Revenge of the Walker (The Walker Series Book 4)

  Revenge of the Walker

  CoraLee June

  Copyright © 2018 by CoraLee June

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For the Cat’s Pajamas.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Coming soon

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by CoraLee June

  Chapter One

  "We can't keep doing this, Ashleigh," Huxley said with a groan. I trailed my eyes down his muscular chest as sweat dripped down his abs. "It's not fair to the others. You can't ignore them all day then spend your nights with me."

  There was a small part of me that felt guilty, but I focused on the pain of my sore muscles, dulling my thoughts. I knew that sneaking off to work out my frustrations with Hux wasn't a permanent fix. But there was something freeing about giving in to my anger, if only for a couple hours. My nights with him helped me forget the sadness I felt whenever I thought about Cyler, Maverick, and Jacob. This was the only reprieve I had.

  Tonight, at the camp meeting, a team of scouts informed us that Dormas was now completely overrun with Ethros troops. Dormas was the last bit of hope I'd been clinging to. It was my piece of paradise, now tainted by Cavil's reign. Was nothing sacred?

  My arms shook with exhaustion and adrenaline. Six hours of fighting with Huxley wasn't enough to calm my nerves. I felt murderous. Channeling my anger into Huxley was the only thing keeping me sane. So, if I had to be selfish about our nights together—so be it.

  "Are you going to keep talking? Or are you going to fight?" I challenged, keeping my voice even despite the exhaustion I felt.

  I raised my fists up to a ready position, my curled hand blocking my jaw but giving me a clear view of Hux. It took a while to get used to the fighter's stance. Two weeks to get the shape of my fist down. Three weeks to remember to protect my face. Four weeks to build up my strength so my punches actually meant something.

  It did, however, only take a day to learn how to kick Huxley in the balls. That lesson was almost instinctual.

  I stared at Huxley's expression, expecting to see his plump lip quirk up like it usually did when I got like this. He liked to see the fight in me. He liked to push my buttons and make me work for the hit. It made my pulse thump to see his bright eyes hooded with desire as I landed punch after punch. But tonight, he gave me a grimace.

  "When you first asked me to help you, I thought it meant that you were finally working through your grief—"

  "Don't say grief. Grief is for people who’ve lost something. They're not lost," I choked out with a jab that connected with his side. He didn't flinch, though I wanted to shake my fist out. Technically, I was grieving. Losing Josiah had affected me in ways I still couldn't come to terms with. I'd expected it, almost. I'd prepared myself for his loss.

  But what I hadn't expected was for him to die saving me. I hadn't expected the guilt. I hadn't expected to doubt everything I knew. Most of my free time was spent analyzing what happened. I had gone from falling in love with the boy I knew to hating the man he'd become, then grieving the stranger that died for me.

  "You have lost something," Huxley said, interrupting my thoughts. He wasn't wrong. I’d lost Cyler, Maverick, Jacob, and Jules. Although the news reports had briefly mentioned Cyler, there was no news on Jacob. Since he and Patrick separated in Ethros, we’d been staring down the dark pit of the unknown, and it infuriated me.

  "I entertained these nights together because I thought it would help, but you’re not..."

  "What? I’m not what, Huxley?"

  "You’re not healing." He dropped his hands to his side. I didn't want to see his defeated stance. Why did he have to make this harder than it was? I needed this.

  How was I supposed to heal? There were still so many unanswered questions. Josiah’s death was devastating enough, but knowing I didn't have my guys to help me navigate my grief was just too much.

  "I don't know how," I replied, my voice thick with emotion. "I'm so angry, Huxley." I pushed thoughts of Josiah from my mind. I didn't love him. But I did. I missed him. But I didn't. I hated him.

  I hated him.

  When I looked at all the steps that led to this point in my life, it infuriated me. Anger was the only emotion I had left, and I clung to it like it was a weapon. I was angry at Josiah. I was angry at Cyler and Maverick and Jacob. I was angry at Hux. Patrick. Kemper. This empire. And above all, I was angry with a ghost. Emperor Lackley was at the top of my list, and he wasn't even alive to feel my fury.

  Spinning around, I made my way over to a tall, white tree where my canteen of water was resting at the base. Unscrewing the top, I chugged the tangy water without flinching. The tainted Deadlands’ water tingled down my throat. At first, I had hated the taste of it and had to choke down even a drop. Over time, I'd gotten used to its sharp acidic flavor. It didn't even bother me to bathe in the creek anymore. The burning sensation almost felt soothing on my sore muscles now. Time changed things, I guess.

  I'd stopped looking in the mirror a few weeks ago when I saw that, at the very base of my scalp, the strands of my hair were turning white. I’d been here long enough for the Deadlands’ water supply to bleach my coarse chestnut hair. Ingesting it was making my new growth turn white.

  Five months. It'd been five months since I'd seen Cyler, Jacob, and Maverick. Five months of living in the Deadlands with a Scavenger tribe on the outskirts of the empire. Five months of hearing the reports filter in from the scouts.

  One by one, Cavil claimed the people of Dasos. The death toll was insurmountable. His rise to power, unprecedented. Without Emperor Lackley and Josiah, there was no one powerful enough to stop him. No one brave enough to try. He had the weapons, the influence, and now the rejection cure. Lackley was an amateur in comparison.

  Maverick managed to fix the rejection phenomenon—at the expense of the cure. Maverick and Allaire’s vaccine made the cure for influenza X impotent and obsolete. Everyone was now susceptible. But many considered this the lesser of two evils: most could avoid exposure to X but couldn't avoid the internal ticking time bomb of the cure. However, Cavil demanded submission in exchange for the rejection cure. Members of the Elite now donned fetters and spent their days hiding in their manors to avoid exposure to X.

  Since our escape, Huxley treated me like a wounded animal. He used to stroll up to me with confidence, claiming the parts of my heart and body like they were his for the taking. It killed me to see him have so much pity in his gaze. I hated the pity. Pity was a wasted emotion, it did nothing but accentuate a person’s suffering and enable self-loathing. It's one of the reasons I enjoyed our nights sparring. Here, in the shadows of my anger, Huxley looked at me with that half smirk, half determined scowl I loved so much. But I guess I had
to ruin that too. I was ruining everything lately, and they pitied me for it. Just a toxic cycle that made sinking into my emotionless state more appealing.

  "Tell me why you want to fight," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. It was a question he’d asked me many times before. They say that before you start a war, you have to know what you’re fighting for. But I was at war with myself. I swallowed, visions of an ivory room and the bloodied face of a guard filling my vision.

  I still couldn't say it. Couldn't even think about it. I shook my head, willing the flashbacks and Josiah’s dead body to disappear from my brain. I had to fight. Punch. Scream. Anything to keep those thoughts away.

  A byproduct of these nights was that it exhausted me to the point of dreamless sleep. I spent my days in a sore, tired stupor, but at least it kept the nightmares away. Huxley observed my face with interest, patiently waiting for my response. He was so damn patient lately. I wanted him to fight back. "I like punching you," I replied with a smirk, but I wasn't fooling him. I wasn't fooling anyone.

  My time in Ethros broke me.

  Commodore Cavil taught me how dangerous the world was. I wasn't prepared to fight for my life. I was a sheltered Walker. Stonewell Manor might have been a prison, but I was cared for. Josiah kept me safe from the evils of this empire. Then, when I moved to Dormas, that care and responsibility transferred to my guys. I loved knowing that they could protect me. Since experiencing true blinding fear, I would no longer take for granted the privilege of sleeping soundly. But I craved feeling confident in my own abilities. I wasn't strong enough in Ethros, but I'd be strong enough now.

  Fighting also helped me reclaim parts of my broody Huxley. He stopped treating me like a glass figurine during our nights together. He made me feel capable, strong, and sexy. I treasured the moments that he let his guard down and let me forget about the anxiety and regret. Here, we were just two bodies being pushed to the limit.

  "How about this," Huxley began, walking closer. He took the canteen from my shaky fingers and placed his plump lips around the opening and gulped. Droplets of water fell down his chin, and I licked my lips. He was so handsome. Our fights had helped him become even more toned. The white shirt he usually wore had grown tight, and I found myself getting distracted throughout the day. I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy looking at his bare, muscular torso every night.

  He caught me staring out of the corner of his eye. And after pulling the bottle from his lips, that damn lip quirk I loved so much appeared in a flash, disappearing before I could enjoy it.

  We had agreed to hold off on all physical aspects of our relationships until we knew more about Cyler, Maverick, and Jacob. I was too traumatized by everything that happened and still recovering from our escape. It made sense at the time, but lately, my nights with Huxley had reawakened the craving I felt in Ethros.

  "I'll spend an hour with you in training for every hour you spend with Patrick and Kemper."

  I scowled, earning another lip quirk from Huxley. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to spend time with them. I craved them on a visceral level. I longed for normalcy and their touch. I wanted Patrick’s playful jokes and Kemper’s heated words saved only for me. But fighting with Huxley was easy. We didn't talk. We just moved until there was no strength left. If I were to open up to Patrick and Kemper, they'd want to talk. About my feelings, my reservations, my...grief.

  I hated that word.

  In so many ways, I was still the same girl from Galla. But Ethros had hardened me, and I wasn't sure how to bridge the girl they fell in love with to the girl I'd become. I started off feeling sad. I cried, circling around hopelessness and devastation like it was a prison of my own making. Then I felt nothing. Aside from the bursts of anger and lust I experienced during trainings with Huxley, I spent most of my days feeling nothing at all. I was numb. And somehow, I knew that being numb was worse. Much worse.

  I debated arguing with Huxley, deflecting his offer with a snide joke—something I'd become good at. But instead, I let my shoulders slump.

  "I...I can't."

  I couldn't stand knowing that I was hurting them by staying away. Seeing the pain in their eyes, the disappointment, was killing me. They were mourning the loss of their best friends too. I was being selfish by shutting them out. Maverick always told me to not play the martyr. But here I was, feeling sorry for myself when I should be fighting.

  "Yeah, you can," Huxley said while stepping forward and abandoning the canteen. It landed in the dirt with a thud. With his thumb, he lifted up my chin, forcing me to stare into his green eyes. "One hour, Ash. That's it. Then I'll let you try and punch me all you want. You know it makes you feel better," he said, gaze bright and daring.

  "Fine."

  "Good girl," he murmured while stroking a sweaty strand of hair behind my ear. There was a fire in his expression that wasn't there before, making my breath hitch. His smoldering hands left a blazing trail of tension down my neck. I wasn't the only one craving more. But I wasn't ready for that. At least, not until I had the rest of my guys back.

  "As much as keeping you to myself has been nice, I'm kind of tired of hearing them mope."

  I'd spent time with them. We ate our meals together—in silence. We shared a tent. Hell, most nights after training, I’d crawl into bed beside Patrick or Kemper. The Scavengers assigned each of us jobs, so we were busy throughout the day, but I'd still see them, kind of. I just wasn't present. Not really.

  I was hollow. A shell of who I was before. We’ve all changed. Patrick, my handsome and playful twin, wasn't smiling as much. I missed his sweet lullabies and kind smile. Kemper lacked his usual ambition. He felt like he'd failed us—failed me. And he’d practically given up on trying to fix everything around him.

  Despite this, they pushed the boundaries I drew around myself. They'd linger in the tent. Hold me while I slept. Kemper kissed my cheek each morning before patrol, and Patrick made me breakfast. Half of me resented them for it, while the other half wished that they would push more. I needed someone to force me to get better, I needed someone to force me to stop being so self-destructive.

  Fighting with Huxley made me feel alive again, but even that wasn't the real me. It wasn't enough. I guess they were getting tired of loving a ghost. What if they left me? Would they grow tired of waiting?

  My expression must have echoed the fear I felt because Huxley then wrapped me in a huge hug. I sunk into his sweaty hold. Silent tears fell down my cheeks, dampening his chest as sobs made me shake.

  "I'll talk to them," I finally said.

  Chapter Two

  Huxley and I walked back towards our tent on the outskirts of camp. We'd been staying with the Water Tribe close to the Eastern border. Huxley mentioned that Tallis regularly traded with them. It was a risk to come here, but it was our only option. Dormas was out of the question, for obvious reasons. And any alliances Cyler had procured dissolved once word got out that Cavil held him prisoner. The Elite blindly believed in Cavil’s authority and didn’t dare challenge him, and an alliance with us was exactly that—a challenge.

  It wasn't easy getting settled. Aside from Aarav, the Chief, most of the Scavengers thought it was too big a risk to hide us in their camp. I couldn't necessarily disagree with them.

  Rumors of Cavil's instabilities traveled far and wide. We knew there was a target on our backs, and if found, we would put everyone at risk. Scavenger communities were constantly being pushed deeper into the Deadlands by Cavil's growing army. The glowing woods weren't suitable for habitation, and the further you went, the worse it got. But the Scavengers adapted as much as they could, and we learned to adapt alongside them.

  I learned more about the Deadlands and its toxic water supply during my time here. Long ago, a contamination bled into the soil and the water, making everything glow. Long term exposure weakened a human’s immune system. It also made their bodies run less efficiently. It took more work to keep warm in the winter time, and they suffered many food allergies too. It was
interesting to learn all they’d suffered just to escape the rule of the empire.

  We made sure to settle far away from the others and tried to make ourselves scarce yet useful. Huxley, Patrick, and Kemper rotated patrol shifts, and I worked with the camp healer, Lilly. I liked my job. It helped me feel closer to Maverick. She was an old, grumpy woman with a mischievous attitude. She taught me about the different plant properties and methods of healing while chastising me for moping about. Each time I learned something new, it felt like I was honoring Maverick. And each time she insulted me, my skin thickened. I appreciated the tough love.

  We had a routine. It wasn't ideal, it wasn't home, but it was enough—for now. The worst part about the Deadlands was living next door to Linda Stonewell. Since escaping with us, she’d also taken up residence in the Deadlands. "I need to fetch water for Linda again tomorrow," I told Huxley in a low voice as crickets chirped around us. The canopy of glowing trees overhead shielded our view of the stars.

  Huxley sighed before replying, "I don't understand why you help her." Serving Linda was a habit of mine. I'd spent years tending to her every need. Even with my new found freedom, I couldn't crack my instinct to care for her. I couldn't help but feel like I owed the widowed woman, somehow. Josiah, the only family she had left, died saving me. So if I had to bring her buckets of water to cope with the guilt I felt, then I'd gladly take the penance.

  "She's grieving," I told Huxley, not quite sure why I was defending her. I’ve comforted myself with the idea that grief is just love with no place to go—Linda Stonewell had no one alive to pour herself into. Since Josiah’s death, she has bottled up all the affection she never showed her son, and twisted it into a toxic rage she unleashed on me daily. She hated me because I didn’t have words left unsaid. I got closure. Dark, painful closure—but closure nevertheless. He died, and she never got to say sorry for her hand in his suffering. For all my talk of hating pity, I pitied her. Therefore, I was content to be her emotional punching bag. Just because I helped her didn't mean she made it easy on me, though. She called me every name in the book, spitting at my feet as I brought her food.