The Gender War (The Gender Game #4)(76)

The blood had been mopped off the floor, and all the debris caused by gunshots and Solomon’s rampage had been disposed of. There were still spots of blood on the wall, and I could see the damage to the bannisters, and the places where the dry wall was cracked and broken, presumably because of Solomon. I looked around the scene, and then over to Owen, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t get it.”

Owen smiled and went over to the wall under the stairs, in the corner, where the steps turned and formed a landing. “Look,” he exclaimed, pointing at one particular crack in the wall.

I stared at it, and then realized it wasn’t like the others. It was almost perfectly straight, with small cracks branching off, but only to the left. “What is it?” I asked, meeting his gaze.

Owen’s smile broadened, and he moved in front of the crack and pressed his hand against it. There was a soft click, and then the wall dropped down into the floor, revealing another set of stairs. These led down into a brightly lit, white room. Intrigued, I moved past him and made my way down the steps, my eyes widening in surprise as I took in the wide space, packed top-to-bottom with equipment.

Military equipment, to be specific. Heavily armored vehicles sat in rows in the vast white room, and table upon table lined the other side, some piled with weapons, some covered in gadgets strewn apart, some holding boxes of ammunition. I whistled in appreciation as I moved to one of the tables and carefully picked up a rifle, mechanically clearing it before setting it back down. “Ashabee?”

Owen came up next to me. “Yeah—apparently he didn’t deign to tell us about this.”

“This… is amazing.” My eyes ran over a table of electrical gadgets, noting the ten subvocalizers on it, and I shook my head in awe and surprise. The sadness of yesterday still lay heavy upon my heart, but my brain had a new distraction, and it was already spinning with ideas.

We walked back and forth for a while among the rows of weapons and vehicles in silent awe. At some point, Owen asked pensively, “Do you think he’s okay?”

I blinked in surprise and turned to him. It took me a moment to realize he meant Ashabee; it took me even less time to process how I felt about the situation he was in. “Who cares?” I said.

Owen looked sharply at me, questioning me with his gaze. I shrugged, taking a step back from the table. “He lied to us when he could get away with it, he killed a bunch of people, and the only good thing he did, he did for the wrong reasons.”

“That’s fair,” Owen said after a while, then gave a rueful smile, as though my vehemence amused him. It didn’t amuse me. I honestly couldn’t bring myself to care about Ashabee’s plight. He had done his best covering for us, but that didn’t mean I was beholden to him. At this point, the fact that he hadn’t told us about the stronghold downstairs was just another reason to loathe the man.

On the other hand, this stash was basically a rebel group’s dream come true. Now that we had found it, I was glad we were going to be able to use Ashabee’s personal weapons for our cause, rather than letting him squander them on his grandiose pride.

I asked Owen to let Ms. Dale know about the stash so she could start inventorying it, then headed upstairs, needing a moment to myself. I moved about the house restlessly, pausing outside King Maxen’s quarters. Jay was standing outside, keeping an eye on him. I smiled at him, and he smiled back, then gave me a puzzled look as I stepped inside, as though he wondered what I was doing there. In fact, I kind of wondered that myself.

Maxen was lounging on the bed, a book in his hand. He looked up at me as I entered, and then ignored me, turning back to his book. I watched him long enough to see him lick his thumb and index finger and turn the page.

“How are you?” I asked. I wasn’t sure what had prompted me to come in and ask the question, but I was committed now.

Maxen gave me an irritated expression, theatrically closing his book with a snap. “How am I?” he hissed. “How do you think? Confined to this prison, with nobody worth talking to. Nearly killed by a bunch of women, probably having their time of the month, I might add, and now you—upstart Matrian bitch that you are—have the audacity to come into my room and ask me how I am?”

I could have shouted insults at him. I could have hit him. Instead, I just stared at him, letting his words roll over me. I found myself enjoying the primal rush of rage that came over me, and I almost smiled as I realized I was inches, centimeters, millimeters away from killing this man as painfully as possible. It took a titanic effort to push that compulsion aside, and a part of me, a very dark part of me, argued that I should just end him—before he had a chance to end us.

“My people need me!” the king added in the face of my silence, his voice rising to a shout. “I should be out there, not trapped in here!”

I cocked my head at him and smiled. It was more a baring of teeth than a smile, and I felt the corners of my mouth turn up more when he flinched visibly. “If you really cared about your people,” I said from between my clenched teeth, my voice dangerously low, “you would have at least tried to attend the burial of the twelve men, women, and children who died so that you could hide in a closet.”

And without giving him a chance to respond, I left, gently closing the door behind me.





29





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