Epic: Book 03 - Hero (2 page)

Already, Scott felt himself fume. It was pitiful. This might as well have been backyard wrestling. The Nightmen could deliver solid blows to one another, that much was evident. They sparred with more proficiency than EDEN. But just “better than EDEN” didn’t cut it. The slayer and sentry had superior ability, yet there was a flaw. Both men alternated between defense and aggression. That was the problem.

“
Hold!”

The slayer and sentry snapped erect.

Scott walked in front of them both, though he focused solely on the slayer. Without looking at the sentry, he ordered him, “Fall back and observe.” As soon as the sentry had done so, Scott assumed a combat stance across from the slayer. “Attack me just like you did him.”

There was a moment’s hesitation from the slayer, but he did as ordered. Rushing at Scott, he swung his right hand with a thundering blow.

Scott’s counter lasted barely a second. Grabbing the slayer’s arm, he twisted it around until he was holding the slayer from behind. The lesser Nightman’s arm was pinned painfully behind his back. His entire body tensed outward. He locked up in pain.

Scott made no attempt to speak to his captive. He sought out the sentry instead. “What is so
challenging
about this?” It was a proverb from centuries ago, adopted by a sport he barely thought about anymore: attack is the best form of defense. The best defense is a good offense. “You bring the fight to your enemy,
all
the time! From the moment they see you, they should only feel panic. Every time they press in, every hint of aggression they throw at you, you grab it and turn it around. That is how you dominate!”

The sentry looked at the ground.

“
We have gone over this, again and again and again.” Scott flexed his arm muscles against the slayer’s back. The slayer cried in pain. “The problem is not what you know. You all
know
how to kill. But it’s not enough to know it. You have to want it! Then you have to take it. Change your mindset, and your body will comply!”

Scott slammed the slayer down with his knee, still holding the man by the arm. The moment the slayer hit the snow, Scott ripped his shoulder straight out of socket. It popped, and the slayer let loose a blood-curdling howl.

Scott left the slayer—dislocated shoulder and all—writhing on the ground. He made his way to the sentry. “Come at me.”

The sentry stared for a moment, then assumed a fighting stance. Lunging forward in a different way than the slayer had, he tried to grab Scott with one hand.

The American fulcrum leaned to the side, grabbing the massive sentry by his extended arm. But instead of twisting the sentry’s arm back, something the sentry was clearly expecting, Scott careened an open-palm strike against the Nightman’s chin. The sentry’s head snapped back.

Then the twist came. Scott clutched the sentry’s arm, turned it around, and pinned it straight against his back. He wrenched it ninety degrees, and the giant fell to his knees in torment. The massive man wailed.

Scott’s anger turned on the others. “You should all feel this by now! This shouldn’t have to be taught.
Learn how to
kill
!” His arm clutched the sentry’s neck. Lifting the massive Nightman to his feet, he flung him back and over his shoulder onto the snow. It was a sentry almost twice his size, yet Scott threw him as if he were a rag doll.

That was why they listened when he spoke.

Scott kicked the grounded sentry’s chest, then jabbed his foot down on his neck. He pushed back the Nightman’s chin with his metal-tipped boot.

Scott switched from Russian to pure English—for those who could understand. “For damned men, not many of you seem to care about staying alive.” He slowly freed the sentry’s neck. “Pair up. Fight until you
get it right
. I will observe.”

The fulcrum from America. The black-maned lion. The monster. All were names associated with Scott Remington. In the months that had passed since he’d joined the Nightmen’s ranks, he’d become a notorious figure. He was as physically exceptional as any of the Nightmen—that wasn’t what made him unique. What made him unique was what burned in his heart. He had vehemence. He had a lust for the infliction of pain. He had a drive for violence that had rarely been surpassed.

Despite his training with Nightmen, Scott was still part of the Fourteenth. He was still their ranking lieutenant. Besides his own slayers—Viktor, Nicolai, Auric, and Egor—none of these Nightmen in his morning sessions could be considered teammates. But they may as well have been—they were the ones he associated with. The only exception was Commander Dostoevsky, who was never present for these exercises. The Russian fulcrum was still in the Fourteenth, but Scott never associated with him. Scott had his own reasons for that.

But with these Nightmen, during these sessions, Scott could unload. He could release every ounce of his wrath and not deal with a moment’s regret. He could strike. He could torment. He could beat within an inch of a life. He could take them to hell. And every time one fell prey to his violence, the question surfaced again.

Is this the one?

That question was the crux of it all. With that question, it was all justified. He asked it to himself every time he came across a new Nightman. He’d even asked it about the four slayers from the Fourteenth, though their innocence—at least in the case in question—had long been confirmed. But someone in
Novosibirsk
wasn’t innocent. Someone out there needed to die.

But that wasn’t the infuriating part. The infuriating part was that no matter who Nicole’s murderer was, deep in his heart Scott couldn’t hold murder against him.

Because Scott was a murderer, too.

His session ended as brutally as it had begun. The Nightmen, battered and bruised, were forced to endure five laps around the snow-covered track—the same track he’d run on himself the day Nicole died.

When training was over, Scott’s public presence came to an end, as it always did. Though he usually accompanied his four teammate Nightmen to the cafeteria, they rarely stayed there. They usually took their food and went their own ways. On occasion, when something needed to be discussed, some of them would accompany Scott back to his quarters. Today was one of those days, as both Nicolai and Viktor followed him out.

The sect of Nightmen had little semblance of a ranking system. It comprised those who ordered and those who obeyed. Slayers obeyed fulcrums. Fulcrums obeyed Thoor, as did the hidden eidola. Sentries—the heavily armored guards—fell somewhere in the middle. That was the chain of command.

Viktor and Nicolai were veteran slayers. Viktor was in his mid-thirties, as was Nicolai, though the latter looked much older with deep crevices on his face. But outside of being long-enduring Nightmen, the two men were nothing alike.

Viktor was slender and tall. He was by far the most arrogant of all the Fourteenth’s slayers. He was strikingly handsome, with black hair that shone glossily as it slicked past his shoulders. He was handsome and lethal—and well aware of both.

Nicolai was a walking paradox. He laughed, but at disturbing times. He was brave, yet inexplicably paranoid. He was amiable, and he was obsessed with blood. While few Nightmen openly discussed their rites of passage, Nicolai flaunted his like a trophy. He wore a blackish-crimson-stained necklace he claimed had belonged to the man he’d murdered. He’d dipped it in the murdered man’s blood until it crusted. From that day on, it had never been washed nor absent from his neck.

“
The session was good today,” Nicolai said in Russian. He had a raspy, unsettling voice. “The air was very cold.”

Scott had been around Nicolai long enough to understand such disparate correlations. “If it gets any colder, we’ll move inside.”

“
If you desire.” Nicolai’s head twitched, a habit he repeated unconsciously. It made him look like a lizard.

Viktor’s voice, unlike Nicolai’s, was smooth and low. “Dostoevsky has informed me that we will be receiving a new medical officer from EDEN.”

Scott was surprised, but he took anything heard from Dostoevsky with several grains of salt. “On whose request?”

“
On Captain Clarke’s.”

“
We already have two medics,” Scott said. “We don’t need a third.” Though Viktor wasn’t officially a medic, he had extensive medical training. He was almost a double-class operative. As Scott reached his private quarters, he opened the door and flicked on the light.

Nicolai leered. “I did not know we had two medics. Viktor and who else?”

“
Varvara Yudina is a medic,” Scott answered, irritated. “Which you already know.”

“
Then why doesn’t she give more examinations?”

Scott didn’t bother to look back. He could picture Nicolai’s lewd grin in his head. He walked further inside. “Did Dostoevsky say who it was?”

“
No.”

“
Does he even know?”

“
I do not know.”

Scott looked at the papers on his desk. Though they had been there for weeks, they were of little significance. They were standard EDEN mailings, all of which he ignored. Except for one folder—a folder that stayed on his desk at all times. It had no label, and was filled with few papers. Reaching down, Scott swept the EDEN mailings into the trash. But the folder remained. “Are we getting just one more operative?”

“
I believe so,” answered Viktor.

That would give the unit a total of eighteen members. It was growing in size. Scott was puzzled why the new medic wasn’t a Nightman. There were more Nightmen now than ever before. They made up entire units. “I’m sure Clarke will inform me.” The only time he ever talked to the captain was when business needed to be discussed. All other communication was nonexistent.

“
Perhaps we should consider a new epsilon,” Nicolai said. “Perhaps one of us.”

“
Is that what you want? To be an epsilon?”

“
If there is a need, I will gladly fill it. As would Viktor, I am sure.”

Viktor said nothing.

“
Perhaps you should recommend us to General Thoor—”

“
No.” Scott cut off Nicolai’s words. It wasn’t the blatant attempt at self-promotion that bothered Scott. It was the other part of the statement. He would
never
speak to General Thoor. “If this unit needs an epsilon, Clarke will name one. Not you, not me. Not Thoor. Is that why you followed me today?”

“
Of course not, lieutenant. I came because I enjoy your wonderful company.”

“
Get out of my room.”

“
Yes, lieutenant. If you need me, I am only a comm call away.” Nicolai backed out and went his own way.

Scott wasn’t sure who made him more uncomfortable, Nicolai because of his strangeness, or Viktor because of his vanity. Neither man made him feel good. He turned to Viktor. “What do you want?”

Viktor wasted no time. “Will Yudina remain in this unit if we receive a new medic?”

“
Why does it matter?”

“
I am only curious. It is of no consequence.”

“
So what if she leaves?”

“
If she leaves,” Viktor said slowly, “then she leaves.”

“
There’s your answer.” He watched Viktor for a moment, then walked to his closet. “Is that all you wanted?”

“
Yes, lieutenant.”

Scott unzipped his black uniform and slid his arms from it. Wearing only a gray undershirt, he turned back to the other man. “Go away.”

Viktor acknowledged him and stepped out.

Now alone in his quarters, Scott proceeded with his routine. Viktor and Nicolai were equally disquieting as company. He much preferred Auric and Egor. The German Auric was almost genuinely friendly, as much as a killer could be, and despite Egor’s freakish appearance, his fellowship wasn’t that bad. If not for his bald head, grotesquely wide eye sockets, long nose, and iron jaw, the man might have been charming.

The hours that followed were newly typical for Scott. His angst mingled with idleness, and he felt the desperate need for something to do. And so he sat. When he became restless he stood, and when standing became uncomfortable he sat again. Only so many times could he wash his face or stare at his desk or look in his closet. Only so many things could occupy his mind. When the battle with bitterness was lost—as it was every day—he lay down on his bed. Though he closed his eyes, he seldom found sleep. Not during the day. But that never stopped him from trying, even after three months.

Her picture remained facing the wall.

* * *

At the same time

The hallways were vacant. As the fulcrum elite strode through the officers’ wing, the only sound he heard came from his own footsteps. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he kept forward.

“
Yuri…”

Dostoevsky stopped and turned, staring back down the hallway where the voice had addressed him. Nothing was there. He resumed his businesslike pace, his gaze focused on the ground.

“
Yur-ri…”

For a second time, he froze. The voice was closer now—distinct. It was unlike any voice he’d ever heard. It groaned as if it was dead. Dostoevsky’s piercing blue eyes again stared uncertainly down the hall. It was as empty as it had been moments before. His heart rate increased.