Gavil breathed deeply and glanced again at the brother he’d felt so much anger toward for so many years. “Right, later.”
He put the car into drive and pulled away from the ranch house, Slider following closely behind. Creed watched the two white vans bounce down the gravel drive for a moment before turning back toward the house and walking in.
First thing he noticed when he stepped into the living room was that Meg wasn’t on the sofa where he’d left her ten minutes before. He scanned the room quickly noting all the others were accounted for, even the coyote. The throw he’d placed over her was tossed to the ground.
Uh, oh.
“Meg?” he called. “Meg, where are you?”
Chapter 32 Home is Where the Metas Are
Her head was pounding, but Meg forced herself to open her eyes. She looked around and realized she was on the sofa in the living room, but had no memory of how she got here. Meg sat up and held her head for a moment trying to remember what happened.
Cole and I were running together. We started racing.
She pinched her eyes closed trying to see through the fog on her brain that wouldn’t dissipate fast enough.
Something happened to Cole. He was hit.
Oh my God! We were under attack!
She flew off the sofa, heart racing at the flood of adrenaline and that’s when she saw her entire family laying on the floor behind the sofa. Meg ran to her mother first and shook her.
Frantic, she pressed her mouth to Margo’s ear and whispered, “Mom, wake up! Mom!”
Her body felt warm, but she had to know for sure. She felt around carefully for a pulse in her mother’s neck.
Oh, thank God.
She darted to each of the others checking their pulses and trying to rouse someone. Everyone was alive, but unresponsive. She knew she must only have a matter of minutes if Williams’ metasoldiers were here. That’s when she heard a car’s engine start in the back of the house. Then a second engine started.
They’re coming back to get us.
Meg ran to the window to peek. Two white vans were parked in the back of the house, idling. She couldn’t see anyone yet, but they had to be there. Maybe they were in the lab looking for more serum. Maybe they were setting explosives around the house to blow us up. Maybe they’re coming in to torture my family into submission. Her mind was racing with the plausible and implausible. She heard the back door open and footsteps. She ran toward the kitchen to find a weapon. Meg was reaching for a knife from the butcher block when she heard a low distinctive voice call her name. Meg froze.
Creed? Creed did this to my family? Her jaw locked with a fury she could barely contain.
Slowly, she slipped the eight inch, razor-sharp knife from its sheath and held it behind her back in a white-knuckled fist before walking toward the living room on silent feet. She peeked around the door frame and saw him. Meg had to stifle a gasp. Creed was alive and standing right in her living room. He was dressed for battle—fatigues, weapons dripping off his narrow hips. Black leather straps crossing his chest harboring more weapons. The handles of the knives glinted sunlight into her eyes.
How dare he come to hurt us after we opened our home to him?
A fleeting thought tried to catch her attention through her burgeoning fury. I should be trying to read his intentions.
She should be using her gift to understand what was happening to him, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t see past the emotional tsunami threatening to drown her in the anguish of his betrayal.
Creed’s back was turned toward her when she could hold herself back no longer. She flew at him, launching herself over the sofa and kicking him squarely in the back of his neck. He staggered, and spun to face her.
“Meg!” The look on his face was pure surprise.
Good.
“How could you?” Meg’s voice matched her anger as she flung herself around to deliver a perfect round-house kick to his jaw. He stumbled back, but righted himself quickly.
“Meg, let me explain,” he started, hands held up defensively.
“Explain!” She fumed. “My family is lying unconscious on the floor over there and you’re the only one standing here with an arsenal on your waist!”
She grabbed her knife by the tip of the blade and threw it with all her strength directly at his chest. It flew handle over tip, barely registering the glints of sunlight in its blur across the room. Creed spun, reached out at the same time and met the blade with his open hand, catching it by the blade with a solid sounding thwack.
His abdomen pumped in and out as his breathing quickened, his adrenaline pumping. His dark-blue eyes watched her watch him. Without looking down, he opened his hand. Blood was pooling in his palm as the blade had cut him deeply, wedging itself at an angle.
With his left hand, he reached over and yanked the blade out and placed it neatly on the sofa table beside him. Creed slowly made a fist, locking his jaw as he did. Blood dripped from his hand as if he was squeezing a tomato instead of cut flesh.