Ultraxenopia (Project W. A. R. Book 1) (10 page)

The frustration that takes
hold of me is overwhelming. I feel powerless—as if I’ve reached a dead end,
despite arriving exactly where I need to be.

Wrapping my hand around the
glass, I slowly lift it to my lips, taking a sip of the liquid as I stare off
into space, lost in thought. The taste that hits my tongue is unexpected. I
sputter and choke, coughing on the vile remnants of it lingering in my throat.
I cover my mouth in an effort to muffle the sound as my fingers shove the glass
away from me.

“It’s an acquired taste.”

I jump when I hear his
voice. I cast a cautious glance in his direction, and when our eyes meet, he
motions toward my glass with a single jerk of his head. I look at it,
embarrassed, but I can’t find the means to speak.

It abruptly dawns on me
that I’m not doing a very good job of blending in.

He pivots on his stool, and
I can feel his eyes on me like a fire against my skin. His gaze washes over me,
seeming to penetrate my very soul.

“You’re not from around
here,” he says. It’s not a question, but a statement. A statement I feel I
should dodge, at least for now.

“I’m here on business,” I
answer as casually as possible.

His eyes are piercing, and
the skepticism on his face is nearly as sharp in the musty silence. “Business?”
he asks. “There isn’t much business going down in Zone 7.”

I attempt to swallow the
lump growing in my throat. “Not even with PHOENIX?” I whisper.

His eyes enlarge, and I can
sense his alarm, even though he’s trying hard to suppress it. In all fairness,
his reaction could simply be shock at my bluntness toward a subject considered
by many to be taboo. I might even think that was the case if I didn’t already
know who he was.

Without warning, he leans
toward me, hovering over the stool sitting between us.

“I don’t know who you are,”
he mutters in a low voice. “But you won’t find anything involved with PHOENIX
here if
that’s
what you’re looking for.”

Our eyes remain locked, but
neither of us blink. I take a breath to brace myself, certain this is my only
chance.

The opportunity has
presented itself, and all I have to do is reach out and take it. “Then why are
you
here?”

I pause for a few seconds
to gauge his reaction. He shifts ever so slightly, clearly taken aback by the
implication behind my words.

When he doesn’t speak, I
say the one thing that I
know
will force his hand. “Ezra Laramie,” I
whisper.

He gapes at me, and I can
see the fear in his expression, as well as the confusion building behind it.
His eyes take me in, trying to make sense of who I am.

In one swift movement, he’s
on his feet, but oddly enough, he’s no longer looking at me. I follow his gaze,
and when my eyes land on his point of focus, I realize the unfortunate position
I’ve managed to put myself in. He’s staring at the white coat wrapped loosely
around me. Or to be more precise, at the insignia embroidered into the breast.

The insignia that
represents the DSD.

I hear a soft click, and
before I can even blink, I find a gun pointed at my face.

“Who are you?” he growls.

I slide off the stool,
landing unsteadily on my feet. I keep eye contact with him, careful not to make
any sudden movements. His anger visibly intensifies with each moment that
passes in silence, but I still don’t say anything. I
can’t
, even though
I know the clock is ticking. The time I have left to defend myself is running
out, and if the countdown reaches zero, I’ll be dead.

“Who are you?” he asks
again, shouting this time.

Now I notice the other
people in the bar. They’re all on their feet, watching our altercation, and it
doesn’t escape my notice that they all have guns. All of which are aimed at me.
Even the bartender produces a large weapon from beneath the counter.

It occurs to me that this
place must be a hot spot for PHOENIX members. Everyone in this room is either a
part of the group or a supporter of it.

“This isn’t how it looks,”
I stammer.

A sarcastic laugh explodes
from his lungs, echoing through the otherwise soundless bar.

“Really?” he asks.
“Because, from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re one of
them
.”

“I’m not,” I mutter weakly.

He pushes the barrel of the
gun against my temple, and our faces are so close now that I can feel his
heated breath against my lips.

“Why should I believe you?”

I tense my jaw, spitting my
next words through clenched teeth. “If I
was
one of them, they would
already be here,” I hiss back.

The State doesn’t play
games. He must know that better than anyone else. They wouldn’t waste time
sending in a single person when they could more efficiently get the job done by
sending a whole team. If I
was
one of them, the Enforcers would already
be here. The State wouldn’t bother with this game of charades.

His expression doesn’t
change, but I can see his true reaction in his gaze—the doubt that appears
there. He seems to grasp that what I’ve said makes sense, but at the same time,
he can’t wrap his head around any other reason why I’d be here.

He wavers, and I can feel
the point of his gun wobble uncertainly against my skin. His eyes remain fixed
on mine, making my heart race even faster. I only glance away when I notice a
movement to my right. I look up to see another man standing beside us.

“We can’t take any
chances,” the man grumbles before spitting on the floor in front of me. “We
should kill her to be sure.”

A deep-rooted panic washes
over me, the fear like a smoldering and inextinguishable ember. Despite
everything I’ve seen, I still have my doubts as to what’s really happening, and
I can’t help but worry that this won’t end well. How can it? I won’t even be
given the chance to defend myself.

He presses the gun even
harder against my forehead, causing me to suck in a sharp breath. Our eyes lock
once again.

“How do you know my name?”
he asks me.

I stare at him, trying to
figure out the best way to answer his question. His hazel eyes are probing, but
I find myself losing focus on his equally intense expression. His face has gone
hazy, the bar even darker. The nausea from before returns with a vengeance,
consuming my entire body and pressing down on me with a force that threatens to
pin me to the floor.

I sway, lightheaded.

A strange trickling
resonates around us, the sound unusually loud in the dangerously hushed bar. At
first, I think I’m imagining it, but then I see the alarming change in his
face.

His eyebrows pull together
as he looks down, and suddenly, he’s taking a reflexive step back. I follow his
gaze, my own vision doubling as I take in the tremendous pool of red that seems
to surround me.

I watch the blood as it
drips ominously from my open wrist, the bandage now entirely soaked and
useless.

His eyes snap back to mine,
and my every movement feels delayed as I glance up to meet them. The moment I
do, the images from my vision flash through my thoughts, reminding me why I’m
here.

I see his face. His hazel
eyes.

I see his tears.

“I’m sorry, Wynter.”

Any and all light that the
bar possessed is instantly gone, and the pain I had managed to forget hits me
all at once. I gaze at him, concentrating on his face as much as my increasing
blood loss will allow. Focusing on his eyes, which continue to stare back at
me.

My lips pull into a smile
as the darkness rushes to overcome me. “I saw
you
,” I breathe.

THE DARKNESS GRADUALLY BEGINS TO
recede, but the light doesn’t seem ready to welcome me just yet. Everything is
faint. Everything is blurred. I slowly open and close my eyes, trying to climb
my way out of unconsciousness. But it’s hard.

The pain is overwhelming,
centralized in the form of a horrible burning at my wrist. I can’t move. I can
barely think. My body is cold and covered in damp sweat. My entire head feels
as if it’s on fire. It pounds violently, keeping in time with every beat of my
racing heart.

I try to look around, but
all I can make out is a silhouette sitting beside me. I want to reach out to
it, but my arm feels heavy.

“Where am I?” I croak. My
voice sounds distant.

The silhouette leans toward
me, and I feel a gentle hand brush a strand of hair from my clammy cheek.

“Shh . . . you’re safe.” A
woman’s voice.

“Mother,” I whimper.
“Mother, is that you?”

I feel a stray tear dash
from my eye. I’m afraid, and despite everything that’s happened and everything
my mother has done, I want nothing more than to be in her arms. To feel her
reassuring embrace. To feel protected from everything that still threatens to
consume me.

Safe. This woman, whoever
she is, says that I’m
safe
. But how can I be? The State is after me,
along with the DSD, and now I have the added problem of PHOENIX thinking I’m
their enemy.

How can I ever possibly be
safe?

I’m suddenly reminded of
the events that transpired at
The Vega
. It’s all a bit unclear, shrouded
in the pain-filled fog of blood loss. But through it all, I remember one thing.

I see it now as if it’s
still happening before me.

His hazel eyes—the way they
bore into me.

The hatred there.

The distrust.

My eyes squeeze shut, but
more tears break through. I feel so alone—so separated from everything and
everyone around me.

“Mother,” I whimper again.
“Mother . . .”

I take comfort in the feel
of the stranger’s hand against my skin. Regardless of who she is, she’s
offering me the reassurance I need right now—even if I can’t fully comprehend
it in my current state. I don’t need to know why she’s doing this or even where
I am.

I just need not to feel so
alone.

All too quickly, that hand
is gone.

“What are you doing in
here?” A different voice now. A male voice.

“She needed medical
attention,” the woman answers.

Footsteps fall against what
sounds like concrete, bringing him closer to me.

“What she
needs
is to
wake up and answer our questions.”

“She’s not our enemy,
Ezra,” the woman mutters under her breath.

Silence for a moment. I can
sense a strange tension as it floods the room, even though I’m not conscious
enough to see it.

“How can you be so sure?”
he asks her.

Silence again. Then a heavy
sigh. “She cut the tracking chip out of her own wrist. Why would she do that?
Why would she risk her life if she was one of
them
?”

I’m not one of them,
I try to say. My voice
fails me.

“Maybe that’s what they
want us to think,” he grumbles. “Some elaborate ploy to gain our trust.”

No, that’s not true!

“Believe what you want,”
the woman growls back at him. “But I think she came to us because she needs our
help.”

He laughs—not in humor, but
in disbelief.

“What makes you think
that?” His voice is full of doubt.

“Look at her,” she begs.

An ominous hush fills the
room, and I feel her warm hand once again press against my face.

“I know I’m not a doctor,
but I know enough to see when something isn’t right. Look, she has track marks
up and down her arms. Someone’s done something to her. Trouble is . . . I can’t
figure out what.”

For another long moment,
neither of them say anything. I don’t try to speak either, knowing full well
that my voice won’t allow me to anyway. I wait, listening as intently as my
ears will allow.

“When will she wake up?” I
hear him say.

“Don’t know. She’s
delirious at the moment, running a high fever, and on top of all that, she’s
severely dehydrated. Not to mention, malnourished. Plus, there’s the risk of infection.”

She pauses, and I can hear
the rustle of movement as she shifts in her chair.

“I’m doing everything I
can,” she whispers. “But I’ll make sure you’re the first to know when she
does.”

It’s only now that I notice
the uncertainty in her voice.

She doesn’t think I’ll
survive.

Maybe it would be better if
I don’t,
I
tell myself.

A door slams shut, and my
eyes flutter open. However, the darkness has returned, pulling me under the
incoming wave of unconsciousness. I succumb to it, too tired and weak to fight
any longer.

I fall into its depths,
knowing full well that the feel of the woman’s hand is the one thing holding me
to this world.