Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory #2) - Lauren Gilley Page 0,29

through her. A pulse of helplessness – this was terrible, it was so awful, and she didn’t, she couldn’t–

She shoved it down, dumped her pack, drew her hell dagger, and stalked toward the remaining conduit.

The woman twitched in erratic pulses: arms, legs, fingers curling, eyelids fluttering over rolled-back eyes, only the whites showing. Her cap had come off, and she ground her short, pale hair into the mud as she jerked like she was having a stroke.

Rose went down on one knew, and lifted her dagger.

The conduit’s eyes reverted to normal, suddenly, gaze hard and fixed on her face, and her hand shot up, no longer twitching, but steady, accurate. She latched onto Rose’s throat.

She’d bought two bracelets, and a collar that day at the market. The short, but terribly sharp silver spikes pierced the conduit’s palm and fingers. Rose felt the too-hot trickle of conduit-powered blood on her neck.

The conduit hissed, but her hand tightened, thumb and collar pressing into Rose’s windpipe.

Rose gasped, unbidden, and felt something in her neck trying to give. Her vision tunneled, a sudden blackness sweeping in at the edges. The conduit’s other hand reached for her wrist.

But too late.

Rose stabbed the woman in the belly with her sharp little pig-sticker, and in the heart with the hell blade.

A sucking inhale, an exhale like a howl, and the eyes flashed. The hand went limp and dropped away from Rose’s throat, and she fell back on her ass, choking on the air that rushed down her throat on the first inhale.

“Greer!” A thunderous shout, barely heard above the rain – falling harder now, faster, louder.

She fought her lungs, and managed to get up on her knees, and turn to look.

Here came Lance, loping effortlessly across the slippery terrain, Tris and Gavin right behind him.

Where were you? she thought, savagely. Where the fuck were all of you?

But when Lance skidded to a halt in front of her, hectic gaze visible even through his rain-splattered goggles, she said, “Gallo’s hurt. He’s lost half an arm.”

“Jesus,” Lance breathed. Tris and Gavin rushed past him, and went to kneel on either side of Gallo, who was rocking back and forth now, whimpering brokenly like a small, frightened animal. “Jesus – are you, the conduits? Are you okay?”

“The conduits are dead.” She pushed to her feet, and staggered; would have fallen if Lance hadn’t gripped her shoulders and righted her. “And I’m fine.”

~*~

Twice, she thought the helo would succumb to the weather on the rough ride back to the tarmac. The wind picked up, the rain lashing sideways, and once, she swore the rotors stalled.

They’d strapped Gallo in tight. Tris had done a quick field treatment: flushed the stump, bound it up with lots of padding and gauze. They’d piled him with reflective, thermal blankets, and he was blessedly unconscious now. His lips were blue, his skin clammy and waxy-looking.

Tris sat closest to him, his normally-hard expression locked into newly harsh angles. Rose watched as he pressed a hand to Gallo’s forehead, his frown deepening, muscle in his jaw twitching.

Medics were waiting when they landed at the base, a gurney ready. The building sat squat, spare and gray against the ever-deepening gloom as evening set on, and the rain gained a whole new intensity: shifting whiteout curtains that blew and rippled across the tarmac.

“We’ll overnight here,” Lance told her. “With this weather, and with Gallo.” He shook his head, face nearly as gray as the building.

Rose hopped out of the helo and followed the gurney inside, leaving her superior officer behind.

~*~

There was a thick glass window that looked into the operating room from the small lounge beyond it. With all the draping, and medical staff milling about, Rose couldn’t see much of the surgery, but the idea of dinner or a hot shower had repelled her when she watched Gallo’s lifeless form wheeled into the med bay. She sat in a hard plastic chair beside a water cooler, pitched forward, her hands laced together loosely between her knees.

Tristan sat three seats down, in a similar posture, staring at the window, his jaw carved from marble, save the way it flickered with lean muscle each time he swallowed.

Poor Frankie, Rose thought. He’d finally captured the attention of his idol, but he’d lost an arm in doing so.

A clock ticked up on the wall, but she never bothered to check the time. Finally, the hustle and bustle beyond the window seemed to slow. A sheet was pulled up over Gallo – Tris sat