell me why you are allowing this? Or am I supposed to guess?”

The man had always been painfully blunt with her. “I wanted to observe the change in you.”

“And measure it?” Claire asked, cocking a brow just to be bitchy. “Do you find me lacking?”

“I always do.”

She chuckled again, peeking up to meet his eye. “I take that as a compliment.”

The Beta stood a distance away, at attention, stiff yet twitchy... and glaring at her in that way he did. “You need to progress more. You need to accept what’s in front of you.”

The painting’s final touches were rendered, Claire squinting at her project, looking for flaws. “If I was to tell you how much I hate your enigmatic bullshit, would you believe me?”

“Thólos, Miss O’Donnell.” The man grunted. “You can’t save Thólos.”

“I don’t want to save Thólos.” Setting the brush aside, she gave him a long look. “I want Thólos to save itself.”

“And there is that clever brain I keep hearing about,” the man snorted, rolling his eyes.

“For my only friend down in this prison, you’re kind of an ass.”

“I am not your friend.”

“Yes, you are.” She turned the painting towards him and watched his eyes flick down momentarily to appraise it. “I doubt you intended to be, but you are.”

Jules always sounded so unamused, leveling that dead-eyed gaze at her. “You made me look different.”

At his words, Claire burst out laughing.

Pushing the painting towards him, she mused, “I wonder if all of you see yourselves in some distorted way. This is what you look like, Jules.”

Pinching the parchment between his fingers as if he found it distasteful, Jules lifted the painting and frowned at it. “I want to see your other work.”

“Even the paintings of Shepherd?”

“There are more than one?” It almost seemed as if he cocked a brow, but there was no movement on his face.

For some reason the question embarrassed her and color flamed in her cheeks. Claire didn’t answer. She reached for her stack of paintings and leafed through them, removing several and setting them aside before placing the bunch before the Beta.

Unsmiling, he set his wet portrait down and began working through her collection, her images of Thólos, the nightmares she’d seen all there for him to examine as he flipped through the pages. Some paintings she could see were meaningless, boring to him. Some he stared at a little longer. There was no comment made until he reached the picture of Corday making eggs in his kitchen. “You should not have painted his rival.”

“Corday is not Shepherd’s rival. Corday is my friend.”

Flatly, Jules claimed, “Not anymore. Svana has him now. She’s turned him against you.” Those demonic blue eyes gauged her reaction. “It wasn’t hard.”

Of course she had. Leslie Kantor would have locked right on to him.

“You already knew...” For just a flicker of a second, Jules appeared intrigued.

Claire still had something to hold on to—something important the Follower discounted. In every photo she had seen, Corday still wore her ring. Whatever Jules, Svana, or Shepherd believed was not the total truth. So long as Corday wore that ring, he still had faith in their shared belief.

That was all that mattered...

A curve came to the corner of the man’s mouth. “Do you still think I am your friend?”

Face bloodless, Claire looked up from where her eyes had been boring a hole in the table. Leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest, Claire countered, “And the Omegas? How have they been corrupted?”

“Do not worry on their account.” He set down her paintings. “They are still cossetted and well-fed.”

“And Maryanne?”

The jerk took a grape from the lunch tray Claire had yet to touch, popping it in his mouth. “Will get herself killed eventually. Nothing anyone can do about that.”

Claire growled, menacing and angry. “If you eat one more grape off that tray, I will stab you in the eye with this paintbrush.”

Jules actually laughed, every aspect of his face coming alive. But the burst was hoarse and almost unnatural, a long unused reaction that ended almost before it began. But a smirk remained. “During training I have seen the scratches and the claiming mark on Shepherd. You are quite a possessive little Omega.”