Army of the Goddess: A Bona Dea Novel (Stormflies Book 2) (17 page)

Ahead, a mob gathered wielding spades, axes, and an assortment of trade tools for a sinister purpose. Some of the figures lurched with stiff limbs, the hosts attempting to resist their possessors to little avail.

Three Safety Watch Volunteers officers confronted a group of seven citizens bearing rakes and knives.

Catching her breath and her step, Miri angled away from the oncoming threat only to meet a separate squad of the Safety Watch moving to intercept another roaming mob.

“Stop where you are,” the largest of the three officers ordered, his standard order stunner extended to aim at the leader of the pack. “Don't move unless you do what I ask. Lay down your weapons.”

Unsure if they meant her, Miri decided she'd rather run. Mikel on the other hand dug in his heels. Still on Miri's leash, his sudden deceleration snapped her backward. She tumbled onto her knees, shredding flesh and fabric on the pavement.

None of the mob members made a move to disarm. The infected citizens focused on the security forces in a unanimous movement. The front two lifted their farming implements and charged. The zinging scream of stunner fire pierced the air and one of the attackers dropped into a limp pile. Another zing hit the calf of the second attacker, causing him to trip but not knocking him unconscious. He pulled himself across the ground, only to be cuffed by one of the security team. In the chaos, another man fell, a garden hoe impaled in his right shoulder, blood soaking his shirt. The other victims scattered into the shadows. There weren't enough Safety members in the city to keep up, not between the assaults and the fires.

“Let's go while they're occupied.” Mikel grasped Miri's elbow firmly and together they jogged past the scene.

“You two, head directly to the nearest shelter,” one of the Safety Officers barked the order at them. His stunner was trained on the mob, quickly closing in on them. Mikel waved two fingers in acknowledgement and said nothing. He felt it best their identities not be broadcast.

With her knees bleeding and stinging, Miri could barely move. In a swift movement, Mikel swept her into his arms and darted out of sight of the clash. Under cover of darkness, they heard the sizzle of stunners firing and cringed at the shrieks of the victims.

The wind picked up with vengeance, like the inflow of a summer streaker, collecting loose objects in its invisible grasp and carrying debris for blocks. Dust and twigs slashed their faces. Mikel set Miri's feet back on the ground in order to shield his own face with his arms.

“We can't stop,” she begged. “We have to get to the Palace!”

Mikel shook his head. “We need shelter.”

Lightning blazed all around. More buildings were alight with flames just a street over. The crackling could be heard above the wind, which whipped the flames into hellish spirals that danced in the open. The wind would assuredly push the flames from building to building until fire swallow the entire block.

“We can't stay here,” she refused. Hand across her eyes, she viewed him through a slit between her fingers. “I have a job to do, an important job. I'm going on, with or without you.”

Scowling and probably cursing in his head, Mikel waved her forward, toward that daunting hill and into the growing stream of migrating people.

They passed fewer infected people and fell into a group of refugees seeking safety in the Palace walls. Several Elite guards ushered people inside in as orderly a fashion as possible, directing them to the Great Hall. Ben stopped Mikel and Miri. “Glad to see you two. Miri, Commander Narone is preparing to take the Protectress to the main bunker below. Mikel, get suited up. We need all hands.”

“Thank you, Ben,” Miri said breathlessly as she took off for the main staircase at a run, leaving the chaos of the courtyard behind her. Elite blocked every access point above the ground floor but moved aside seeing Miss Stockers on the move. She gladly left Mikel behind, assuming he hurried to the lockers for his uniform and accessories. Her already aching legs felt like stiff sticks of pain by the time she mounted the grand staircase to the third floor.

Knocking only once on the inner door, Miri burst into the Residence. “I'm here, Madam. What can I help you with?”

“Oh, wonderful,” the Protectress said with enthusiastic relief. “I'm glad you're safe. Nothing really, except my bag. We were just waiting for Ty's return.”

Both the Protectress and Mr. Saugray were casually dressed in slacks and tunics, though clearly woken from a deep sleep. Miri noticed that the Matriarch appeared more distracted and more tousled than usual. And the woman was wearing her shoes already. They'd already been outside and back to their room again.

“Tell us what's going on in the city,” the Protectress requested of her aide, clearly concerned by the situation. Her pale, wringing hands spoke volumes of her apprehension. The woman wore a guilty look on her face.

“It's horrible, Madam. People are being overtaken rapidly by the Stormflies. Some are violent; others are just sick, too weak to walk. A man died right in front of us. The Stormfly just sucked the life out of him. Other victims are either barricading their doors or running. At least a hundred are already downstairs in the Great Hall, but more are arriving every minute. Many more have gone to neighborhood shelters,” Miri reported in a rush, trying to get as much detail as she could into thirty seconds.

“How far did you have to come?” the Matriarch asked curiously, knowing her aide had taken the night off to spend with Mikel.

“From Dell Street. Clear across town. I thought we'd never make it back. I'm surprised you're not in the bunker already,” Miri commented, lifting the already prepared bag to her shoulder, packed weeks ago as a precaution at Ty's urging. She had personally double-checked the contents yesterday as part of her weekly chores.

“He mentioned something about a foul up in preparation—or maybe he didn't say that aloud.” The Protectress touched her nose in thought, sorting through the commotion of the last half-hour in her head.

“Um, no , he did not,” Quinn confirmed with raised eyebrows, but kept curious questions to himself for the moment. “But he was none too happy about something.”

The Protectress continued her questions, her apprehension deepening with the details. “Are there enough safety personnel?”

“We only saw a few,” Miri replied with a downhearted shake of her head. “We tried to stay out of anyone's way, though. We didn't want to run into trouble.”

Looking away in thought, the Protectress appeared disheartened. “I'm afraid our newest volunteers weren't ready for this. The Stormflies didn't leave us time to prepare.”

Without knocking, the room flooded with guards in a second's time, with Narone at the lead. “Your Honor, we need to move you now.”

“Yes. Please. Let's go,” the Matriarch agreed. “Are the Councilors taken care of?”

“All accounted for, Madam. They have already entered the bunker,” Ty responded reassuringly.

Before assuming her role as Protectress, Axandra had assumed the bunker below the structure was a few concrete rooms no larger than closets. Instead, the underground complex had the capacity to hold forty people with ample supplies for any short-term emergency. In this case, all sixteen members of the Council, the Protectress, staff and guards were likely to occupy the space for several days.

“Have we received any response to our calls for assistance?” the Protectress asked Narone.

“Three, Madam. We are not the only community being attacked, as we suspected. It appears that most of the violence is taking place here. Assistors are occupied, but those who are able will start here immediately.”

Miri followed along, luggage in hand for the Protectress while Mr. Saugray saw to his own needs. Half listening to the conversation between the Commander and the Protectress, Miri ordered her own thoughts around the sequence of events that needed to follow. She needed her own bag for a change of clothes and toiletries. Then she needed to organize beverages and snacks, as she believed the Council would convene an emergency meeting. She doubted anyone would return to bed for several hours, so organizing the sleeping quarters fell lower on the list.

Delivering the bag to the Protectress' assigned room in the bunker, Miri excused herself to fetch her own supplies and asked if either the Protectress or her husband needed anything else from above. “I should return in just a few minutes, Madam.”

“Of course,” the Protectress acknowledged, though her mind already moved forward to the next required actions to protect her people.

Thinking to herself as she ran and realizing that her legs were all but numb at this point, Miri decided she had just about enough exercise for one day. Six flights of stairs later, she panted at the door to her apartment, grimacing at the stitch in her side. She didn't even turn on the light knowing her prepped bag hung on the back of the door. Grabbing the duffel and slinging it diagonally across her chest, she spun back out the door.

And bumped into Lynn. The shorter woman didn't say a word. She just stared at Miri with bulging, unblinking eyes. A burst blood vessel flooded the white of her left eye with brilliant crimson.

“Excuse me,” Miri hissed as she shoved past on her own agenda. How dare Lynn get in her way!

Miri didn't have time to think about what Lynn wanted. She felt a searing stab of pain in her left kidney and folded forward against her confronter. Reaching back, she found something made of wood, cylindrical, longer than her hand was wide, embedded in her back.

Lynn moved aside, letting Miri fall against the rug face down.

Struggling to stay conscious through the agony, Miri gasped for air only to feel her lungs seize up against the pain. She left the impaled object where it was, telling herself it was best to let it cork the wound for now. Not that she would have the strength to remove it as her limbs trembled.

Lying on her right side, she looked around to see where Lynn had gone. She could hear a shuffle of feet. Glass broke and a roar of flame spread, brightening her dark room in orange and yellow. Clattering, shattering, and banging told her Lynn trashed the room indiscriminately. Lynn never made a vocal sound of her own.

Forcing herself to her knees, Miri crawled centim by centim along the corridor runner, aware of coarse nap of the carpet grinding into her palms. The pain in her back worsened sharply. Her vision narrowed to microscopic red tunnels, capturing only the bright color of the running carpet that would lead her to the staircase. Her ears were void of sound as though plugged with cloth. Under the unendurable strain, Miri would gladly collapse where she was, succumbing to the peaceful unconsciousness. Someone would find her soon enough. These halls were busy at all hours.

Unfortunately, she felt the heat of the spreading fire at her feet, blistering the already contused flesh. The fire suppression system wasn't functioning as intended, evident by the absence of any alarm or spray of foam. If she wanted to escape burning to death, she had to do it on her own. Arms weakened by blood loss, her elbows folded in; and she struck the floor with her cheek, crying out as daggers of pain penetrated every nerve in her core. Even sucking in air ached beyond measure. Lifting her face just a few centims, she pushed herself forward on her elbows. The abrasion of the coarse carpet was nothing compared to the wooden spear in her organs. The stairs seemed a thousand kiloms away now and only moving farther as she continued forward.

As the world warped into an s-shape of prismatic color, Miri collapsed one last time.

Axandra rubbed her temples, attempting to dull the tired ache behind her eyes. Across the table, Mark Osander and Home Spirton battled verbally with each other. Carmen argued with Sara, while other councilors picked sides in both discussions. In fact, the only people silent at the table were herself, Casper Ross, and Franny Gilbert. Both councilors appeared preoccupied with thoughts beyond the immediate debates.

“Your plan is too little, too late, Osander! We wasted an entire day on that drivel when there were more important preparations to be made!” Homer barked, jabbing his index finger against the table hard enough to make a thump.

“Too late because no one would even consider the option. We should have discussed it months ago,” Mark refuted.

“Please, sit down!” Antonette ordered, her contralto voice filling the space between the concrete walls and crushing into the other occupants.

“Well, obviously
someone
spilled the beans about what plan we had. They acted because we are becoming dangerous,” Homer bellowed on.

“And,” Axandra broke in, her voice the only one that garnered enough attention to bring silence, “obviously it wasn't me, as I wasn't present during the presentation.” Perhaps it wasn't the prime moment to point out that fact, but she didn't care at this point. She wanted it known.

Guilt-swept faces averted their gazes.

“I don't believe their attack pivots as much on knowing our defensive plans,” Axandra pointed out, “as much as it pivots on their own strength. They spent centuries in captivity. They reorganized, waited, recuperated, and now they are enacting their plan. Now that they have, we have to react. So instead of arguing, let's get something done.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Sara answered on behalf of everyone.

“Thank you. Now, please give me an updated report on the situation,” the Protectress requested.

As the Councilors composed themselves, Axandra wished for a hot cup of tea and an apple. Abruptly, she realized she had not seen Miri return to the bunker.

Vibrating bells erupted with an alarming cacophony.

“Fire alarm! Stay seated, please,” Ty announced as the occupants of the bunker shuffled to their feet in response. Grabbing his radio, he ducked out in a quieter area while two of his officers urged everyone to remain calm.

“The fire is located on the fifth floor,” Ty reported when he returned after his radio call. “The fire system was activated manually. A crew is attempting to extinguish the blaze.”

“In the Palace? Those Stormflies did this. One of the staff—” Homer blustered.

“We don't know anything yet. Commander, was anyone hurt?” Axandra asked, urgently rising to her feet. She grabbed his arm earnestly. “Miri isn't here—she went upstairs to get her things. Someone needs to look for her.”

Ty gauged the urgency in the Protectress' request. “I will send someone immediately, Madam, but the uppermost floor is engulfed in flames. Excuse me.”

As Ty departed, barking terse orders to the standing guard, Axandra sank back from the doorway, worry tightening her chest and bisecting her brow. She sought out the familiar emanations of her aide, but the expanding chaos with in the walls jumbled her perception. She forced to shut down her reception.

Quinn wrapped a comforting arm around Axandra's shoulders.

“How could this happen?” Antonette muttered angrily.

Unexpectedly, Franny Gilbert answered, “You fools! You can't stop us. You can't hold us. We will take you down. And when we've culled the herd to manageable numbers we will use your people for as long as we wish.” The woman rose to her feet and moved toward the Protectress with broad steps, hand outstretched. Her intentions seemed clear—destroy the woman standing in the way.

Quick on the draw, the five Elite witnessing the confession unholstered their stunners and fired. Franny collapsed to one knee, the human body frail, unable to bear the brunt of the weapons. Only the Stormfly's effect managed to hold the body upright a moment longer while the woman strangled a laugh. Then Franny collapsed completely against the polished concrete floor.

“She's alive,” announced the first guard to move forward with cuffs. The stunners were not lethal, but some victims died due to other complications. “We'd better have a Healer's opinion if she's going to recover.”

“You have to wait until Gage is free. It may be awhile,” Narone said without expression. “Take Councilor Gilbert to Room 8 and hold her there.”

“Yes, sir.” Two guards lifted the limp form and carried her with unexpected gentleness to the holding area. It wasn't Franny's fault she fell victim to the Stormflies and unwittingly provided the enemy with all of the human plans. Being a woman of advance age, Franny's survival was questionable, and she deserved dignity in the end of her life. She had served her people well.

Ty suddenly pressed his earpiece to his tympanic membrane to hear more clearly. “They are having difficulty containing the fire. It has spread to the attic. The automatic system has been tampered with. We will need to relocate everyone who has taken refuge in the Great Hall.”

“Where are they going to go?” asked Sara. “Do you need help?”

Narone's nostrils flared as he considered his existing resources and the imminent task that required completion. Each of the councilors appeared eager to assist with rescue efforts rather than sit helplessly below ground waiting for despairing reports of continuing destruction.

“Protectress, you and Mr. Saugray must remain here,” Ty ordered decisively. “The rest of you come with me. We have a lot of injured people to move.”

As the room emptied, Axandra stopped Sara with a touch on the hand. “Please be careful. If you see Gage, send him as quickly as possible for Franny.”

“I promise I will.” Then Sara hurried off with the others. All that remained were Axandra; Quinn; Casper Ross, whose blindness prohibited him from offering aide in the situation; and the posted guards. The air cleared of stuffiness and cooled with the absence of extra body heat. The numerous psychic emanations dissipated, allowing Axandra's head to empty of their latent emanations of fear and concern and return to her own.

Her own thoughts.

She had only a second to decide if she should hide her tears or let the guards see them. She decided she didn't care and it was high time she cried. Turning into Quinn's arms, she buried her face in his shoulder and wept. Tenderly, he stroked her shoulder and tightened the embrace briefly for extra measure.

She forced herself to bottle it up sooner than was probably healthy. There was still a great deal of work to do.

Casper waited quite patiently in his seat, unobtrusive, almost meditative in stillness. Clearing her throat, Axandra addressed him. “Councilor Ross?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” responded the elder man with disconcerting serenity.

“I realize we cannot make any full decisions without the Council present, but perhaps we can brainstorm a few ideas between the three of use,” Axandra suggested.

“I am willing,” he responded. “But rest assured, this will all be over soon.”

“I wish that were so, Casper,” Axandra said softly. While Casper had never said anything before to make her question his mental capacity, these words led her to believe dementia might be setting in. Casper was close to a century old. “But this won't simply disappear. We are at a point where we will have to resort to drastic measures.”

“Since we are alone, I will tell you a secret I've been keeping,” Casper said. He grinned toothily, his face child-like with glee at being free of something kept to himself for a long time. “You must not tell anyone else yet. The others may be upset.”

“I imagine they might be,” Axandra agreed, glancing at her husband for concurrence. “We promise to keep your secret.”

“Fifty of your years ago,” he began, his unseeing eyes tilted toward the ceiling. His mind looked far beyond these walls. “I came to your planet. Our people were very curious about you. Our races share many physiological qualities, particularly external characteristics. In order to survey your culture, I agreed to live here. It was not my intention to ever stay so long, or to be elected to your council. The people chose to do that to me. I even tried to refuse, but they wanted me here. I try to remain as neutral as possible.”

A lump worked its way up Axandra's throat and a new film of sweat dampened her armpits. Was she imagining this scene? Perhaps the dementia was hers, a psychotic break under the strain. With a year's worth of torture and tragedy heaped on her shoulders, she very well could be losing her mind.

Casper's age made him look and sound rational when he said, “These Stormflies aren't supposed to be here anymore than you are. They arrived from another world as well, but unfortunately I know little more about them. My people encountered something similar once.”

“Bloody hell,” Quinn hissed, eyes wide as he stared at Ross.

Is he off his nut?
Quinn projected the unspoken question to his wife.

I don't know. It's difficult to tell,
she replied, finding nothing in Casper's mind to suggest any of his words were untrue.

“Thank you for that information,” she said aloud, curious to find out how far Casper's revelation would take them. “Is there anything we can do to help the people out there?”

“You have done your best,” Casper assured. “You simply don't have the technology to deal with these creatures, nor the capacity for violence that is required. Only a few thousand of you possess natural resistance and a few possess the perseverance, such as yourself, Protectress.”

“We have to do something,” Quinn demanded. “People are dying out there, some of them struck down by their own neighbors.”

“At least tell us if we're on the right track. Is it possible to exterminate them? Or at least imprison them again?” Axandra wedged her question between Quinn's outburst and any rebuttal Casper might provide.

“It is possible. You have succeeded with a crude version of prison for them. Extracting the parasites is still your primary obstacle.”

“Axandra, how can Casper be—”

A wave of her hand silenced him, though she could hear him breathe in nosily in order to contain himself.

Though he could not see her, Axandra stared at Casper Ross, attempting to pierce his dark skin and scrutinize his inner being, to see the difference that would substantiate that he was, in fact, a member of another species of humanoid beings. Even after serving with the man for the better part of a year, she witnessed not one shred of evidence that any of what he said today was factual. He was an old man, stricken blind by degenerative eye disease, hobbled by arthritis in his knees and fingers. A fantasy in a deteriorating mind might feel convincing enough to be misconstrued as reality. He believed every word of what he spoke.

“Quinn, you're not going to like this,” Axandra warned as she turned to her husband. She clutched his hand tightly on her lap.

“Don't even think it,” he denied, his heart sinking in his chest. His arms felt suddenly week. “If the Stormflies get you back under their control…”

“I don't think they can, or they would've done so by now,” she stated.

“You don't know that,” he warned.

“You didn't see what happened in the courtyard. I nearly pulled a Stormfly from one of the Prophets. I just need to try again. We're going to find out if I can. I'm going to go in that room with Franny and try to get it out of her. I know I can do it. I am part Prophet.” She squeezed his hand more tightly, allowing her fear to tighten up her body. She had not verbally admitted her blood-line connection to the Prophets since she learned the true identity of her biological father. Not giving it voice gave her the option of ignoring the fact. “If I can do this for just one person, I'll feel like I've accomplished something.”

“And if you can detach it, what are you going to do with it? It will just fly off and find someone else. One thing we do know is they can't leave a body until it's dead,” he argued. “The Healers are already containing the creatures by putting people in comas. As long as the body is alive, the damned thing can't leave. Just leave it there.”

“They just kill the body when they are ready to move on. The coma isn't working completely,” Axandra pushed back, referring to the same report he used for his argument. “We've seen it happen. As long as we get it in a jar, we can hold it for a while.”

“Keeping it in the jar isn't the problem,” Quinn said in near panic at his wife's suggestion. He wanted to help, but he wanted her safe more than anything else. It was his selfish right as her bonded husband. Experiments had shown that the Stormflies were able to precipitate certain actions from a distance. “It's what the damned things do while they're captive. We can't keep it here.”

“You have nothing on this planet that will completely contain one of these creatures,” Casper interrupted.

“There. It's a terrible idea.” Quinn latched onto to Casper's statement as the final deciding factor, frantic to find a way to prevent his wife from attempting a feat that might prove harmful.

“The only thing that will contain it safely is you, Madam. You are capable now of holding the creature inside you without harm. The part of the brain to which they attach has been damaged,” Casper said, voicing knowledge beyond the common understanding of the parasites. “The creature can enter, but it can no longer affect you. You were correct that they can no longer control you.”

“This is insane! Absolutely not!” Quinn protested loudly, his tenor voice filling the empty room with hollow reverberations.

Admittedly, the prospect of allowing a Stormfly access to her body again caused a wrenching sensation in her chest. Hours ago, she had acted instinctively, acting instead of debating. Axandra had no desire to submit herself to the cruel intentions of the creatures. But her fear was overwhelmed by the driving need to preserve the human race. Above all else, the fact remained, if she did nothing, she risked losing everything. If she could perform this act, there was hope. Hope was a powerful tool.

“Once I have it contained, what do I do?” she asked, hoping a simple solution was forthcoming. “How many can I hold?”