The Forbidden Trilogy (The Forbidden Trilogy #1-3)

"What's your problem?" His muscles tensed in anger as he used his shirt to wipe his face.

Her suppressed anger at Luke's behavior bubbled up to the surface. She stood and paced in front of him, jabbing her finger at him to make her point. "You're my problem. Ever since we got stranded here, you've been moody and depressed—no help at all. I'm the one who found us water, and food, and all you do is mope around and complain. No, I don't have all the answers. I don't know where we're going to sleep tonight or what we'll eat in two days, but I'm doing my best to make sure we survive."

“Survive?” Luke's voice shook with disdain. “You know who didn’t survive? Those people in that plane. You killed a man yesterday, and you’re acting like nothing happened.”

A sob choked in her throat. Was he seriously mad at her for killing Robert? "He was torturing you. I saved your ungrateful life."

"I wasn't dead yet. There were other choices."

Lucy sunk to the ground, despair clawing at her. She couldn't erase from her mind the way Robert's eyes had looked as he lay dying, but she also couldn't get over the way her brother had screamed as Robert tore his body apart with his powers.

She hadn't known a better way to handle it.

Luke pawed through her backpack and pulled out a bottle of Rum. "I'm outta here. Meet you back at the beach later."

And with that, he took off, leaving her alone in the middle of the jungle so he could go drown his sorrows in alcohol.

Nice, Luke. Real classy.

They'd fought lots of times—all of their lives, really—but never like this. Disbelief fought a war in her mind with memories of her brother. This wasn't like him, but she couldn't do anything to fix Luke right now.

She had bigger problems—like making sure they survived, finding a way out, and finishing their mission.

After all, they still had some kids to save.





Chapter 69 – Drake



Drake slugged another mouthful of cheap vodka and waited for the burn to dull his pain. The abandoned apartment building he'd holed-up in stank like shit and piss and vomit, but he didn't care. He sat on an old mattress with his back against the wall and watched the void where a door had once hung.

Every second of existence tore at him until even alcohol couldn't bury the feelings. The place in his chest where his powers had once lived now felt empty, like the core of a rotten apple. Even when Dr. Pana had tied him to a hospital bed and drained him of his powers, he hadn't felt this helpless. There, he'd known it would end. His powers hadn't been destroyed, just blocked. He hadn't felt empty, just useless.

He'd been so naive to think it couldn't have gotten any worse.

Sam was out there somewhere, fighting to keep their baby safe while her father still hunted her. And what am I doing, loser that I am? Running away. What good am I without my powers? I couldn't keep them safe, so they were better off without me.

The lies he told himself did nothing to silence the guilt.

When he'd drained the last drop of vodka from his bottle, he smashed it against the wall, and left his hiding spot to search for more. He counted the money he had left: five dollars and some change. What the hell could he buy with five bucks? Nothing strong enough to get the job done, that was for sure.

The moon hung heavy in the sky as Drake walked the empty streets. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the sun. It seemed a lifetime ago. Memories of warm rays and the splash of cold salt water haunted him. Vampires lived like this for centuries, outcasts relegated to the shadows of life. Drake finally understood why these beings fascinated so many people. Their plight gave form to the empty death that lived inside him.

A homeless man's cough brought him back to the present. The man sat against a garbage dumpster, tucked under a newspaper blanket. Drake didn't care about the smell or the trash; he only noticed the paper bag-wrapped bottle in the man's hands.

He mustered as much authority as he could now that he'd lost his powers of mind control. "I'll give you five bucks for that bottle."

The man looked up at Drake and back down at the bottle. His face looked like an ancient map that had been written on so many times the lines all blurred together. He smacked his lips, took another swig and then held the bottle out with a cackle.

Before Drake could take it, the man yanked it back and rubbed his fingers together in the universal sign for money.

Drake sighed and pulled out the last of his cash.

They traded at the same time, and the man cackled again as he stuck the money into some hidden compartment in his clothes.

The bottle felt light. Too light. Drake tilted it to his lips, but only a drop of amber liquid fell into his mouth. Rage fed him as he threw the bottle to the right of the man's head.

The man cried out as jagged bits of glass flew into his face. Drake lifted his fist to punch him, but the man held up his arms and squealed. Fear filled his eyes, and his lips smacked together. When his mouth opened, Drake saw why the man didn't speak.