Shatter the Darkness

HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2017

Copyright © Ingrid Seymour 2017

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Ingrid Seymour asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9780008113698

Version: 2017-07-25

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Epilogue

About the Author

Also by the same author

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

The Kevlar vest is tight and uncomfortable around my chest. I push it from the side, trying to find a perfect fit, wondering if I’ll ever get used to wearing it and, more importantly, if I’ll ever understand this new, vicious world in which my life hangs from a thread every time I take to the streets.

My black military boots thud against the concrete sidewalk as I move away from Pacific Place and Elliot Whitehouse’s headquarters. We haven’t moved, in spite of IgNiTe’s attack a month ago. We’re still in the same building. Moving would signify fear, and Elliot is too proud for that.

The late May sun warms my face, and it’s a welcomed feeling that shows me the world has kept its normal course in at least one way.

In the last month, many of the major streets have been cleared by the Eklyptor “government,” but not this one, which is exactly why I prefer it. I don’t have to walk among the invaders who pretend Seattle is theirs and us, humans, the vermin who infest it, and not the other way around. The biggest Eklyptors factions in the city, Whitehouse and Hailstone, are still not seeing eye to eye, but that hasn’t gotten in the way of their Takeover efforts, at least not nearly as much as I’d like. They have divided the city among themselves as if it were a big cake, and each is taking care of its slice diligently enough. Damn them!

I pass a burnt Metro Transit bus, its frame charred and many of its windows melted away by the intense fire that consumed it. Orange traffic cones and pedestrian safety fences lie strewn all over the street like forgotten relics from a faraway past. I skirt around them, then walk ahead, looking over my shoulder every few steps to make sure no one is following me.

My heart flutters, restless. I can’t wait to meet James and confirm he’s okay. I haven’t seen him since he took a bullet trying and failing to kill Whitehouse. He’s been too busy fighting other Eklyptor factions, and this is the first chance he’s gotten to meet me. A month ago when I last saw Aydan, he said James was recovering quickly thanks to his accelerated healing powers. Sometimes it pays to be a Symbiot. Still, I want to see him with my own two eyes.

With a certain skip in my steps, I cross 9th Avenue and continue down Pine Street. I’m eager to reach the van where I stash my motorcycle after each use. I’m dying to ride, to wrap my legs around the rumbling engine, and zip around the city streets on my way to hope.

That’s what IgNiTe, James and the crew are to me: Hope with a capital “H”.

As I pass in front of a gutted deli, I’m startled by my own reflection on one of the few window fronts that survived The Takeover riots. My features look so etched and angular that I hardly recognize myself. I’ve lost weight which is natural considering the stress of living under Whitehouse’s roof and the loss of appetite caused by dining around semi-human creatures all the time. But hey, no one can blame me, not when eating at a trough with a team of pigs would be an upgrade. My brown hair is well past shoulder length, curling slightly at the tips. My skin is sallow—not the healthy golden shade it used to be. I don’t spend much time in the sun anymore, which I sorely miss. Only my brown eyes seem the same, sharp and wide. Though, if I’m honest with myself, the sadness that used to live in their depths seems more profound now.

As I stare at my barely-recognizable image, something moves behind the window. My heart skips a beat. I jump back, hands snatching the gun at my hip, a Glock 22 with its 15-round magazine in place. I aim the weapon, hand shaking. I struggle to focus on whatever is on the other side. It takes me a few seconds to make out a shape huddled under a table. Slowly, my brain processes the information: a dirty sneaker, blue jeans, a puffy blue jacket and long, blond hair under a gray wool cap.

A girl!

A perfectly human girl, judging by the lack of buzzing inside my head.

Her face is obscured, but I can still see her wide blue eyes, brimming with fear. She’s clutching a yellow bag of chips close to her chest. Her hands shake as much as mine. Her face is contorted in a grimace of the worst kind, a mask of terror I know all too well. I’ve felt it on my own face one-too-many times. And why shouldn’t she be terrified?

She thinks I’m an Eklyptor.

I’m walking the streets in plain daylight, as if I have nothing to fear. Only our enemies do that these days. She has no idea of the courage it takes to pretend you’re one of them.

I put up my left hand in a pacifying gesture and slowly lower my gun. The grimace on her face deepens, letting me know she’s aware that when Eklyptors show mercy, they’ll make you wish they’d shown you death.

She pushes further under the table.

I should help her, but it would be a mistake. She wouldn’t trust me. There isn’t an explanation I could offer that would satisfy her. Not that I would fault her for that.

If she’s stayed alive this long, she must be doing something right. I carefully holster the gun. Without breaking eye contact, I step back to the edge of the sidewalk.

A horrible sadness fills me and, suddenly, I feel like crying. How many like her are out there? How much longer will they be able to hide? Something passes between us. Her grimace softens an infinitesimal amount.

I look away and, fighting my rising shame, I continue down the street. My heart seems to shrivel in my chest, shame wrapping itself all around it and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. I take a deep breath and stuff my hands in my pockets, shoulders to my ears, eyes on my boots.

She’s better off without you, Marci. You’ll just get her killed or captured, and how are you gonna feel then?

A hell of a lot worse; that’s how.

I’m almost to the parking lot where I’ve kept the van ever since that first night I hot-wired it when I notice two moving black blotches against the blue sky.

I stop, all my senses on alert.

Scouts!

With measured steps, I continue down the road, more aware of my Kevlar vest and my .40 caliber gun. I don’t like that they’re flying in my direction and that I have nowhere to go but toward them. I’m in the middle of the block. Turning back or hurrying ahead would simply bring them here much faster.

And what about the girl? God, what about the girl?!

As their monstrous, dark shapes move closer, losing altitude, I keep wishing they’d spot something more interesting on another street and leave me alone.

No such luck.

Their enormous aquamarine and yellow wings flap in unison, making a rhythmic thwack, thwack sound. The sun shines on their colorful membranes and the sight is almost beautiful. Flying Eklyptors aren’t common. It takes them years to morph their hosts into air-conquering beings. Even from a distance, it’s obvious these scouts are older than old. They move too gracefully, almost as if they were born this way.

Within seconds, they cover an entire block and descend onto the middle of the street, about twenty-five yards away from me. I stop and hold their gaze. They size me up, then walk forward and get within buzzing distance. My head drones as I know theirs do. The one I judge to be the leader walks a few steps ahead of the other one.

He or she is tall—well over six feet—and, on the ground, moves clumsily on leathery talons tipped with ebony curved claws several inches long. Its legs are tall and spindly from ankle to knee but widen into muscular, smooth thighs covered in dappled yellow and aquamarine skin. The wings spring from its sides and are now folded neatly behind its back, extending well above its head. Its torso and arms are still human in shape and proportion, but covered in the same bizarre skin and voided of any markings that may identify it as male or female. Neither one wears any clothes, just a belt around their waist with a weapon, extra bullets and a standard issue scanner attached to it.

They stop about ten feet away, looking wearily at my gun. They both tip their bald heads to one side as if to listen better. Their eyes have no whites. They’re round, orange marbles with small black pricks in the middle, like hawks’. They watch me for a moment. Their long, beak-like noses twitch and make snuffling sounds as they scent the air.

“Faction?” the leader asks in a slithery voice that is almost feminine. I decide this one was once a woman.

“Whitehouse. Yep, yep, Whitehouse it is.” I treat them to Azrael’s crazy talk. Ever since my agent took over me and revealed its deeply disturbed behavior, I’ve kept up the pretense that the creature is still in control. It is a useful tactic that helps me keep a low profile—no one wants to deal with a nutcase.

They frown their huge brows. I’ve never met these two before, but I need to stay in character in case I see them at headquarters or anywhere else with Eklyptors who know me.

Slowly, I pull out a pair of dog tags from behind my shirt. After Zara Hailstone’s death at what was supposed to be a friendly meeting with Elliot, hostilities between Eklyptor factions have intensified, creating the need for a way to easily tell friend from foe.

“Toss them,” She-Bird says, putting out a long-fingered hand.

I throw them. She catches them in one hooked claw, examines them for a moment, then passes them to her companion.

“Check this, Griffin.”

Griffin pulls the scanner from the belt at its waist and plugs one of the dog tags into a thin slot. An instant later, there is a short double beep.

“Clear,” the second scout says, tossing back the dog tags.

I catch them and put them back on. “Seen much action today? Huh? Huh?” My tone is casual enough. I should have nothing to fear from any Whitehouse Eklyptors, but I think I’ll never stop being unnerved and wary of them, no matter how deeply infiltrated I am.

“There’s some fighting going on in the west side. Around White Center,” the leader says with a squawk. “Igniters, I think. That’s all we’ve heard. You?”

I shake my head. “I just left headquarters. Haven’t seen a thing. Nope, not a thing.” An image of the scared girl in her blue jacket pops into my head.

The scouts nod. She-Bird looks down the street. “Where are you headed?”

“Just … uh … repurposing. Looking for a new ride. Something fun.” This is common enough. There are so many abandoned vehicles I could drive a new one every day. “A motorcycle, maybe. Yeah, that would be fun.” I make engine noises with my mouth, sputtering saliva like a toddler.

The leader scoffs, looking disgusted. “Not graceful,” she says, giving its wings a quick shake to demonstrate how much she thinks of motorized means of transportation.

“Best I can do right now.” I shrug and point a finger down the street. “Need to go. Gotta be on my way.”

They look about as ready to get away from me as I am to get away from them. A great benefit of my crazy Azrael act.

I give them a military salute, then march forward, sensing their eyes on the back of my neck. It takes all I’ve got to ignore the feeling and keep moving without looking over my shoulder. With every step, I wait for the flap of wings, instead I hear the retreating click, click, click of claws against asphalt.

Finally, I give into my curiosity and look back. They’re walking away from me, their unusual shapes swaying from side to side, their noses pointed upward as they sniff the air.

“Shit!” I murmur under my breath and slip into the recessed entrance of The Paramount Hotel.

Suddenly, the leader turns its head sharply toward the deli and gestures Griffin. They take their guns out and clamber toward the small restaurant on their leathery talons.

The girl’s luck has just run out.

Chapter 2

I pull away and press my back against the wall. “Shit, shit, shit.” I slap my hands to the sides of my head and squeeze.

What do I do? What do I do?

I have to help her.

Yeah? And get yourself killed?

No. Can’t risk that! Getting rid of Elliot is my priority.

I’m still deliberating when I hear a loud shattering sound, followed by a shrill scream. In an instant, I make my decision.

This fight is for every human being, not only against every Eklyptor.

If I lose sight of that, I may as well let my crazy agent take over again.

Before doubt creeps in, I jump out of my hiding place and run the way I came. What I see sends a jolt of adrenaline into my veins, electrifying me.

She-Bird is holding the girl by the neck as if she’s nothing more than a doll. Her legs kick in mid-air while she scratches her attacker’s forearms like an enraged feral cat.

My boots slap the pavement and catch the scouts’ attention. Their heads snap my way.

I stop, chest pumping, mind reeling with possible things I could say to prevent this disaster. With no other option and little hope, I go for the crazy, stamping a maniacal grin on my face and clapping with happiness.

“Ooh, you got one. You got one!”

The scouts stare down at me with their big, orange eyes. She-Bird’s mouth twists and tightens. “We’ve got this under control. Move along.”

The girl’s legs continue to kick, though not as forcefully as before. Her face is turning pale and her screams weak and hoarse.

“Can I have her? Tell me I can have her!” I say, as if the girl is a bug, and I’m a sadistic child with a magnifying glass and ideas fit for a summer day.

“Why would you want her?” Griffin asks, giving She-Bird a sideways glance.

The girl’s arms fall limply to the side as her attacker gives her a shake and a tighter squeeze around the neck. Her eyes widen for an instant, then roll to the back of her head.

Do something, Marci! She’s gonna die.

“Uh, she could be my pet. Yes, my lovely pet,” I say.

“There’s no room for pets,” She-Bird says. “They either die or they join the ranks. Except without Spawners, the second option isn’t really possible, is it?” she asks the question as if the lack of reproductively-capable Eklyptors is my fault. If she only knew.

I almost laugh, but I’m too scared for the girl. The truth is: I’m responsible for the extermination of Whitehouse’s Spawners. I was the one who found out where he kept them hidden and gave IgNiTe the intel so they could kill every single one of them.

“So the girl dies,” She-Bird says, then slams her against the blacktop and leans into her, putting all her weight into a killing chokehold.

“No!” I scream, unable to help myself.

As if my word was a threat or a punch, Griffin crouches into attack position. “You’re a fuckin’ Fender,” he says, the word rolling off his tongue the same way the word Eklyptor rolls off mine.

“Take her!” She-Bird orders. “Alive, if possible.”

So much for lying my way out of this one.

Heart, blood, lungs automatically pumping into action, I spin to the side just as Griffin lunges. Like a raging bull, the beast charges past me, staggers to a stop and spins to face me again.

Their plan might be to take hostages, but mine is not. I go for my gun. Inhumanly fast, Griffin gets his weapon first and, in the same motion, aims and shoots before I even have a chance to lift my arm.

Two hammer blows hit me in the chest. My body jerks twice. Pain blossoms from a pinprick into a huge mushroom cloud and drops me to ground. I fall on my back and blink up at the blue sky, fighting for breath.

“Alive, I said, you asshole,” She-Bird scolds.

“I wasn’t about to let her shoot me,” Griffin complains.

“Go check on her,” she growls.

Get up. Get up. Get up.

Gun still in hand, I roll to the side, shooting. One of my bullets strikes its intended target, piercing She-Bird strangling forearm. She growls, lets go of the girl and cradles the wound to her chest.

Pain still burning under my vest, I keep rolling until I reach one of the many abandoned vehicles that litter the street. I take cover behind it and jump to my feet. Crouched low, I scurry to the back end of what turns out to be a large SUV. I press my back to the vehicle and thump my chest three times.

God, it hurts.

I’m panting, wishing I could rip the vest right off.

Bullets pierce through the back windshield and zip past my head. I duck, run around to the front of the SUV, and shoot at Griffin over the hood.

My aim is true.

Griffin’s inhuman eyes go wide. In slow motion, he looks down at his chest. Blood squirts out from two round holes on a yellow patch of skin. He drops the gun and falls to his knees, wearing a dumbfounded expression.

Eyes roving from side to side, I look for She-Bird. She’s nowhere in sight. I whirl, thinking she might have sneaked up behind me, but there’s no one, just the trashed sidewalk and the once-trendy brick buildings.

Breathing in overdrive, I pull away from the SUV, spinning, the gun sweeping wide circles around me. Slowly, I make my way to the girl, my head snapping this way and that as my imagination conjures shadows in every possible hiding place. I look up, trying to spot a flying figure in the sky or up in the buildings. I find nothing but feel watched. Thoroughly watched.

“Hey!” I nudge the girl in the ribs with the tip of my boots, afraid to let down my guard and check if she’s breathing. She doesn’t respond.

God, was this all in vain?

I poke her again. She moans. I point the gun to the ground and slowly squat, my gaze still jumping from the street to the sky and the top of the buildings.

“Hey, hey! Can you get up?”

The girl rolls to her side and curls up, grabbing her neck and sobbing in a weak, broken voice.

“C’mon, you have to get up. We have to get out of here!”

My heart is racing faster than ever. Images of monsters dropping from the sky flash in and out of my vision. God, what if She-Bird went for backup? We’re not that far from headquarters. If she did, my cover is blown. Shit!

“C’mon!” I growl in my most commanding voice. “If you don’t get up, I’ll leave you here, and you know they’ll be back.”

She rouses at the threat. Her eyes blink open. She swallows audibly and winces. After a moment, she looks up. Our gazes meet. Her blue eyes are bloodshot and terrified.

“Do you want to live or not?” I ask.

She nods but looks so doubtful it makes me think she might rather die. Well, screw that. I didn’t risk my life to have her give up on me, so I hook an arm around hers and force her up.

“Follow me. We have to get out of here. C’mon!” I push her toward the SUV, then move that way myself.

I give the car a quick inspection, checking its tires and general state. It looks drivable. It’d better be.

I run to the driver side door and try the handle. No such luck. Holding the gun with both hands to steady my nervous grip, I take a couple of backward steps and shoot at the window. The girl yelps, startled by the sound.

The bullet drills right through the glass, creating a large spider web of cracks that spreads outward.