Darkening Chaos: Book Three of The Destroyer Trilogy (49 page)

A
trickle of hope slips into my mind.

As
soon as I turn around, it crumbles.

Braden
is down on one knee, furiously sending bursts of power at the Dorotabos in
front of him as he tries to get back to his feet. Milo is throwing his power at
a second Dorotabos. His talents are still fresh, while Braden’s are faltering. I
don’t know how he sees it, but the second Braden falls with no hope of getting
out of the way of the charging Dorotabos, Milo redirects his power, fully aware
of what choice he is making. The gale he was about to send at his own opponent
sweeps to the side and saves Braden’s life, but not without cost.

I
don’t know if anyone else sees the way Milo’s eyes close, or the look of
finality and acceptance that graces his face, but I do. He knows the Dorotabos
behind him is about to strike. He knew it when he spent his power on Braden’s
behalf. Pure desire to never see the spear of Naturalism touch Milo slows time.
But nothing can stop the inevitable. I can hear Celia crying out, but I am
silent. The agony consuming me refuses to let any sound escape my lips. I watch
as the Dorotabos’ stolen power slices through Milo’s body, silencing his heart,
ending his life.

As
his body crumbles, my knees give out. Tears feel like acid as they trail down
my face. I want to collapse, grieve, scream, but hands pull me back up to
standing. Braden’s arms and love wrap around me, quieting my soul.

“I’m
so sorry, Libby,” he says. Celia is nearly inconsolable next to me, but neither
of us can stop fighting yet. Braden’s arms tighten around me, but this time in
fear. A second later, he pushes me away and turns us toward the oncoming
slaughter. “Libby, they’re coming. What do we do?

What
do we do?
The main horde of Dorotabos
is less than ten feet away. In some areas, they have already broken through. My
army and the Guardian turncoats are flinging talent in defense, making little
impact. Braden’s words buzz around in my foggy head, banging around in the
emptiness before finally slapping my mind awake. I know what to do. Mr. Walters
gave me the key. Now all I have to do is use it. I stow my pain in a corner of
my mind that I will revisit all too soon, and focus. I don’t turn to look at
Braden, but I say, right as the lead Dorotabos hurls a fireball at my face, “Touch
me.”

Without
question, his fingers slip around my waist, under the edge of my shirt to make
sure he is touching bare skin. As soon as he does, I feel his power sweep
through my body so strongly it nearly overwhelms me, multiplying and building
just as I suspected it would after he revealed he could access my talents. I
hear gasps go up around me as a corona of pure power envelopes both of us,
looking as if we have been wrapped in pale blue flames. Our bodies radiate
light and hope in the midst of darkening chaos.

I
don’t worry about the fireball. I can already feel Celia countering it.
Instead, I think of Mr. Walters’s words, understanding of what he was trying to
tell me before his murder, calming me with their truth. Spiritualism wasn’t the
key, Concealment was. It was what my dad used on me the night he died, what I
used to steal and give back Braden’s talents, what could break unbreakable
promises. The one power that could strip away the damage done to a soul and
renew it. Braden had been twisted into a killer after he was captured, but I
freed him by taking away everything he was and forcing him to start over.

The
Dorotabos have been broken. Now they need to be remade.

The
air parts in anticipation of the blade streaking toward my throat, but I don’t
flinch or move away. I tap the bottomless well of Perception inside me, turning
it into a physical gesture with my hands to focus my mind, and sweep my hands
out and away from my body a bare second before the knife reaches my flesh. I
knock the knife away and a visible wall of power springs up around my army. The
Dorotabos crash into it, breaking through. Cries of surprise erupt from
everyone around me, but the wall wasn’t a physical barrier. The second they
touched it, they were stained with my power. It reaches deep into their soul
and traps them in my web.

I
don’t know how this feels or looks to anyone else, but for me, time seems to
take a patient breath. Everyone but Braden freezes in this moment of
destruction and rebirth. His hands slide up to rest on my shoulders and his
lips brush across my cheek. He has no need to question or doubt. United through
the Companion link, we are truly one. In soul. In power. In thought. His hands slip
down my arms as we push the wall of Perception out.

As
soon as our power moves, time exhales, releasing everyone but those I’ve
already trapped. Dorotabos rush in as power rushes out. At every point of
collision, they stop, stunned, lost. My excitement bursts, and our Perception
races away from us in a mad rush. Every last Dorotabos is engulfed, but I keep
going until I meet resistance. The Dorotabos were mindless captives. The
Spiritualists are not. Some have Perception to combat me, some do not. Those without
succumb the fastest. Those with Perception last only a paltry few seconds
longer before their minds are swallowed up as well.

Now
the real work begins.

“Don’t
let go of me,” I whisper to Braden.

“Never,”
he says as his finger touches the twisted bracelet on my ring finger.

I
smile at the reminder and think briefly of my birthday present and what it
represents. Without me having to ask, Braden takes hold of our Naturalism to
support my body under the strain of what is about to happen. I stay with Perception
for stability, but tap the one power that can end this battle. I thrust my
Concealment into every single captured Dorotabos and Spiritualist. My power
latches onto their talents, locked and unlocked, and holds.

I
freed Braden from the twisted desire to kill me by taking away the talents that
made it possible for him to be bound by the Oath. The Spiritualists can’t use
their talents to control if they have no talents. The Dorotabos can’t be forced
to use power their bodies have been stripped of. Maybe doing one or the other
would be enough, but I’m not about to take that chance. I seize hold of my
power, and their talents, and start yanking it back into me.

Out
of instinct and experience, I brace myself against the pain, but it doesn’t
come. My knowledge of both Naturalism and pain lends itself to Braden, and he
holds it off. But only for me. Screams of delirious agony fill the air until
nothing else can be heard. Everyone around me looks terrified. They have no
idea what is going on. Their fear doesn’t affect me. Not once my power comes
tumbling back into me, at least. I’m too fascinated watching the diktats
blossom in a growing spiral on my flesh. They snake their way up my arm as
stolen talents come rushing in. I have no idea how many of them there are, but
the growing power suddenly becomes too much for me to contain. A shockwave of
pure energy explodes out of me, flattening everything in its path.

Chapter
38

Life

Lance thinks the white
picket fence is silly, but he’s helping Braden install it anyway. Hope hands me
a glass of lemonade. The glass is already sweating just from the short walk
from the kitchen to the front yard. It’s another record setting heat wave. Most
of Albuquerque’s residents are grumbling about it, but I have missed the dry
heat of the desert. It warms my heart and soul alike. A muttered curse from
Lance after clipping his finger instead of a nail makes me smile. Hope laughs
and shakes her head.

“He
thinks just because he’s head of the World Intelligence Agency he can fix
anything,” Hope snorts.

“He
never has been very handy with tools,” I admit. “He tried to help my dad build
a tree house once. Nailed his pants to the floor.”

Hope
laughs hard enough that she almost drops her glass of lemonade. “I’m going to
have to mention that later,” she says when she gets control of herself again.

“I’m
sure he’ll appreciate that.” I don’t know why it hurts guys’ feelings so much
not to be thought of as handy, but even Braden gets pouty when I fix something
without asking him for help. Not that he lets me do much of anything lately. A
little burr of irritation works its way into my awareness at that thought,
sparking me to say, “I would have helped with the fence instead of hauling
Lance over here, but …”

“But
nothing,” Hope interrupts, “you are under strict orders to relax for the next
two weeks.”

“Two
weeks,” I say quietly, my hands drifting down to my belly. The baby rolls
slowly as if turning over to let her other side soak up the warmth of the sun,
too. “I can’t believe she’ll be here in two weeks. It’s gone by so fast.”

“Well,
what did you expect? The last two years have gone by in a blur. Restructuring
an entire world government takes a lot of work. I took six months just to give back
all the talents you stole to the Guardians and Ciphers willing to give you
their Oath,” Hope says.

As
my hands rest on my swollen belly, I glance at my left wrist and frown. “I
couldn’t give them all back,” I say sadly. The first six inches of my arm is
still covered in diktats.

“The
ones who died, that wasn’t your fault. They just couldn’t handle it, and they
would have killed us if you didn’t stop them.” Her hands tighten around her
glass. I momentarily worry about it shattering under the pressure of her buried
anger. It disappears a few seconds later. She has changed so much from the
murderous girl I met three years ago. Flashes of her old self still pop up now
and again, but they never last long. Not with Lance in her life.

“And
the ones who wouldn’t give you their Oath,” Hope continues, “they knew death
was the price of their refusal. They killed themselves.”

I
don’t bother to respond. She’s right, I know that, but I was still the one who
had to order the deaths of thousands of soldiers. I rarely have nightmares,
anymore. With Braden sleeping next to me every night, bad thoughts simply can’t
find me, but every once in a while when work—or more lately, the baby kicking
me—separates us, the deaths I have had a hand in come back to haunt me. Braden
and I don’t spend a lot of nights without each other.

I
touch my wedding ring gently. It’s beautiful, a stunning full karat diamond
with a masterfully crafted band made to match the Paradigm pendant around my
neck, but my fingers slip past it to the simple white braid wrapped around my
finger. Hope sees me toying with the strand and touches her own ring. The sight
of it is enough to pull me out of my dark thoughts. My lips twist into a
teasing smile.

“You
guys set a date, yet, or what?”

Hope
blushes, but says, “Hey, not all of us are as crazy as you and Braden. You two
barely even waited for everyone to regain consciousness after that blast of
power you hurled at everyone at the end of the battle before running off to get
married.”

“I
did not
hurl
a blast of power at anyone,” I argue. “It
escaped
.
It wasn’t my fault I couldn’t hold it in any longer. Next time I’ll let you try
to contain several thousand people’s talents at once.”

“No
thank you. I’m done with all that.”

I
chuckle, earning me a fierce glare from Hope. “What?” I say. “When I met you,
you refused to leave my side until I let you kill a Guardian. I just never
thought I’d see the day when you weren’t interested in fighting.”

“I’m
still interested in fighting, just not for the same reasons.” Her eyes drift
over to Lance, the heat and passion in her gaze making me feel like I am
intruding on something private.

For
a moment, I am jealous of her. One of the small pleasures I was able to capture
after the battle—well, outside of the bedroom—was having Braden teach me
Capoeira. I put time aside every day to work with him. It honed my body better
than I ever imagined, centered my spirit when I was near breaking from the
onslaught of demands and pressure, and gave me a few precious hours of
mind-stealing physical connection with the man I loved. Those few hours a day
with Braden gave me the strength to make it through the last two years. I still
practice, even now, but only a milder form safe enough for the baby. Mostly a
lot of meditation and focusing exercises.

I
love Capoeria, and I’m very good at it, but watching Lance and Hope battle each
other is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Their passion for
the fight, their fierce love for each other, and their ability to connect with one
another in such perfect balance is amazing. I was born to both destroy and
rebuild this world, a Paradigm, the ideal for what the world was meant to be,
but when I watch them I truly see the meaning of the word. Their dance could
take lives if they wanted it to, or it could insight marvel and passion. In
these two lovers, I have no trouble understanding the need for a perfect
balance between destruction and life.

“So
you never answered my question,” I say, my previous teasing softened by my
thoughts. “Have you set a date for the wedding?”

“The
end of September. We want everyone to be there, and it’s the only time that
seems to work,” Hope says. “Celia and Alex will be back from Europe by then.
Dean should be done training the new recruits in Nigeria as well. And we didn’t
want it to be too close to your birthday.”