Conceived in Blood, A Post-Apocalyptic/Dystopian Novel (11 page)

"The raids will end." Her fingers traced the lumps of the black vest on top. The Kevlar's vest had been the prize of her father's collection. Now it was hers.

"I have faith in you, daughter. But your followers might need a good culling."

"Mother." Saying such things would get her dame's throat cut. Marshall poked her head through the neck of the vest. The weight molded to her skin as she secured it in place with a brown hair belt.

"You deserve more than two scrawny tributes for your Body and Blood feast. But they keep failing to bring the tribute. The 'Viders are not providing for the people."

"They will today." Marshall secured her shin and arm guards, covering the wine birthmark inside her wrist, before picking up the helmet wedged into the side. She would wait to don it until the ceremony began.

"How do you know that?"

"Father demanded Abaddon escort its tribute and ensure that it reaches our hands." Father had personally threatened to kill the man in charge if the exchange failed. Marshall stepped into her reed shoes. The man had been too happy to comply after Father's persuasion.

"Abaddon? You went to Abaddon?"

"Not I. Father." Father had arranged the killing of the raiders. Her nails dug into her palms. He'd had to pay for that moment of doubt over the 'Viders' superiority. Her hundred 'Viders were more than a match for any tribute.

Mother's cheeks turned pasty and she pressed her free hand to her chest. "Why did he not tell me?"

"Because you are tribute." Tribute that had urged her father to leave the desert and head north. They had been rewarded by abundant food, but...

But Mother had suggested the journey.

Did she still think to escape the 'Viders after twenty-five years?

Stabbing the ground with the dagger, Mother licked her lips. "I could have helped him, given him directions. Maybe he wouldn't be dead."

That was funny. Father was strong, savage, he wouldn't need a tribute to help him. Leaving the trunk, Marshall marched to the scraps of fabric hanging from her tent poles. Stripping one off, she folded it and positioned it in her undergarments.

"You must promise to take me when next you go. Abaddon's citizens are dangerous, especially the elite."

Marshall's stomach clenched. What was her mother planning? She'd been a helpmate to Father, destroying his enemies before they could act, yet she was not of the blood. Not to be trusted.

"Please, daughter, they may appear weak, but their cunning more than makes up for their feeble appearance. Plus, they are many. More than the 'Viders."

One 'Vider can slaughter ten tributes or more. Plucking a cloth from the line strung across her tent, Marshall folded the stiff scrap. "I shall consider it."

"Thank you, child. Thank you. You won't regret it." Leaning forward, Mother pried open the male's jaw and tapped the knife against his gold tooth. "Now, may I kill him? He's not good for much else now."

That wasn't quite true. He could still pleasure her with his tongue. He hadn't been too useless the last time, perhaps she could train him.

"He has overheard us, daughter."

There was that. Killing another 'Vider outside of mortal combat was punishable by death. And combat was out of the question with North. Her clansman was nearly twice her size. She handed mother a black basin. "I suppose. We shall be getting more tribute, either today or tomorrow."

Perhaps there would be a worthy male among them. Although given that they were tribute, she didn't hold out much hope.

"Thank you, daughter." Mother wedged two wooden planks under the man’s head and shoulders. Situating the basin underneath, she sliced the man's throat open. Blood gushed from the wound and drummed against the plastic catch-all. Next, she yanked open his mouth and began digging out the gold tooth.

Another piece for her substantial collection. What was it about the yellow metal that held her Mother's attention? It was too soft to make a good weapon. Marshall watched for a moment then shook her head. Tributes.

"What shall you do about 'Vider North's sons?" Metal scraped bone and the scent of fresh kill permeated the air. Mother's hand slipped on the handle of the bloody knife and she swore.

"Alas, I did warn North not to test his sons' mettle when the raiders were active."

"'Vider Titan agreed to the deal." Mother smiled. "I am truly proud of you, daughter."

Marshall nodded. Her clansman had been all too happy to kill North's sons and make it look as if they'd been murdered by the raiders. Titan had ambitions. She could manage them for now.

The tooth popped loose with an odd sucking noise. Mother held the gold up and stared at it. "I take this to mean you will give me to 'Vider Titan for the year?"

"I don't think you'll be gone that long." Marshall eyed the bottle of oleander extract on her table. "I did warn Titan that his appetites would be the death of him."

Mother grinned. "And when it comes to pass, you'll be acknowledged as a prophet."

And no one would have a hold over her. No one alive anyway. Finished dressing, she crossed to the entrance.

Peeling back the meat, Mother began dismembering tonight's meal at the joints. "Would you like me to save the flank?"

"Of course." Without a backward glance, Marshall shoved aside the flap and stepped outside. Late afternoon sunshine warmed her face despite the chill scratching at her nose and cheeks.

The tributes dropped to the rocky ground and covered their heads. Her clansman bowed in her direction.

Turning left, she cut through the camp. A prime choice of meat would be just the thing to celebrate her becoming the Head Provider.

And the perfect gift would be North and his family's death. She cracked her knuckles. She'd make sure they delivered it to her.

Chapter 12

Mirabelle clutched her stomach and panted. Sweat stung her eyes. Bitterness flooded her mouth. Oh, Lord, she was going to vomit. Again. She blinked but her eyes refused to focus. Where had she put that pot?

Her 'Vider’s hand dove underneath her shirt and settled against her back. "Is my son coming?"

"I——I'm gonna be sick." The room spun. Rolled blankets, discarded clothing and her 'Viders brown and green armor hanging from a rod swirled into a cyclone of color.

Liquid sloshed and the sour scent of vomit clogged the air.

"Here." Fingers dug into her scalp as her head was pushed forward.

The half full bucket materialized under her nose.

A cramp squeezed her distended belly. She heaved, opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Folding in half, she tried again. Spit drizzled from her lips. She lay back on the pallet. Soft cotton molded to her body. "What's happening?"

She'd never been this miserable. Not even the beatings had made her body try to turn itself inside out. Was she finally going to die?

"Did you use bad meat?" He leaned over her. Watery chunks splashed into the pot.

Maybe if she'd eaten two bowls of stew, she'd be able to throw up too. Anything had to be better than the dry heaves.

"No." She shook her head, then sunk deeper into the pallet. There'd been no meat in the stew. Ann hadn't returned with any by the time he'd eaten breakfast with Belle.

His hand slipped to her stomach. "My son?"

It kicked at his hand.

Smart baby. Fight your sire's bad influence. Belle scratched the red welts on her arm. She blinked the bumps into focus. A rash? Had her 'Vider given it to her when he'd taken her in the bushes?

"Mirabelle," he growled.

What? A chill swept down her spine. What had he asked? About the baby. Right. "I've never felt this way before."

Never.

This was like a sickness. She froze, trapped air in her lungs. Oh, Lord, the elders had talked of a great sickness——one that stole your breath away. The Redaction had swept across the land, killing nearly everything and everyone. Only a few scattered souls survived, found each other and survived.

But that was a long time ago.

Before her grandparents' time even.

Yet, everyone whispered that the Redaction would return to finish the job.

Until dust and ash were all that remained of the planet.

Belle's stomach clenched. Had it returned already? Turning her head, she faced her 'Vider. "You're sick?"

He never got sick.

Not once in the ten winters since he'd claimed her.

Not a one.

What did that mean? Her skull practically throbbed as the question chased round and round inside her head. She stroked her belly. What would happen to her baby? Her children?

His green eyes narrowed. In a flash, he sat up. Sweat slicked his broad back, followed the raised scar tissue to his ass. "I'll kill her."

Throwing off the blankets, he stood. A heartbeat later, he landed on his knees and swayed. With a shake of his head, he managed to stand again.

Belle's chest tightened. Oh, God, this was bad. Very bad. He was weak. The 'Viders didn't accept weakness. And this, the day of the Blood and Body ceremony. She reached out to touch him, but pulled her hand back before making contact. "Who?"

"Rest." A gray tint washed over his tanned skin. He jammed his thick legs into his pants.

She shook her head. Although she doubted she could raise her head, she couldn't rest. A voice deep inside was screaming danger. She pulled her legs as tight against her as her stomach would allow. "Did someone do this to my baby?"

He pinned her with a glance. "My son."

Swallowing the wad in her throat, she nodded. It must be the headache causing her to forget her place. "Your son."

His hand shook before hooking his shirt from the line and slipped it on. "That meal you named."

"Ann?" But why? Belle closed her eyes, felt oblivion sucking her down into the darkness. She mustn't go. She mustn't. No matter how tempting. She bit her lip, used the sharp pain to focus.

He bent down, grabbed her hair and jerked her head back. "Look at me, Belle."

Her neck burned from the movement but she obeyed.

"You haven't gotten attached to that rabid bitch Ann, have you?" A fire raged inside his glassy green eyes at the mention of the tribute he’d beaten that morning.

Belle's tongue stuck to her dry lips. She didn't like Ann, but that didn't mean she wanted to see the girl dead, carved up and pieced out. "No."

"Good." He smashed his mouth against her and ground down.

Her stomach lurched from the trickle of sweet blood.

"The bitch will wish she never tried to kill you." He released her.

Belle collapsed onto the bed. His son. He meant his son, not her.

The tent flap opened.

Marshall Zuni ducked inside then drew up short. For a moment, her lips thinned. "You're... here."

Panting, Belle clawed at the blankets. Fabric bunched under her hands. Darkness tinged her vision before she managed to supplicant herself. Between her thighs, the baby kicked.

Her 'Vider bowed slightly before stepping to the side and gaining his balance. "Marshall. You honor us."

"You are not properly dressed for the ceremony." Hatred blazed in the Marshall's flat-gray eyes.

Belle pressed harder against the blanket. Her arms trembled with the need to protect her stomach but she forced them to remain stretched in front of her. Please don't let her beat me. Please, God. She didn't know if she or her baby would survive a lesson.

Saying nothing, her 'Vider pulled his armor off the rack, tightened the hair belt around his thin vest.

Marshall licked her lips while she fiddled with the dagger at her waist. "Is something wrong with your son?"

Blood slogged through Belle's veins. The woman wanted her child. And as leader, there was nothing Belle could do to prevent her from taking it.

Her 'Vider strapped on his leg coverings then grabbed his knife. Sweat ran in rivulets down his head. "Nothing a good meal wouldn't cure."

"Indeed." Marshall cocked an eyebrow. The skull tattooed on her head flashed a half smile. She waved her fingers in Belle's direction. "I've reserved a spot for...your tribute next to my dame."

Belle shuddered. She had to do something but what? She was nothing? Worse than nothing; she was tribute.

"That is a very great honor." Her 'Vider belched then swallowed hard. He closed his eyes for a moment then shook his head.

"Are you ill, North?"

A contraction wrapped Belle's belly. She sucked in a gulp of air. Oh, Lord, please don't let the leader notice.

"Nothing a little blood letting can't cure." Her man lifted the flap and waited for the Provider to exit first.

Zuni's attention cut to Belle. "Yes, spilling blood will solve many problems."

The Provider smiled. Hunger blazed in her eyes before she turned and exited.

Belle bit her lip to still the whimper convulsing in her throat. She had to get to her assigned spot. Sickness or no, she had to perform her part. She waited until the contraction passed. Gathering her dwindling strength, she crawled toward the exit.

Left hand. Right. Twigs and pebbles dug into her palms. She gritted her teeth. Her children needed her. Left. Right. Her stomach clenched. Her baby needed her. She raked her hand down the armor rack before grabbing hold. Splinters dug into her palm but she dragged herself up.

She couldn't fail.

If she did, Marshall Zuni would carve her open and rip out her heart while it still beat. 

Belle stumbled a few steps then fell out the tent. Oh God, she was going to die.

Chapter 13

A siren trumpeted through the camp. It was time. Tucking her helmet under her arm, Marshall stepped from her tent. The setting sun gouged bloody grooves into the gray sky. Raising her chin, she paraded down the rows of tents.

The next generation of 'Viders cheered as she passed. Clasping their dinner by the ball joints, young boys and girls waved. Bits of flesh clung to white bone. Blood stained the mouths and clothing of the youngest.

Her people. She squared her shoulders. The strong. The chosen. This was as much their celebration as hers. A testament to their divine blessing. She turned at the last tent. The smell of roasting meat mingled with wood smoke. Red-eyed campfires stared from the shadows.