Edge of Instinct: Rabids Book 1 Read online

  Her eyes shifted to the torch. This was it. It was real. Jaron was gone, and she was about to send what was left of him into a cold stone crypt. Breath hitching in waves of emotion she pulled the tags to her lips, kissing them in farewell. A solitary tear streaked down her face as she finally bent across the boundary ropes and touched the torch to the pyre.

  “Sleep well Jaron,” she murmured, the tear lending a salty bitterness to the desolation she felt inside as it slipped past her lips. Instantly flames licked upward to the casket, sending large billows of sickly sweet smelling smoke into the air. Obviously Malinda had chosen to infuse the wood with sweet smelling incense. Not surprising, she supposed. Her mother would have fainted away at the true smell, and she always jumped at any chance to spend money.

  Amiel stood rooted to her spot, watching the flames and smoke carry away what was left of her brother, the heat flowing across her skin in a searing reminder of their purpose. Gentle hands grasped her shoulder’s, urging her away from the heat. She resisted at first, looking angrily over her shoulder. When she realized it was the soldier that gave her the torch, the fight seeped from her muscles. Head bowing in grief she let him lead her to a safer distance from the flames. He quietly took the now useless torch from her hands before moving to stand a few feet away, respectfully giving her space to mourn. Glancing around, she registered the presence of the nurse Cat, real tears dripping onto her black dress. To her left the soldiers stood nearby, hands raised in respectful solute, eyes showing the pain of their loss. Looking at them she knew she wasn’t the only one who had lost a brother with Jaron’s death. She felt a stirring of pride, and peace. In the end, it didn’t matter how many fake mourners put on a show. The only thing of import was the fact that those most dear to Jaron were here to say their final farewells.

  Amiel stiffened as Malinda stepped to her side, arm looping through to link at the elbows, as though they were best friends. Teeth clenched, Amiel ignored the dainty sniffs at her side, eyes staying locked on her brother’s flaming casket.

  “I don’t recall inviting him.” Malinda’s derisive growl tore Amiel’s attention from the fire, eyes tracking to follow her mother’s gaze. Her eyes widened as they fell on a huge man in the distance. His bald head reflected the sunlight, and the large sunglasses and bushy mustache all but concealed any clues to his identity. His leather attire, however, shouted it clearly.

  “Is that…?”

  “The filthy mongrel that owns the hideous motorcycle shop on main? Yes. Apparently I should have drafted a list for the cemetery gates, to keep out the riffraff.”

  “He’s paying his respects Mother! Surely we cannot fault him for showing our family support in this time of need,” Amiel whispered sharply, receiving a raised pencil thin eyebrow in response.

  “He’s not welcome,” Malinda stated plainly, motioning to her henchmen. Geno came forward, ever the eager pet. The biker guy seemed to take this as his cue. His head dipped in a respectful nod, before turning and disappearing into the crowd. Malinda’s eyes narrowed, as though displeased with the loss of opportunity to toss the man out on his backside.

  “Let’s go. We have guests to entertain.”

  “I would like to stay. Just for a few more minutes. Please.” Amiel tacked on the last pleasantry in an attempt to appease Malinda for the time being.

  “Fine. But ten minutes only. Geno, you will stay and ensure she follows my orders.” Malinda stalked away, taking half of her entourage with her. Immediately the guests and press retired to the reception home with her mother. Amiel stared at the ashes floating skyward, lost in her sorrow. When ten minutes had passed Geno forced her into the limo, and she was left to steel herself against the next task.

  The reception home for the Hilden family was filled with socialites making hollow condolences and well wishes, whilst stuffing their faces with expensive hors d’oeuvres. The air appeared to hold an almost reverent atmosphere, but the deceptively respectful whispers held only gossiping about the wayward son who had run off to his own demise. Unsurprisingly, Maxine DeLauro was nowhere to be seen. Of course that was probably for the best, considering Amiel’s radical mood swings of late. She may have finally satisfied her urge to hit something; Maxine’s face, for example.

  Amiel stood at the entrance with her mother, greeting people as they entered, accepting their condolences and nodding at the appropriate times. Truth be told, Amiel wasn’t paying the slightest attention, and should someone ask who she had talked to, she wouldn’t have been able to remember a single face she’d greeted. When the cloying air and incessant gibbering became too much for her, she quietly excused herself to search for an escape route. Stumbling outside, she drew in ragged gulps of fresh air. Her hands shook on the metal railing on the stair landing as she held onto it for strength. She pulled away from the bars to wipe imaginary wrinkles from her dress, lost in the vague and wild abandon of shock and depression. The last time she had felt even half of this pain was at her father’s funeral.

  She sighed, thinking back on their father. He had been a tall and handsome man. Actually, Jaron had been an almost exact replica of their father. Amiel was blessed with a feminine version of her father’s looks, though her temperament was said to be like her grandmother. She remembered her father often telling her she was just like his mother. “The temperament of a lamb and loyalty of a lion,” her father had always teased. Her Grandmother Amielia was her namesake, though Malinda had demanded they shorten the name, and use her own middle name for Amiel’s. It was a matter of great consternation to their mother, that neither of her children had gained any of her own traits.

  Warwick had had mahogany colored hair, green eyes, honey tanned skin, and a thousand watt smile. Amiel remembered him as a good man, though that was often over shadowed by the fact that he let his wife get away with anything and everything. He supported her silently, never refuting anything she said, never stepping in to stand up for his children, or himself for that matter. Should they ever begin to treat their mother in a form she found unsavory, she would chide him and he would instantly step in on her behalf, or simply leave the room. They had loved him deeply but that love was difficult to show when tangled with their feelings of worthlessness, and the fact that he was never on their side. It felt a little like being fed to the lions. Amiel was lucky in the respect that she had only been seven when he died. She had not felt his silent betrayals as deeply as Jaron had.

  He had died in a traffic collision caused by the Infected. Several people had been killed in that accident. A pack of Rabids had run into the midst of a busy highway, causing a multiple car pileup. Though her father had died from the impact of flying out of the car’s windshield, her mother had decided the simple involvement of anything to do with Rabids was enough to ‘infect’ him, at least in reputation. She’d had him burned, rather than buried. Warwick’s ashes, along with his son’s now, were placed in the family’s expansive and historical crypt.

  Amiel breathed in deeply, refusing to cry again. She wondered how there were any tears left after having shed so many over the last two weeks, particularly the last two days. But still they demanded entrance into the world. The door opened behind her, squeaking slightly. She tensed imagining her mother, Geno, or even the press following her out here to her momentary refuge. Turning, she instead found herself face to face with the soldier from the funeral. Behind him were several men and women in uniform. The colored black and silver bands wrapped respectfully about their lower wrists marked them as being mourning members of Jaron’s company. Her frosty glare melted to her previous expression of loss, and even some relief. She would not have to face the press yet.

  “Excuse us for the intrusion, ma’am.” The soldier from the funeral stepped forward hesitantly, as though unsure of their welcome to join her. “We were hoping we could have a word with you.” She smiled wanly, offering her hand to him. He smiled gratefully and gently clasped it. He introduced himself as Alexander Greysen, and then went on to introduce his fellows, al
l of which were close friends of Jaron’s. She recognized their names as people he had mentioned during a few of his phone calls while stationed in his last holding at Texas. She respectfully shook hands with the woman and two men behind Alexander, warming inside at their varying strengths of Texan accents. Jaron had also gained a faint Texan accent over the years.

  “Thank you, for the honor of the torch, Alexander,” she murmured, cringing slightly at the rough sound of her voice- another testament, alongside the red puffy eyes, to her long bouts of crying.

  “Absolutely,” he replied emphatically. “I assume you are Amiel?” She nodded mutely. “I thought so. Jare used to talk about you day in and day out. I think we know you better than we know our own siblings by now.” They smiled and laughed quietly, and she couldn’t help but return their smiles.

  “That sounds like my brother.”

  “He was the most sincere and true friend I have ever had,” Alexander informed her with serious, sad eyes. “He saved my life, twice, during Rabid and Cutthroat attacks alike. He actually saved us all, at one time or another.” He motioned to his companions. “Jaron could fight better than any man I’ve ever seen. When a fight came, it’s like he just zoned in on the action and didn’t stop until every one of the devils were dead or running.” He paused, body going rigid as he rushed on.

  “Regretfully, the second time he saved me was the time that cost him his life. A Cutthroat in the Vasts tried to take me out with a machete while my back was turned. Jaron jumped in the way. The blade sliced his arm before he took the maggot down. It wasn’t a terrible wound- he’d had much worse. If the blade hadn’t been coated in this new poison the Cuts have gotten hold of he would have been just fine. There was nothing we could do.” He broke off, swallowing hard. “I don’t expect your forgiveness, ma’am. But I thought you had the right to know. ” He stared straight over her head, jaw clenched, hands clasped at his back. His sorrow was heavy and deep, and he clearly expected the full torrential rain of her anger. She understood why he thought she would be angry with him, hate him even. Yet she didn’t feel either emotion towards this man.

  She knew her brother well enough to understand what his service in the military had meant to him. Well enough to understand the depth of love and respect he held for the men and women he served with. He had been willing to risk sacrificing his life on a daily basis for every stranger in the city he had protected. He had obviously been that much more willing to do so for his family and friends. The sacrifice he made for this man and the others…that was something to be respected and proud of, not angry over. Grasping Alexander’s arm, she told him as much. His eyes fell to hers quickly, genuine surprise reflecting in their depths at her touch and honest reassurances. Eyes glistening with thankful tears, he straightened and whispered his thanks.

  He stepped to the side to compose himself as the other three moved forward. Each shared their stories with her of how Jaron had saved them, as well as their favorite memories of their service with him. By the time they turned to leave they had been talking for several hours and Amiel’s heart was lifted. Alexander paused as the others said their farewells and headed through the door.

  “You know, he was right about you. All those years, I thought it was just the bragging of a proud brother. Now I see it was so much more. His love and devotion for you were well placed. Technically we aren’t supposed to leave our posts in Texas. Coming here was a fight, though Jaron had won enough respect in the ranks that they eventually let us come. I’m afraid we won’t be able to visit here again. But if you ever need our help, know that we will have your back. We have contacts throughout the country, and we will figure something out one way or another. If you ever need anything, you only need to ask. We look out for our own, and Jare would want that to include you.” He handed her a card with their names and contact info written on it. He hesitated, regarding her carefully before moving forward with what he clearly wanted to say.

  “Forgive me if I am overstepping here, ma’am, but…don’t let your mother ruin you.” Amiel couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled to the surface. She liked this guy’s honesty. She could understand why her brother had considered him a close friend. Honesty was an attribute Jaron had cherished above all.

  “He told you about her, did he?” It was more of an ironic statement than a question.

  “Oh yeah, we were regaled with tales about her every time Jaron wanted to give us nightmares.” He smirked at her and she felt another little piece of the weight lifted from her shoulders. She was grateful for these soldiers and their willingness to go out of their way to bring her a little bit of peace in her life’s blackest storm. Alexander’s eyes suddenly frosted over.

  “We knew she was bad, but her behavior at the pyre…for a mother to refuse the torch…” He left it at that, warmth suddenly returning to his smile. “I think there is great potential in you, Amiel. You just have to accept it and seize it. Regardless of what you do with your life, don’t let her or anyone else change you from the person your brother loved so much. Honor his memory, through who you are.” He left then, his words echoing in her ears.

  The gnawing urgency to do something crazy returned two fold, and she slowly made her way back inside. That night, after a silent dinner across the huge table from her mother, she snuggled deep in her bed, thinking about the words that refused to stop bouncing about in her head. Jaron’s and Alexander’s statements had been so similar, pleading that she should do something worthwhile, refusing to let her mother stand in the way. Amiel sighed heavily. One thing was for sure. Anything worthwhile would not be taking place with the life her mother had planned for her. Anything of worth would have to come after many life altering changes. Changes that would have to come soon or there would be no escape from her current future. The only problem was, Amiel wasn’t sure she had the courage to do what was necessary to ensure that change found her.

  Chapter 3

  Amiel

  Upon waking on the one week mark of Jaron’s death, Amiel found a note on the dining table, scrawled in her mother’s strictly elegant writing

  “I’ve left for my bi-weekly spa visit. Because of the mess with your brother, I have missed my last two visits, so I will be gone for a week to make up for it. Do try to behave yourself in a ladylike manner. Malinda.

  PS. No more playing video games with the butler. He has a job to do, and that job is not to entertain you.”

  “Ever the devoted mother,” Amiel sneered quietly, tossing the frilly stationary back on the table. Amiel had spent the last week sulking in her room, going crazy with the need to act on her brother’s words, yet having no idea where to start. Her mother on the other hand, had spent the last week attending each and every high class event she could. She was playing the grieving mother card to its fullest potential and loving every minute of the attention. Sinking into her chair, she placed her forehead on the table and fought the now familiar, but no less frightening anger that brimmed within.

  ‘The mess with your brother’. How sweet of you mother,” Amiel growled, thumping her forehead on the table in an effort to calm the storm within. Yet her traitorous mind had other ideas and kept returning to the note. “Behave myself,” she grumbled. “I’ve spent every day of my life behaving. I’m sick to death of it.”

  “Perfection makes a person a bit claustrophobic sometimes, doesn’t it?” She startled, finding Jeller standing in the doorway.

  “You’ve got the feet of a panther, Jeller! Don’t do that!” Jeller smiled good naturedly before striding over to sit in the chair next to her.

  “Your mother pays me to be quiet at my job,” he reminded her. She tossed the stationary toward him.

  “Yes, but the Queen has momentarily abdicated her throne, so no more sneaky sneaky, Jeeves.” He laughed at her mock nickname and shrugged.

  “Force of habit, I suppose.” Gently patting her hand, he stood. “You have a phone call Miss Amiel, in the parlor.” He turned toward the door, before pausing and facing her again
. “If I might be so bold, Miss Amiel. Sometimes, we can’t become the person we are meant to be, without fully testing our limitations and strengths.” She raised a brow at him, and he continued pointedly. “It’s a bit hard for a bird to learn to fly when its wings are clipped and it’s caged away its entire life.” With a smile he left her alone at the table. Jeller and his Yoda mentality. Shaking her head with a small smile, she headed for the parlor.

  “Hello, this is Amiel,” she spoke into the phone in a bored tone.

  “Hello, Miss Hilden. This is Nacey Johnson, with the Berlintine National Bank. I wonder if you might be able to come down to the bank and have a word with us.” Amiel’s brow creased in confusion.

  “Well…my mother is out of town for the week, but I can relay your message to her the moment she returns.”

  “That is very considerate of you, Miss Hilden, but it’s you that we wish to speak with, not your mother.”

  “Me?” she replied hesitantly, still unsure why they would want to speak with her. She had nothing to do with the family finances and all her purchases had to be approved by her mother, beforehand. What could they possibly need to say to her? She paused. “Did you say, Berlintine National Bank? I don’t believe we have an account with you, Mrs. Johnson.” In fact, she knew they didn’t. She clearly recalled her mother mentioning Berlintine in a conversation with one of her snooty friends. They had both agreed that Berlintine was rather below their standards, and was therefore not worthy of their time or investment.

  “It is a matter of delicacy best spoken of in person, Miss Hilden. When would you be available to come in? Would this morning be possible?” After another confused pause, Amiel agreed to come down immediately. She had nothing of importance to do today and found herself deeply curious. Dressing in a pair of black slacks, red stilettos, and matching silky red sleeveless blouse, she had the chauffeur take her to the bank. Taking a deep breath she walked up to the first available teller.