Page 45 of Crimson Moon Falling

I shifted toward Mangus, settling beside him. His massive head rested in my lap, hot and heavy. His breath was almost overwhelming this close, but I buried my face in his fur anyway, letting his unnatural warmth seep into me. Athena circled once and lay down facing the trail, her white body a sentinel against the now dark forest and whatever was out there.

Freda stuffed what she’d gathered into her pack and glanced around. “Marlowe still has modified operatives with him. Why do you think that is?”

I shrugged tiredly. “Because those facilities were sanctioned by Apex Mentis, no matter what lies they feed the public.”

Freda nodded. “We’re bringing their gear back with us. Those AR-15s are military-grade, and we might be able to trace them.”

Jamie stirred beside her, his voice pained. “I saw you talking to Marlowe in between shooting at him.”

My shoulders crept up. “I couldn’t get a clean shot off, but Mangus ripped up his arm. He used some type of taser that knocked the hellhound out.”

“What’d the creepy fucker have to say?” Jamie asked.

I rubbed my face, feeling something wet. Then I remembered the bloody viscera that’d splattered there from Athena’s kill. “He implanted himself.”

Freda went still. “He… what?”

“He has an implant like mine. That’s not all. Somehow the bastard figured out how to replicate Cognizant energy, because he’s now a high-level Compulsor.”

They both stared, then Jamie exhaled a shaky breath. “Jesus fuck, this is bad, Sparky.”

“I know.” The Compulsor energy signature had been unmistakable on Marlowe, layered beneath his natural energy like oil on water.

Marlowe had subjected himself to the same procedure he’d forced on me, McKenna, and God knew how many others. And now, he was searching for the same coordinates Viggo had left behind. Whatever was at Mary Mountain had drawn my father, Viggo, and now Marlowe.

Mangus shifted, his weight pressing harder against my thighs. I scratched behind his ears. “Thank you for saving me.” His tail thumped against the ground, scattering pine needles.

Athena’s head lifted, her crimson eyes fixing on a point deep in the trees. I followed her gaze but saw just the forest. Marlowe was still out there. He probably had answers about my father, Viggo, and what was at Mary Mountain, and knew what the implant was doing to me.

A distant thrumming reached me, faint at first, then growing steadily louder. Help was here.

“About fucking time.” Jamie carefully rolled to his feet.

Hours later, I sat next to Freda in a hospital waiting room. The place smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee. Freda sat beside me, her posture military-perfect even in exhaustion, her fingers drumming a quiet, irregular rhythm on the armrest.

“You should get your ribs looked at,” I told her for the third time.

“Nothing’s broken. Whatever they can do here, I can do at home.”

The helicopter ride had been torture. The EMTs eyed us carefully, especially when they spotted the hellhounds and the semiautomatic rifles hanging out of Freda’s backpack. Thank god Beau met us at the hospital and took the hellhounds and our gear back to the bungalow for us.

I felt a stress headache blooming behind my eyes, the kind that came from running on adrenaline and fear for the past six hours. The implant made a small adjustment, redirecting the pain into something distant and manageable.

A doctor with a brisk manner and sharp eyes pushed through the double doors. “Anyone here for Gunnar Alfson?” We both stood. “I’m Dr. Park. He’s out of surgery. Mr. Alfson sustained several deep lacerations across his chest and shoulder. The worst injury is near his subclavian artery.” He pointed to the spot on himself. “Another quarter-inch and we’d be having a very different conversation.”

The subclavian artery was a major blood vessel. “Is he out of danger?” I asked.

“For the moment. The problem is his blood type. Trolls have a unique hematological profile, and we’re not equipped for it. We have some blood coming in from Bozeman. He’s lost a significant amount.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

Dr. Park’s expression softened slightly. “Barring infection or something unforeseen, his chances are good. The nurse said he was giving the anesthesiologist a hard time as they wheeled him in.”

That sounded like Gunnar.

“What about Jamie Reynolds?” Freda asked.

Dr. Park rubbed his eyes. “The bullet grazed his skull near his eye and fragmented. Several small pieces are lodged near his optic nerve. We don’t have the equipment or expertise to handle that here. The air ambulance is taking him to the Moran Eye Center in Salt Lake City. It’s the best in the region.”