Nevermore: The Final Maximum Ride Adventure mr-8 Read online

  Angel could hear muffled voices in the hallway, echoes of footfalls on the linoleum floor, the squeak of rolling wheels—seemingly innocuous sounds that now haunted her dreams—but she didn’t cry out. She was way past that.

  “Help!” she had shrieked at first, for days it seemed, as loud as she could. And later, when it was clear no help was coming, she had only croaked “Why?” as they probed and prodded, her voice a thin, wheezy rasp. But there were no answers, so she had stopped asking.

  Angel had always felt stronger and more capable than everyone—well, than Max—thought she was. But in the end, she was still just a little kid, with bones that could snap and a heart that could break.

  She was broken. And totally alone.

  A long, silent sob trapped in her chest, Angel curled up on the thin towel in the corner of the kennel and went to sleep.

  “Wake up!” a voice barked after what seemed only moments.

  So it wasn’t over, then.

  Her heart raced in time to the familiar fear, the dread that made her whole body quiver, but Angel resisted. For several long, delicious moments she allowed herself to indulge the fantasy that it was Max calling her to wake. Even if they were on the run, even if Max was being bossy, even if… Well, anything would be better than the reality she would find when she opened her eyes.

  “Wake up! There’s no sense pretending! Your brain waves show you’re awake.”

  Her blue eyes fluttered open just as a bucket of icy water was dumped on her head. Gasping, Angel scrambled farther into her corner, but she was a trapped animal, and she knew it.

  The back of her head stung unbearably from the icy water and she tentatively touched it with her fingers. A small section of hair had been shaved, and a neat line of small stitches made tiny ridges under her fingers. They’d operated on her brain. A pitiful cry escaped her lips.

  Max, Angel thought frantically, overwhelmed with horror. Max—help!

  13

  “LOOK HERE,” the voice commanded. “Pay attention.”

  Angel blinked water out of her eyes and squeezed her hair, feeling chilly rivulets trickling down her back. Outside her crate, the room went dark. Angel saw extremely well in the dark, but then a lit screen flickered on, several feet away.

  She saw a young child, a boy, with pale, almost white hair. He was lying on a table, very still, covered with a sheet. A crisp, white, sterile sheet. Angel shuddered involuntarily, the wounds on her body aching in response to the image.

  The camera panned to look down on the boy, and Angel saw that he was in an operating room. He had a mask over his nose and mouth, and his eyes were clamped open. Angel recognized the look in them. It was a feeling she knew well: pure, undiluted terror. Angel felt an icy coldness in her temples as the view zoomed in. There, on the little boy’s neck, was the trio of freckles, right where she knew they’d be.

  Iggy.

  It was Iggy as a little kid. Before…

  Angel swallowed hard, her eyes trained on the large screen as gowned and masked doctors came in and shone spotlights onto Iggy’s operating table. One doctor, his eyes hidden behind large magnifying glasses, spoke directly to the camera.

  “Today we’re experimenting with a new technique, only recently developed. It involves a surgical stimulation of a certain area of the rods and cones in the backs of this hybrid’s eyes. We estimate that the subject will have its night vision improved by at least four hundred percent.”

  Then Iggy’s panicked blue eyes filled the screen.

  Angel shook her head, horrified. She couldn’t watch. They weren’t really going to make her watch…?

  But the video continued, and she couldn’t look away. She stared as the scalpel found its mark and plunged in as if slicing a boiled egg, as tweezers pinched and needles probed, as blood pooled and tubes suctioned it away.

  As they hacked into him, like butchers.

  She listened as Iggy’s agonized moans grew more and more frenzied. They sounded visceral, verging on madness, louder and louder and louder.

  He was awake. The whole time.

  Angel shrank back into her crate and squeezed her own eyes shut, the screams echoing in her ears. She had just seen a film of the crazy whitecoats at the School making Iggy blind.

  “No!” she wailed, her voice joining Iggy’s. “No no no no.”

  The movie flickered to a stop and the room’s lights came back on.

  “That was thirteen years ago,” someone said from out of view. “The techniques were unbelievably primitive, which no doubt caused the less than optimum results.”

  Less than optimum? Angel thought with rising hysteria. You mean the total blindness? That result?

  Once again she tried to hack into someone’s brain, the brain of even one person in this awful torture chamber. But it was like the room itself had a dampening field—she hadn’t been able to read a single thought the whole time she’d been there.

  “But you see, Angel,” the voice went on smoothly, “we’ve made tremendous progress since then. Those were the days of cavemen. The science, the technique, is vastly improved. This time, it will go beautifully.”

  “No,” Angel whispered again, her adrenaline surging and making her voice seem small, fuzzy. “No, please—”

  A gloved hand reached for the door of her crate.

  This time, they would operate on Angel. On her eyes.

  14

  “ARI, WHAT ARE you talking about?” Fang said. “We’re on the same side, remember? You saved Max.”

  “Times change.” Ari smiled again and looked down the sight of his missile launcher, as if gauging how far away Fang was. Fang shifted his weight, primed to leap. “Having the same goal doesn’t mean we’re on the same side.”

  “What—” Fang began, but he was cut off by a chorus of deep growls. Four more thugs climbed out of the truck to stand behind Ari, looking like a row of college linebackers. Their resemblance to Ari was freakish, surreal: They had the same glint in their eyes, the same unnatural, stretched-out features, the same wolfish undertones. Clones? Or just well-made copies? Fang didn’t want to stick around long enough to find out.

  “Fang, who are they?” Star hissed. She was standing beside Kate, her face even tenser than usual, and Holden was right behind them. Ratchet was glowering at these ugly strangers, smacking the tire iron against his palm. Maya stood silently at Fang’s left wing—Fang remembered that she knew Ari.

  “Erasers,” Fang answered quietly. “Human-wolf hybrids. Except they’re supposed to be extinct.” So how was Ari alive?

  And more important: Why was he suddenly evil again?

  Maya met Fang’s eyes. Fight or flight?

  “Enough talking,” Ari said, almost lazily. “Let’s play a game!”

  Fight.

  15

  BEFORE FANG HAD time to think, Ari fired a missile.

  Right at him.

  Instantly, Fang unfroze, his instincts going from shock to hyperdrive in zero point two seconds. “Duck and cover!” he barely had time to shout as he threw himself sideways off the van. The missile missed Fang by a hair, singeing his shirt as it shot past.

  And then—boom! Their van exploded in a mushroom of flames, flying metal, and roiling black smoke. Kate shrieked as a shard of glass swiped across her cheek, leaving a thin line of blood, but the sound was just barely audible above the roar of the fireball.

  Fang jumped to his feet, ears ringing. The van was nothing but a few smoldering, smoking chunks scattered in a circle around the blast zone.

  Holden scrambled to his feet, dust-covered and wide-eyed, as Kate wiped blood from her cheek. Ratchet was hardly visible through the thick black smoke. “Man! Friggin’ almost busted my ears!”

  “Never really liked that van anyway,” called Star, a little shakily. She, unlike the rest, looked perfectly unharmed and clean—the ability to be forty yards away in the blink of an eye sure did come in handy.

  Fang’s gang dropped into their battle positions, but they all loo
ked a bit wigged out. Even Fang was tense with an apprehension he wasn’t used to. Ari was a wild card, and even after all the training they’d done, even with their advanced abilities, he didn’t trust any of the gang under pressure like he had the flock. Well, any of them except…

  Fang could make out Maya’s shape walking toward him through the dust cloud, her wings outstretched, looking powerful and ethereal in silhouette.

  We’ll be okay, Fang thought.

  “Aw, I missed,” Ari said in his rusty voice. He was still grinning wickedly, like a tiger cornering its prey. “Enough of the theatrics. Let’s do this thing, Fang. You and me. Let’s make some history here, before your freaky friends get hurt.”

  “Works for me,” Fang snarled, but to his surprise, Maya’s hand shot out in front of him. She stepped forward, putting herself between Ari and Fang.

  “Hey,” she said to Fang. “Sorry—I got thrown. But listen: If we fight, we fight together. We’re a team. Got it?” Fang nodded, knowing there was no use arguing. She was as stubborn as a mule.

  Like someone else he knew.

  “Can’t ever just stay out of it, can you, Max?” Ari shook his head. “You’re looking a bit rough, sis. The hair’s a little G.I. Jane, don’t you think?”

  “Not Max. Maya,” she said, running her fingers through her short pixie cut.

  Ari laughed, his yellow fangs glinting. “Oh, yeah, Max II. That explains it, then—the delayed reflexes, the bravado. The life of a clone, so difficult.” Ari pouted in mock sympathy, and Maya’s eyes narrowed. “We understand your pain, don’t we, boys?” The row of Erasers behind him twitched impatiently, growling and muttering. “I have to say, though, Deux—as clones go, you seem like more of a cheap imitation. Did Fang pick you up in the discount aisle?”

  “I said, the name is Maya,” she repeated, jaw clenched.

  “Same, same,” Ari said, still smiling. “Fresh meat either way.”

  And then, before Fang could even react, all heck broke loose.

  Maya crashed into Ari, her eyes furious and vengeful, knocking the missile launcher out of his grasp with one swift kick.

  Fang lunged toward them, protesting. Team or no team, Ari was his fight. But in their adrenaline-boosted frenzy, Ari’s goons leaped forward, driving Fang and the rest of the gang into defense mode, away from one another.

  Away from Ari and Maya.

  16

  FANG WAS BACK in his comfort zone—that is, beating the living pus out of freaking Erasers, as usual.

  I have to get back there, Fang thought, trying to see through the wall of hulking bodies. Maya was hard core, but Fang had known Ari to be a vicious fighter, and this new version of Ari would likely be even tougher.

  After he finished off another Eraser, blood from the guy’s nose spattering his black feathers, Fang pushed off the dusty ground and did an up- and-away. He hovered about fifty feet up, searching the scene.

  There, near the demolished van, landing blow after blow, was Maya, holding her own. Ari was no longer smiling. He was clearly sweating with the effort, and his face was furious. And surprised. Fang almost smiled. Maya was fearless and graceful and merciless. She was beautiful to watch.

  He scanned the road and spotted Holden backed into a corner with an Eraser. Fang frowned. The kid’s technique was all off, and he looked terrified and in way over his head. The Eraser advanced on him, murder in his feral eyes.

  The Eraser tore into Holden’s arm and raised his claw for the final blow, and Fang dove.

  The dive was short and lightning quick—the half-dazed Eraser never saw him coming.

  Fang stood up, looking around for Holden, and caught a glimpse of Ratchet wailing on some guy with the tire iron… right as Kate paused in her own fight and clipped Ratchet under the chin with her left hand, sending him reeling backward.

  “Kate!” Fang yelled sharply. “Watch your aim!”

  Ratchet was already standing back up, looking annoyed but ready to take on the next Eraser, when Star, appearing out of nowhere, spun him around just in time for Kate to land another bone-crunching blow to his chest. As Ratchet crumpled to the ground, the Eraser gave Kate a brief nod of acknowledgment.

  Fang’s insides turned to ice as things clicked into place: how the convoy had found them, why the two girls had looked so freaked out. They hadn’t been nervous about the fight.

  They’d been nervous about their betrayal.

  “Traitors,” Fang hissed, advancing on them.

  Kate shook her head slowly, apologetic. Guilty. “Sorry, Fang, we wanted to help you. It’s just that…”

  “Survival comes first,” Star said simply.

  Before Fang could respond, two Erasers charged toward him, and everything was a blur of color and instincts.

  Fang, on autopilot, kicked and dodged, feeling hollow, anger driving him as he beat the freak out of the guys while Star and Kate just watched.

  With a last surge of adrenaline he crushed the windpipe of the final Eraser, and then it was over.

  Everything was eerily quiet without the sounds of battle.

  “Starfish,” Fang called to Holden. “You all right?”

  “Yeah,” the kid said, wincing as the cells in his arm multiplied, the deep gash closing before their eyes.

  Fang nodded. His side felt bruised, he had a possible cracked wing bone, his arms ached, and a gash on his forehead dripped blood into his eyes. It had felt so satisfying, sweating through his fury. Hurting someone. But now that it was over, Fang still had to deal with this.

  Betrayal.

  17

  FANG STOOD FACE-TO-FACE with Star and Kate, fists clenched, breathing hard. His muscles stood out on his arms. He felt his agitation vibrating to his fingertips.

  Kate looked uneasy and shifted into a more defensive stance. She looked scared. Of him.

  Star, on the other hand, looked unrepentant. She looked him straight on, her blue eyes cold and determined. If he was going to attack, she was ready.

  Holden looked up at Fang, waiting for his cue. His eyes were wide with anticipation, but he remained loyal. He had Fang’s back.

  Was he going to attack? For one of the very few times in his life, Fang had no idea what to do. Should he scream, walk away, or finish them completely? The unasked question hung in the air between them, the tension building. Fang’s face twitched. He was furious, but mostly he just felt disappointed.

  Only one other situation made him this stressed, this confused… this freaking emotional. He looked around. Where was she?

  Where was Maya?

  And Ari?

  “Fang!” Holden grabbed his sleeve. “Up there!” He pointed at the sky.

  Fang looked up and felt his heart stop.

  Maya and Ari. Five hundred feet up.

  Battling to the death.

  18

  THEY HEARD HER scream pierce the air even from the ground, saw the bright arc of blood splash across the sky. And then she was falling.

  Fang felt dazed as he watched her floating down, a long sigh stretching out between them, arms and legs reaching lazily upward, feather-light, body pulling down.

  Go, Fang’s instincts shrieked at him, but time had stopped. He was frozen to the spot, and so was she.

  Suspended. A picture snapped, a painting hung against the endless wall of sky. Still life of a tragedy, Fang thought. He felt a bright wave of distress, his heart thundering out of his chest, but he couldn’t connect the feeling to the image in front of him.

  Her wings were silhouetted against the brilliant flame of sunlight. Fang knew the exact color of those wings, their span, their texture against his cheek. Hawk’s wings, to match her sharp instincts, her hard looks.

  She looked soft now—softer than the air and the clouds around her. Tender. Cradled in blue.

  Fang was holding his breath.

  He could see her face now, her mouth open in a perfect O, caught in mid-sentence, drawing in.

  To tell him everything that had never been said. That
she’d still be there for him, like she always had. That he shouldn’t have left her and the flock.

  That she loved him.

  Fang felt his will seeping out of him, crushed beneath the weight of this knowledge. The fall would kill them both.

  He blinked and she was moving again, her arms like a marionette’s, in unlikely poses, twisting. A delicate dance, a swaying to music he could not hear.

  Down… and down.

  Her features came sharply into focus and Fang saw the fear there, her mouth protesting in a silent scream, the ragged ripple of wing tearing behind her, ruined.

  The blood in her hair, cut short. So it wouldn’t get tangled in the wind.

  The sound caught up to Fang’s ears, the shriek vibrating louder and louder, closer and closer as the ground rushed upward and all the light fell away from her and she was plummeting, as dark and heavy as a stone.

  Max—no, Maya—was falling to her death.

  Fang surged upward. Racing gravity, he stretched out his arms toward Maya’s free-falling body. He just barely managed to catch her, then sagged as her deadweight dragged him down.

  Hovering with Maya clutched in his arms, Fang felt his jaw tighten as he saw that her neck was covered in blood, which was streaming down her skin and onto her shirt. No, no, no, his brain protested with growing distress. Ari’s claws had sliced her up like deli meat.

  “Fang,” Maya whispered.

  “You’re okay,” Fang said, as much to convince himself as Maya. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

  Scenes flashed in Fang’s mind: Maya laughing easily. Maya asking if he was okay, her eyes soft, concerned. Maya after her haircut—happy, confident, ready for a fresh start. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, but he had thought they could be each other’s fresh start. He ground his teeth into his lips to keep from screaming.

  “Fang… I love you,” Maya said, starting to cry. Tears trickled over her lovely cheeks, down her jaw, into the mutilated mess of her neck.