The Flight of the Silvers (Silvers #1)(74)



With a circular wave, Ivy drew a new portal in the wall. Rebel forced himself up to a standing position. His muscles still throbbed from the chaser attack. His hand screamed with stabbing agony.

“Not leaving without the others . . .” he groaned.

“There’s nothing we can do for them!” Gemma yelled.

Ivy shook her head. “No. I have to get Krista.”

“Goddamn it! Why don’t you two ever listen to me?! If we don’t get out of here in the next twenty seconds, we’re dead!”

“Gemma, what’s coming?”

“Something bad,” the girl replied. “Something really bad.”



Hidden among the bishop pines at the front of the property, Slim Tim Witten readied his weapon. At sixty-three, he was a clan elder, one of the last of the third generation. If his slight build and advanced age hadn’t been enough of a perceived liability, he had a talent that didn’t lend itself well to combat. But he’d begged to come along on this crucial mission, and Rebel ultimately gave in. Ivy had stashed him among the trees by the main gate. His task was to shoot any stragglers who tried to escape.

With quick concentration, he refreshed the earthly hues of his skin and beard—his lumiflage, as he called it. He blended among the foliage like a chameleon.

Now he could spot the van’s approach in the curving driveway. He saw two people behind the windshield, with hints of more in the back. Fourping hell, Rebel. Did you get any at all?

Once the vehicle reached the straight and final homestretch, Tim aimed his rifle at the wavy-haired man up front. The augurs said he was some kind of artist, and that he could be dangerously clever if given half the chance. Whatever he was, he was the driver, and so he was first. Tim lined Zack in his sights and fired.

The bullet traveled fourteen inches before disappearing into a small white portal. Tim cocked his head, flummoxed, until a cold hand grabbed his shoulder from behind. In the span of a heartbeat, he advanced in age—from gray to white to ancient to desiccated. At last Slim Tim Witten crumbled into dust, fertilizer for the shrubbery.

Standing in his place, Azral Pelletier watched his young Silvers approach. He had just arrived. He was not happy.





THIRTEEN




The moment the van crossed the sensors, the iron gate retracted on squeaky wheels. Hannah peered at the street beyond. She’d only experienced the outside world once before, for a quick but crazy eighty-one minutes. She wasn’t ready for more trans-American culture shock, but the fears of moving forward were just a gentle breeze compared to the nightmare behind her. Her safe little limbo, her Ellis Island, had been irreparably breached. She never wanted to go back.

As the vehicle idled in front of the sliding gate, the actress nervously tapped her fingers. She glanced out her missing door, then froze in the light of a familiar face.

“Oh my God.”

“What?” Zack asked.

“That’s him.”

“Who?”

“The guy who gave me my bracelet. He’s standing right there.”

Zack leaned in to Hannah’s vantage as the Silvers in the back peered through the shattered window.

Azral returned their gazes, still as stone. He wore a white oxford under a sharp gray business suit that was peppered with London rain. Even at twenty yards’ distance, his blue eyes popped with eerie vibrance. To Mia, he was the most terrifying thing of beauty she’d ever seen in her life—part vampire, part archangel, and (God help her) part David. He shared the boy’s small nose, bright eyes, and flawless symmetry, but there wasn’t a shred of kindness in his expression.

Hannah fumbled a hand in Zack’s direction. “I think we should—”

“Yeah.”

The passengers kept a fretful watch behind them as Zack lurched the van through the gate.

“Is he doing someth—”

The sound of crashing glass and metal suddenly filled their ears. Zack jumped in his seat.

“What happened? Are we hit?”

“It’s the other back door,” said Mia. “It fell off.”

Zack checked the damage in the rearview mirror. “He’s not following us?”

David shook his head, his eyes slitted in busy thought. “He appears to be letting us go.”

The van turned left onto a narrow suburban road. Theo peeked through the gateway. “Hannah, what did you say that guy’s name was?”

“Azral.”

“That’s what he told you?”

“That’s what you told me,” Hannah replied. “Right before your coma.”

Czerny mumbled something faint. Amanda leaned in closer.

“What did he say?” Mia asked.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t make it out. I don’t think he’s—”

“Pelletier,” he repeated. “His name’s Azral Pelletier.”

The passengers fell quiet for the next sixty yards, until Zack aimed his wide stare at Czerny.

“What?”



Krista Bloom staggered back into the lobby, still reeling from David’s assaults. Her head throbbed beneath her ski mask. The sounds of the world filtered in through a teakettle shriek.

Through the dancing spots in her vision, she saw her fallen teammate by the reception desk. She checked his wrist for a pulse. Nothing. It was hard to muster sympathy. The man in the Roosevelt mask had been a pariah among his people, banished long ago for unconscionable acts of cruelty. Rebel had offered him a spot in this mission as a chance to earn his way back into the clan. Krista found it sad that the path to forgiveness was carved through the murder of innocents. These were desperate times. Frightening times.

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