Alpha Warriors of The Cause - Tamara Rose Blodgett Page 0,10
searches his eyes with a reticence born of pain and distrust. “Then give me time.”
Jeb pulls her to him and Beth allows it.
He wraps his arms around her small body, feeling grateful to Principle she might be his—in a world that is no longer theirs.
CHAPTER FIVE
Slade
Slade looks out over the water, where gentle ripples coast across the only reflective material on this side of the mountains of Sector One.
They must have water, or even this would be gone because of safe measures against jumping.
Slade shields his eyes, gazing up at the double moons. The larger overshadows the smaller. Slade has heard rumors that on Sector Three, they call an orange moon a “harvest moon.”
On One, it is always the blood moon.
The bright orb indifferently regards the handful of Bloodling guards. Gunnar and Slade take in the effect of the setting sun as crimson creeps upon the great lake of One.
Slade will not be able to blend on Sector Ten, which is full to the brim with fair-complexioned papiliones. Slade's pearl-gray skin and eyes that appear pupil-less as well as his sheer mass will stand out. Bloodlings originate only on One. There is no precedent for their presence in any other sector. He'll be recognized as the alien he is before the first breath he takes on Ten.
That is why a magical camouflage has been devised. Unfortunately, veiling his true form comes at a price. He must give up his fangs and superhuman strength to assume the appearance of a papilion. He can't use what he is, or the covering of his Bloodling form will reemerge.
Slade glances behind him. Dimitri is accompanying him as insurance of a sort. After all, nightloper shifter magic rendered Slade's disguise. Slade never thought he would need anything from a brutal species who are the Bloodlingsʼ sworn enemy.
But being held accountable for the safety of the Bloodling females has brought Slade's pride and moral compass to an all-time low.
He finds he'll do much to ensure the femalesʼ safety. And Beth's.
Gunnar asks, “Are you ready, Slade?”
Slade has no reflective abilities. Few on One do, and hopping is strictly prohibited. But some rare individuals—genetic throwbacks—have a streak of profoundly powerful reflective talent.
Slade's fingertips caress the hilt of his knives, all ceramic. Metal would not make the jump.
He nods, a breath of pure adrenaline leaking out of him.
“Yes.”
Slade closes his eyes, tucking his arms tightly against his sides as he senses the guards behind him. His acute hearing can pick up each of their breaths.
Heat reaches for him like fingerless tendrils. Slade closes his eyes, hearing only the clanking of Gunnar's metal shackles.
Slade's eyes jerk open. Bloody diamonds litter his vision. The entire lake glitters as though rubies drench its surface.
An explosion of noise erupts behind him, but the sounds dim as the fine hairs on Slade's body rise in response to the heat and static of the jump.
Water splashes behind him, but Slade remains facing forward. Raised voices bellow.
Slade lifts his arm, which is opaque, like an image seen through dirty glass.
Blood roars in his ears, and ice pricks his exposed skin as fire laps behind the cold.
The silence is deafening, and the speed of transit spins his guts.
Slade is falling without landing. Then it’s over as soon as it began.
Gunnar's reflective magic spits him out of the womb of the horrible tunnel of what feels like hadesʼs passage.
Slade spins midair and lands hard. Because he is Bloodling and tree-bound for half his waking hours, he's accustomed to heights and dropping unexpectedly. Slade forces his body to loosen and rolls with the rough fall.
He somersaults a final time and bounds upright.
His vision triples. Slade gains his balance, but seconds tick by as he rights himself.
Finally, he's able to take stock of his immediate surroundings.
The air is drier than that of Ten, and the oppressive humidity of One is lacking here. Slade inhales deeply and coughs lightly, flexing his fingers. He turns at the waist, planting one hand at his lower back and swinging the other with the momentum of the motion. He reverses arms, swiveling away the aches and punishment of jumping.
How can the Reflectives stand to travel that way?
A stealthy movement captures his attention, and Slade spins, crouching low. Slade will always be instinctively violent—and defensive. He is a Bloodling.
His shock at the sight before him robs him of speech—and breath. Slade blinks, trying to clear his eyes, but his vision remains true.
Gunnar stumbles to gain his footing and falls on his rump. A great whoosh of