Hotbloods (Hotbloods #1)

She didn’t need to finish her sentence. Angie knew how to work a gun, and so did I, though I wouldn’t say either of us were experts. “We have no choice but to do our best,” I whispered.

We rose from behind the blackberry bush, checking the sky briefly to be sure that the coldbloods were truly gone, and then raced toward the house. Luckily, the Churnleys weren’t downstairs, so we hurried over to the wall opposite the kitchen counter, where Mr. Churnley kept a collection of rifles. We each grabbed one, and then stocked up on ammunition, which Angie found in one of the kitchen drawers.

I did worry what would happen when Mr. Churnley came downstairs, if he noticed that three of his guns were gone—but I couldn’t think about that now.

We left the kitchen as quietly as we could, keeping the guns positioned in front of us, in case one of the Churnleys looked through a window and spotted us. As soon as we were out of direct view from the house, we broke into a sprint toward the coldbloods’ fence.

This time, at least we had the advantage of knowing how the enclosure was laid out. I knew approximately where the house was situated, in relation to the fence, as well as where the backyard was. Instead of breaching the fence at the same point we had the night before, we traveled along the length of it, keeping our heads low, trying not to pant too loudly, until I sensed we had made it far enough to be approaching the backyard.

I peered through a crack in the fence, and was relieved to find my prediction accurate. Half of me had feared that we would arrive too late; that for some reason, Navan and Bashrik had decided to leave earlier—perhaps encouraged by Jethro—but I could see Soraya’s peculiar metal surface shimmering beneath the canopy of leaves.

Apart from the ship, the yard was empty. For how long, there was no guarantee, but for now, it was a good sign.

“Okay,” I whispered, so softly that I could barely hear myself. “The ship is still there. Now…” I’d been trying to figure out our next step, and though I was far from confident my idea would work, it was all I had. “I was thinking,” I continued, “you two should watch the backyard. Climb into one of these trees,”—I gestured to the low-hanging branches by the fence—“and if Jethro or Ianthan show up, you… do whatever you need to do to stop them from getting into the ship. I’m going to try to get inside the house and reach Navan or Bashrik.” Without bumping into Jethro or Ianthan myself. If I did, we’d all be dead. Jethro had made that perfectly clear.

“My God, Riley, are you serious about going in there?” Angie gasped, horror filling her and Lauren’s eyes.

Their expressions did not exactly help with my nerves. “I’m not sure,” I replied, my voice uneven, “but I-I have a gun.” It had to be me—I wasn’t about to volunteer one of them.

None of us took much comfort in that last statement, but we didn’t have time to sit around and argue. I turned to leave but they grabbed me and hauled me back, giving me a tight hug.

“Be careful,” they whispered.

“You too,” I whispered back. Then I nodded, and took off, keeping my head low and my footsteps light as I traveled back along the fence.

This idea had better work, or I might have just sentenced us all to death. The thought played over and over in my mind like a broken record while I jogged. I stopped once I figured I had arrived about level with the front of the house, and glanced behind me. My friends were no longer standing outside the fence, which meant that they had already positioned themselves in the trees. Good. I hoped that they had managed to find spots to perch in that were well concealed.

I reached for the tree branch in front of me and, after securing the gun over my back using the strap, climbed up and over the fence. The moment my feet hit the ground, I sprinted toward the house, my eyes darting in all directions.

I reached the porch and found the front door had been left ajar, which both relieved me and made me nervous. Someone could’ve recently stepped through the entrance, and be hovering nearby on the other side.

I listened for any sounds of talking or creaking floorboards, but there was nothing, so I dared to slip through the gap. The heat of the house engulfed me, and I broke out into a sweat. I gripped my gun, trying to ready myself to take aim if I had to, but I made it several feet into the house without any ashen beasts flying at me.

When I reached the staircase, I halted, finally picking up on voices. This time, however, it sounded like they were coming from upstairs. I moved closer to the first step, gazing up, the dim gaslight allowing for deep shadows on the landing.

A creak sounded from above, as if someone was barely a few feet away from the top of the staircase.

I backed away, stepping through an unlocked door. The heat intensified and my head throbbed. As I whirled around, I realized which room I had entered.

I barely managed to contain my gasp as my eyes fell on Ronad, lying on the floor beside the fiery hearth, on the same stretcher as before, which I now realized was more like a narrow mattress. He was wingless, and his skin had lost all hues of gray and turned a full golden tan color. And he was asleep. Or at least, completely still. If he had detected me entering, he didn’t show it. The footsteps were growing closer on the staircase—someone was descending.

I eased the door shut as quickly as I could, then looked about the room wildly for a place to hide. I didn’t know who it was on the stairs, but I couldn’t take any chances that it might be Jethro or Ianthan.

A low coffee table stood in one corner of the room. It was the only option I had in this almost bare room. I groped through the heat and slid myself underneath it. I curled up in a fetal position, waiting for the footsteps to pass.

There were several tense moments when I wasn’t sure that they would pass, when I feared they would enter to check on Ronad—but then they ventured deeper into the house. I allowed myself to breathe again as the creaking grew distant, and then, after another minute, dared to slide out of my hiding place.

I staggered to my feet, moving toward the door.

“No, don’t!”

Ronad’s voice suddenly rang out, making me leap out of my skin. I whipped around, gun at the ready, only to realize that he was… still in a stupor.

His face was contorted with pain as he continued to yell, “Naya, it’s me! Please, stay with me, don’t . . . you can’t . . . Naya . . .” He lost his voice then, but his face remained stricken with pain and despair, his lips moving in silent protest.

I stared at him, my thudding heart slowing a little, then softening. He was obviously having a nightmare, and I couldn’t help but wonder what his story was. He looked younger than Navan and Bashrik—no older than nineteen. What had driven him to such lengths, to such pain, to undergo this radical transformation?

And hadn’t Navan started to say we’ve suffered? But then he caught himself and said that Ronad had suffered a great loss. Perhaps Navan had just misspoken, though a part of me felt there was much more to the story than he was letting on.