Crowed (Team Zero #2) by Rina Kent

Oh. Fuck me. Team Zero? How many of them have been on withdrawal? Since Ghost is on board, then his closest mates Shadow and Mist must be in, too. And here I thought I would start the campaign to detox them. I wonder how many others are on board. Is Storm perhaps...

“Not Storm.” Ghost shakes his head. Sometimes, I wonder if he can read minds. He excels at figuring out patterns. “He’s still the dog protecting Hades’ gates.”

“What will you do about Hades?”

“Fuck Hades.” A burning fire ignites in Ghost’s dark eyes. He rarely shows anger, but when he does, it’s for a damn good reason. “He’ll go down by the Rhodes’ hands sooner or later. You’re smart, Crow. You won’t go down with a sinking ship, will you?”

“Since when is loyalty considered a sinking ship?”

“Loyalty?” He laughs, long and mocking. “To whom? To the man who made us druggies and killers?”

“Loyalty to what we are.” I stand toe to toe with him, uncaring if anyone notices two foreigners arguing in English. “You and I and the whole Team Zero have been killers our entire lives. What will we become if we’re not doing what we’re designed to do?”

“We will become something we have a say in. Something that neither the drugs nor Hades order us to do.” He points a finger at my shoulder. “Think about it. I’ll stick around for a while.”

I stare as he leaves the bookstore.

For the first time since I was brought to The Pit, I question what the hell am I doing. Beyond killing and Omega, is there something else for me?

I step out of the store, trying to make sense of the chaos. The confusion is a lot worse than Omega’s withdrawal.

Just like some answer descending from heaven and peeking into my hell, I catch sight of Eloise in a coffee shop across the street, in her nursing uniform.

She’s sitting at a table facing the glass – such a bad security choice – and tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear.

I check my watch. Nine pm. She only started her shift a few hours ago.

Unable to stop watching her, I stand rooted in place. Part of me hopes she’ll notice me. The other part wishes she never does so I can continue watching her to my heart’s content.

The downside of avoiding her is that I only see her going to her shift in the afternoon, and that’s not nearly enough to get my fill of her.

Fucking hell.

Why do I even have to get my fill of her? No attachment, remember?

After my conversation with Ghost, that excuse is losing ground.

My gaze looms over the contour of her face and that effortless elegance she manages by just sitting there.

Screw it.

I’m about to cross the street towards her when a curly-haired man comes to her table, turning his back. Judging from his coat, a doctor. The first thought when I see him is to shave all that hair and punch him in the face.

For a hairy animal, Cheerio looks a lot better than him, and I don’t even like that dog.

I’m still contemplating which way to punch him and if I should break some of his bones when Eloise smiles at him. Her nose twitches and all her features brighten. She looks anything but indifferent.

As if someone pulled the switch on, my mood goes from annoyed to murderous. All I see is blood and a need to kill. It’s like I’ve just taken my Omega fix.

Why the fuck is she smiling at Doctor Curly when she’s always grim and standoffish? Is he perhaps her lover or some shit?

The thought shoots burning rage through my veins.

I turn in the opposite direction before I act on my murderous intents.

What the fuck do I care who she smiles at? Whether it’s Doctor Curly or the fucking janitor, it’s none of my damn business.

Not one bit.



*****



I spend the rest of the night roaming the slums, asking around for Paul. One thing these slum folks are good at: protecting each other. Especially from the police or foreigners like me.

The dawn is nearing and I still come out with nix. My blood pressure rises, and that burning need to vent at something or someone overwhelms me.

Add that to images of Eloise smiling up at Doctor fucking Curly and my patience is running at its lowest.

Fuck this shit.

I’m about to start threatening people with a gun – and fuck if they call the police – when a hand nudges at my trousers.

A homeless middle-aged woman, lying on the filthy ground, is staring up at me. She’s covered in a patched blanket. Wrinkles surround washed-out dark eyes and an overly dirty face.

“Bout du pain?” She drawls through cracked lips.

“I don’t have any bread, lady,” I reply in French and crouch in front of her. When I’m sure I have her attention, I reach into my jacket and retrieve some euros. “But I have these if you tell me where Paul Renard is.”

She tries to snatch the money, but I keep it out of reach. Her over-the-top long nails, like some witch in cartoons, scrape against my skin.

“Nah, uh. Information first.”

“I don’t know Paul,” she says in French, avoiding eye contact. She’s lying just like the rest of them. But she’s hesitant. Better explore that.

I add a few more euros and tilt my head. “Do you know Renard, then?” Fox. That’s Paul’s last name and nickname in the slums.

Her eyes light up while staring at the money as if it’s her salvation. It probably is.