Winter's Storm: Retribution (Winter's Saga #2) (2 page)

The audience gasped in wild admiration.

Gavil glared up at his brother, spat phlegm into his face and rolled out from under his knee. He jumped to his feet and charged, head down shoving Creed against the wall and though it looked like a kind of brotherly embrace, there was nothing tender about this. Instead, there was something sinister about the way Gavil’s hand slipped to his boot.

Still locked together in a powerful struggle, Creed began punching his brother in the stomach. Each time, Gavil was lifted off the ground with the velocity of impact.

Audience members facing his back would later swear they saw it; just glints of light reflecting off a slice of metal that Gavil had retrieved from his boot. Angered murmurs rose in surprise and disapproval. Though they had been taught to feed off the weak, they had some semblance of warped integrity.

No one ever brought weapons to a Retribution Match. It was supposed to be hand-to-hand combat, to the death. Heck, even a monkey could be taught to use a weapon. Metas were different—above, more. And though bloody and vicious, their society was built on very strict rules of conduct.

Creed’s anger was ice as he punched his brother. Not even the sound of the crowd roaring with frenzied excitement reached Creed’s ears.

Then it happened.

Gavil pushed himself away from his brother just long enough to reposition the metal in his hand, and delivered a strategic and powerful punch into his brother’s kidney, burying the shard deep into the tender skin below the ribs.

Creed wailed in shock and anguish as Gavil continued to beat that same pierced spot with blow after blow. All the years of fury and hatred for his perfect little brother, his archrival, came spilling through clenched teeth as he hammered Creed cutting him deeper and deeper.

Creed slipped to the floor and curled into fetal position. Pain traced the lines of his face just as much from the metallic shard as from his brother’s vicious and absolute betrayal.

It was in that moment that everything became crisp and clear. The crowd roaring, the scent of his own blood—sweet and coppery, grainy dirt from the arena’s floor caking to his sweat soaked skin, a deep scuff on his brother’s black boot inches away from his face—everything. And in that moment Creed discovered something about himself.

He could separate himself from his pain.

As he lay there, he no longer felt the weapon embedded in his side. He didn’t feel winded or strained at all.

He felt—nothing.

As though he found a light switch in the dark, Creed simply reached out and turned off the pain.

Gavil was more interested in the crowd’s cheers than his dying brother, so he stood with his back to Creed, arms raised in triumph. It was only the gasps of the audience that made him turn to see his opponent coolly stand, and assume the ready, fighting position.

What the hell? Gavil’s mind screamed.

His eyes shot a look at his brother’s shirt and confirmed what he already knew: He stabbed his brother and beat the weapon into his skin. Blood soaked the entire side of his fatigues and even was seeping down to the waistline of his pants.

What the hell was going on? I won this fight! He shouldn’t be standing! Hell, he shouldn’t even be breathing!

“
You are no longer my brother, Gavil,” Creed growled softly enough to be heard only by his intended recipient.

Stunned silence was all Gavil could give in retort but it didn’t really matter, Creed was on him with the speed and determination of a panther on its prey.

The crowd seemed to have lost their thirst for blood as they sat in shocked silence watching the bloody figure of a meta delivering strike after furious strike.

Within seconds, Gavil was face down in the dirt, screaming as his arms were yanked impossibly back and behind him. Creed stood holding the helpless appendages and placed his foot strategically on his brother’s head. One stomp and Gavil’s neck would snap like a twig.

“
Finish him!” boomed a voice over the loud speaker. It was Commander Oldham. He ran the Facility with an iron fist. His word was law.

A hushed rumble radiated from the awestruck metahumans watching the drama unfold.

Creed didn’t move.

“
Creed Young, you know the rules. ‘Kill, or be killed!’ Finish him, now!”

With one quick motion, Creed let go of Gavil’s arms and stepped away.

“
No, sir!” His voice had no hint of fear or pain. Instead, there was strength and absolution. “I will not kill him, and he
cannot
kill me.”

The anxious audience waited to see what would happen next. This had never happened. Never had someone refused to finalize victory.

“
Guards, escort the Young brothers to detention immediately! They will be dealt with there.” Commander Oldham’s voice was full of anger. The spectators were very sure this was the last they would see of the two fighters.

Friendships were few and far between in the Facility, but Creed had a loyal following and many more who admired him from a distance. It was these metas who stood in the crowd and started clapping a slow and synchronized clap. Others joined in, until nearly the entire arena boomed in unison.

Six armed meta guards entered the arena. Two of them dragged Gavil’s limp, beaten body away, and the other four surrounded Creed motioning him to move. Creed glanced up at the crowd’s obvious display of support and allowed a quick smile. No matter what, he knew he’d done the right thing.

2 Consequences

He fully expected to be killed for his disobedience.

But he wasn’t.

Instead, he was taken to the Facility’s surgeons who tended to his injuries; the most serious was the damage to his kidney.

He vaguely remembered lying on the operating table and hearing the weapon clink into a metallic specimen bowl after the surgeon removed it from his kidney. He remembered wondering why they were bothering fixing him up if they were just going to kill him anyway.

Even as he lay in recovery, staring at the sterile white curtain surrounding his bed, he wondered about his fate. Not that he was scared. Not at all. Instead, he felt numb and distant. This was all feeling like it was happening to someone else and he was just standing in the back of the room aware of the events, but unaffected by them.

He remembered wondering if they had a medic taking care of Gavil, too. And if so, was he in a room nearby?

Or, and this thought made him want to vomit, had Gavil been killed? An anguished ball of emotion churned in the pit of his stomach at the thought. Had they just killed Gavil? Was he completely alone in the world now? Having a brother who hated him was better than not having a brother at all, wasn’t it?

Halfway through the second day in recovery, the flimsy white curtain encircling his bed was yanked back sharply. The sudden movement jolted Creed from his disconnected daze. Commander Oldham himself stood there staring with unconcealed hatred creasing his leathery face. He was there to deliver a message, he said.

The Director of the Facility, Dr. Kenneth Williams, was visiting from the Americas. He witnessed the match and wanted to have words with Creed. He was ordered to report to the Director’s office at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow. A car and an escort would retrieve him for the meeting.

Creed tried to ask about Gavil’s condition, but Commander Oldham, obviously disgusted to be in his presence, turned and walked out of the room as soon as he finished his message.

The next morning, at oh-seven-forty-five, Creed was dressed and waiting for his escort. Thankfully, the three days of recovery and his rapid metahuman healing had afforded him the ability to walk, though gingerly. He would be damned to show up to this meeting in a wheelchair.

There was an abrupt knock at his hospital room door. He remembered looking up just in time to see the door swinging open, and that’s when he saw her.

“
Creed Young?”

“
Yes, ma’am.”

“
I’m Farrow Schone, Dr. Williams’ personal assistant. I’ve been ordered to escort you to headquarters for your meeting.”

“
I won’t need that,” he said defiantly motioning toward the wheelchair she was pushing.

“
As you wish,” she responded coolly pushing the chair aside. “The car is waiting. Follow me.”

She walked like a soldier, but even with all her training and the unflattering fatigues, she couldn’t hide her definite femininity. Her dark hair was cut boyishly short, but her full lips and smattering of freckles across her nose screamed of beauty. She looked to be a little younger than himself, but it was hard to tell—she had an agelessness about her. Creed couldn’t remember seeing before. Inwardly, he shrugged. As the Director’s personal assistant, she probably didn’t mix with regular metas like him.

Creed noticed she discreetly slowed her pace for him.

Unusual, he thought to himself.

Metas, were trained not to be concerned for the weak or injured any more than necessary to complete their objective. That is, unless they had been trained to work as a team. In which case, the objective was to use every member as efficiently as possible. He was noticing the concern she showed was the kind usually reserved for a team member.

Curiosity got the best of him so he asked, “Why did the Director choose you to escort me?”

She stiffened a bit then just as quickly relaxed her shoulders. “Why wouldn’t he?”

Creed and Farrow walked in silence until arriving at the black car waiting curbside. The driver was standing beside the open door. Farrow climbed in the back seat and slid over to make room. Another courtesy he noticed while wincing with the effort to lower himself to the seat. He had to hold the frame of the door to maintain his balance. She was watching him carefully enough to see the pain flash across his face.

“
Recovery still takes time, even for a meta like you,” she whispered so the driver wouldn’t hear.

Still breathing hard from the pain, Creed shot back, “What do you mean, ‘like me?’”

Their eyes locked for a moment before the driver put the car in gear and began pulling away from the hospital. For the first time, he noticed her large doe eyes. The intensity of her observation made him feel a wave of dizziness he wanted to attribute to the overexertion. They turned away and stayed silent the rest of the short ride to headquarters.

The building, though only three stories tall, was meant to be impressive. Black granite with black windows and rounded edges gave a contrasting modern feel to the old European countryside on which it stood. Flags representing the country and the company whipped in the breeze to the right and left of the entrance.

A circled driveway left room for an artsy fountain in the center island. It showcased large, marbled, geometric shapes and coursing sheets of water slipping intentionally down at impossible angles until they disappeared under the pond at the base.

The driver pulled around the fountain and right up to the front. Farrow opened her door and walked around to help Creed out. Defiantly, he pushed opened the door himself and shot her a pale but determined glance as he slowly rose from the backseat. The driver nodded once to Farrow and pulled the car away from the building.

“
This way, please,” she said turning to walk toward the doors.

If it weren’t for the pain, these events would feel dreadfully surreal, dreamlike. Creed followed his escort and wondered what lay behind the black doors ahead.

When Creed stepped off the elevator on the third floor, an older man wearing a three-piece suit came rushing forward all smiles and handshakes to greet them. Unsure of whom this man was, Creed played along and let the stranger have his theatrics.

“
My dear boy, it is so good to see you up and around. I was just sure you wouldn’t be walking so soon after your injuries, but look at you! Here you are a striking example of what all metahumans should be! I’m impressed, Creed. Very impressed. And I’m not afraid to tell you I was very worried there for a while—the way that brother of yours attacked you with a weapon.”

The aging man shook his head and made tisk-ing sounds with his tongue as if reprimanding a child for getting caught with their hand in a cookie jar.

“
There are strict rules in those Retribution Matches. It was very unsportsmanlike behavior to have done what he did to you. And that he’s your brother, too!” The gentleman was still holding Creed’s hand as he spoke while gently leading him down the hallway.

“
Oh, my apologies, my dear Farrow,” he said looking back over his shoulder at the escort affectionately, “how rude of me. Thank you for retrieving our Creed. You’re free to go wait for us down in the lobby. I’ll have you called up when we’re done with our talk.” When he smiled, it looked like it hurt his face to make it twist up at the corners. Weird. Creed was getting a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach about this guy.

“
As you wish, Dr. Williams.” And with that, Farrow bowed slightly and walked backward a few steps before turning toward the elevators.

This guy was Dr. Williams? This small, fragile, unassuming weakling of an old man in this tailored civilian suit was the Director of this military-run facility crawling with the most highly trained and deadly soldiers in the world?