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He pointed at the nearest signs of death—the charred remains of an arm.
“I told you there was to be no murder today,” he said, voice level, but close as it had ever been to tipping into anger. “Do you care to explain yourself?”
“They had rocket launchers.” Sebastian shrugged. “It was self-defense.”
“You were eating people.”
Sebastian’s eyes twinkled with laughter. “Never had anyone fire a rocket launcher from inside my stomach.”
“You could have disarmed them.”
Sebastian glanced at the remains. “It seems as though I did.”
“Really?” Everard called out, disrupting their argument. “Would you kindly do us all a favor and squabble over scraps after you’re both fully dressed?”
Sebastian grinned again and, with a dismissive shrug, headed off to join the others. Bertram had no choice but to follow. There was no point in bickering. Sebastian had gone against his orders, but this bloodbath wasn’t his fault—the blame lay squarely on Bertram’s shoulders, and until he convinced Sorin to stop this madness, there it would remain.
10
Bertram
The smell of smoke still clung to Bertram’s skin when he threw open the doors of the Vanguard’s Aurora-based safe house. He’d come in search of survivors—of Sorin—but it seemed his efforts were for nothing. The foyer was dark and deeply quiet. So empty, it was still.
He stood in the doorway, falling into silence alongside the house, waiting, listening, but heard nothing.
The furnace didn’t hum.
The plumbing didn’t rattle.
Even as late as it was, there was usually some sign of human life to be heard, but there was nothing now. It seemed the omegas who’d been brought here for rehabilitation had already been relocated, and what remained of the field team after tonight’s bloodbath had gone with them.
None of them had dared stay here in Aurora.
Not after they’d seen Bertram side with the enemy.
Bertram took a slow and steady breath, letting that realization flow through him, then walked farther into the house in search of clues for where the Vanguard might have gone. He strode past empty offices where the staff had once helped the rehabilitated find job placements and apartments, and through the common area, where longstanding members of the Vanguard and the newly liberated alike had once gathered to relax, chat, and play. There had always been mugs left out, plates dirtied with crumbs, open books, decks of cards, a cell phone or two… but now there was nothing.
Only the furniture remained.
Bertram crossed the room silently, the echo of his Oxfords on the tile his only company. They followed him past the empty industrial kitchen, beyond the lonely library, and up the stairs to the bedrooms, where on a normal day, everyone would be asleep. Last he knew, this particular safe house was near max capacity, with only a few rooms left unoccupied, but tonight, every bedroom door was open, and all the beds were empty.
The Vanguard had abandoned this place and fled somewhere far away from the Drakes.
Far away from him.
The thought hit him like a punch to the stomach, and not for the first time that night, he found himself overcome with emotion. His mind swam. His knees went weak. Then, like a lit match tossed into kindling, anger burst to life inside of him, and with a roar he spun around and slammed his fist into the wall.
People had died tonight because of him.
People he cared about. People who had counted on him.
He had failed them.
How had it all gone so wrong?
As the flames of his anger cooled, Bertram took his fist from the hole he’d made in the wall, watching as crumbs of drywall tumbled to the floor. His knuckles stung from the impact, but the magic in his veins had already smoothed over his scraped skin and left it looking new. He brushed the thumb of his opposite hand over the site of the healed wound and frowned.
Life had always been like this for him, hadn’t it?
