Eclipse the Flame Read online

  Eclipse the Flame

  BY INGRID SEYMOUR

  HarperVoyager an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2016

  Jacket layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Ingrid Seymour asserts the moral right to

  be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © April 2015 ISBN: 9780008113681

  Version: 2016-06-16

  Para mi padre

  Por poner el viento en mis velas

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Ingrid Seymour

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  The heavy bag swings gently from side to side under the dim lights of the empty dojo. Sweat drips down my forehead and into my eyebrows. My chest pumps in and out with the exertion.

  Again.

  I tighten my black belt, then hit the bag with a combination of jabs and kicks, my bare feet swishing against the rubber tatami floor. My white uniform jacket and ankle-length canvas pants snap. The slap of my bare hands and feet striking the leather reverberates through the rectangular room. I end the attack with an elbow strike and a loud kiai.

  My side hurts. My throat bobs up and down. The floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the back wall reflect my hunched over shape. Several karate masters watch me with still eyes from wall-affixed posters. I look toward the unopened water bottle on the floor. I’m so thirsty I could guzzle the whole thing in one big gulp, but I’m not even close to the required level of pain.

  Again.

  I hit and hit the bag. Twenty minutes pass. My uniform is soaked, my extremities red and burning from smacking the leather bag. I bend over, holding my side and panting. After a moment, I straighten and stare at the now-still bag with near hatred.

  No doubt I’m hurting, now. Time to try this crazy scheme.

  The punching bag hangs from a wooden beam in the ceiling. I stare at it and reach with my mind, willing it to swing. I narrow my eyes, narrow my attention to the chain that holds it in place. The tendons in my neck pop, ready to snap.

  Move. Move!

  Nothing happens.

  “Damn it!”

  The bag mocks me by just hanging there all shiny-black and sturdy. I concentrate, gather all my pain and project it forward, trying to nudge the bag just a bit. The veins at my temples throb with the effort. Just two weeks ago, I pushed a multi-ton van full of half-crocodiles into an abyss and saved the entire IgNiTe crew after blowing up Elliot Whitehouse’s fertility clinic, all while laying half-dead on the frozen ground. Now, I’m as alive as a freakin’ newborn and anything heavier than a box of bonbons gives me problems.

  “Screw this!”

  Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe pain isn’t the key to spur my telekinesis into action. It’s time I try something else. Imminent peril, perhaps?

  Hmm, I guess one hundred pounds of sand can be categorized as imminent peril when combined with velocity. I stare at the heavy bag.

  “All right, then.” I press my open palms against the bag’s cool leather and push it as hard as I can. The bag swings like a pendulum. I push again and again. Momentum builds. The bag goes higher with every oscillation. The supporting chain groans. Damage to my kisser should qualify as imminent peril, right? When the bag reaches its apex, I take a deep breath and lower my face into the path of the advancing wrecking ball.

  My eyes grow wide.

  Oh shit! A heavy-ass heavy bag is headed straight for my nose.

  Stop, I command, my mind stretching, taking the shape of a pacifying hand, but the black, limbless monster ignores me and keeps coming my way. It’s not even slowing. Not one bit.

  Stop! Stop …

  Next thing I know, I’m groaning on the floor, its rubbery smell twisting my stomach further. My eyes blur, then blur some more. I blink and hold my head. The right side of my face throbs. I turned away in the last instant, so my cheekbone got the smackdown.

  Well, that was stupid and useless. The back of my head pounds. I sit and look up at my leather-clad attacker.

  “Who’s the punching bag now, bitch?”

  I can almost hear Sensei ’Moto shaming me from his favorite spot in front of the Japanese flag I helped him pin to the wall.

  Pain and imminent peril both fail with a giant “F”.

  What do I have to do to jump-start my skills?

  God, I give up.

  I stand and sway on my feet as the room spins. I sigh, finally convinced that only meditation will help me improve. The problem is I’d rather get hit by a hundred punching bags than face meditation without another Symbiot’s help. Every time I’ve tried it, I’ve practically needed CPR to survive it, since the shadows take the opportunity to attack me and send me into convulsing fits whenever I try it. It’s been just over two weeks since James kicked me out of The Tank, so training has been reduced to these lonely, pathetic attempts.

  Damn, I wish I could be back there, wish James would let me explain that my brother isn’t a spy. I’ve
sent him several emails explaining what I’ve found out so far, but he’s ignored them. I’ve snooped enough on Luke’s extracurricular activities to know there are only three things on his mind: football, parties, and girls. If he’s a spy, then I’m Jean Grey from X-Men—which clearly I’m not since I doubt floating bonbons are her telekinetic specialty.

  Shuffling toward the dressing room, I pick up my bottled water and chug it down. My throat relaxes. In the shower, I turn the water to searing hot. Now it’s my muscles’ turn to relax. I practically moan in ecstasy. Why do I do this to myself?

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m ready to go, clad in my leathers and carrying a new custom-painted Scorpion helmet under my arm. It’s a beauty with a reflective visor and a sweet design of neon blue zeros and ones raining down the sides. I was sick of wearing the one I dented when Xave and I wrecked the bike and skidded into the woods. I head for the door, key in hand. I’m grateful to Sensei ’Moto for trusting me and letting me use his dojo after hours. Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of evenings in here—more than I’d like to admit.

  A few steps from the front door, a familiar buzzing begins in the back of my head. I freeze, heart in sudden havoc. I drop my gym bag and whirl, expecting some manner of monstrous creature to be right behind me. Disoriented, I face the front door again and realize the threat is outside.

  Two strolling silhouettes appear behind the frosted glass, out on the sidewalk. I try to calm down. The buzzing in my head—the telltale sign that infected humans, Eklyptors or Symbiots, are around—is nothing new these days, not after the coordinated attacks from IgNiTe cells destroyed enemy fertility clinics all around the world. Clearly, they’re getting bolder.

  Whoever is out there is not moving on. I put my money on Eklyptors: dangerous humans with a full-fledged parasitic brain infection. It has to be. Symbiots from the IgNiTe gang wouldn’t stalk me. The infectious agent in their brains would also make my head buzz, even though it hasn’t taken them over. But I know IgNiTe wouldn’t be this overt. No, if they wanted to see me—not that they do—Aydan would just hack into my computer to deliver some cryptic message. But James kicked me out and hasn’t looked back. I haven’t heard from him in fifteen days. I hate that I’m counting.

  I swallow and take a step back. The buzzing in my head lessens and, like many other times, I wonder about its purpose, wonder why Eklyptors announce their presence to each other in this irritating manner. If I could only turn it off.

  The two shadows outside lean their heads into each other as if conferring. After a moment, they approach the window front, cup their hands against it and try to peer inside. The back of my head hums a little harder. I walk backward until I hit the far wall and the buzzing stops completely.

  They can’t see me.

  Breathe. One, two … a million.

  They can’t see me.

  But they try. They move along the length of the entire front, trying to catch a glimpse through the letters that spell “YAKAMOTO MARTIAL ARTS – KARATE – SHOTOKAN.” They even rattle the door, which I always lock when I’m in here by myself. After a few minutes, they walk away. I slide down the wall, sit on the floor and hug my shaky knees. Bastards. It seems every day there are more and more of them out there.

  Before I knew what the buzzing meant, I used to sense them occasionally. Now it’s a daily affair: at school, at the arcade, on the streets. For me, Seattle’s entire vibe has changed. I can feel it in the air—much like a briny, stagnant breeze blowing off Puget Sound. It’s nothing regular humans would necessarily notice. I doubt I would have if it wasn’t for the constant brain signals. It appears they’re preparing for something. I fear what is coming, what they must be planning. I cringe to think how many people they’ve infected and how quickly they’d be able to get to us all. And then what? What when everyone has a parasite in their heads? Kristen, IgNiTe’s resident scientist, says their hosts are perfectly capable of giving birth, but the babies aren’t infected. They’re human, and to turn them into Eklyptors the beasts implant parasites in their spines. The thought is so terrifying and vivid in my mind that I have nightmares about it all the time. If they infect us all and this becomes their only option to acquire new hosts, we would never be free of them. We would forever be slaves, vassals.

  And it’s not just Seattle. They’re getting bolder in other cities where local IgNiTe cells also orchestrated attacks against Eklyptors. I guess now that we’re aware of their existence and organized against them, all bets are off. Xave says James and the entire crew are on edge.

  Well, whoever was outside seems to have moved on. Their shadows disappeared from the window several minutes ago. But what if they’re still out there?

  You can’t hide here forever, Marci. I get to my feet.

  I approach the door and, with every slow step I take, I expect the buzzing to pick back up. It doesn’t. Silently, I key the lock, poke my head out and look up and down the street. The lampposts are on and the sky above bruised in dark blues and purples. There’s no one around. My heart thinks otherwise, though, and it beats at a fight-or-flight rate. I pull back inside, press my head to the door and take several deep breaths, still alert to any mental disruptions.

  For years, I’ve stayed late training at the dojo and it never scared me before. A black belt tends to make one confident like that. But when living nightmares roam the streets, the same black belt seems about as useful as a bib.

  A coward. I’ve turned into a coward.

  I check my watch. Mom’s preparing dinner tonight, and I’ll be just in time if I leave now. Fighting the urge to hide, I step out of the dojo, lock the door and, as I head toward my bike, pretend my legs aren’t shaking. There are two cars parked by the quaint coffee shop with the red awning, but all the other vehicles that were here two hours ago are now gone, which has left only my Kawasaki on this side of the narrow, asphalt street. Most of the other businesses—a small hardware store, a florist, a seafood restaurant—are closed.

  My helmet swings back and forth in my hand as I rush down the sidewalk, staying as close to the edge as possible, away from the dark servicing alley that runs alongside the dojo. The passage is a safe cut-through during the day, host to little more than Dumpsters and wrought iron fire escapes a bit gone into the rusty side.

  A broad-shouldered figure comes out of one of the cars by the coffee shop and begins to walk at a clipped pace down the opposite sidewalk, headed in my direction. I stop and judge the distance between us. If he was an Eklyptor, my head would be droning by now. He’s no more than fifteen feet away. I shake my head, reminded that I need to toughen up and stop being such a wuss.

  I hurry ahead, skipping off the sidewalk and slipping on my helmet, ready to get out of here. Mom will kill me if I’m late and spoil the evening. She’s cooking lasagna which she found out is Luke’s favorite.

  Reaching in my front pocket for the key, I’m about to straddle the bike when the guy calls out.

  “Hey!”

  He’s crossing the street, heavy boots stamping the pavement, and a twisted smirk plastered on his face.

  I hesitate, instincts in full alert, even if my head isn’t humming with his proximity. Because how can I forget that James can sense Luke loud and clear, even when I can’t? It would have been nice for that telltale buzzing to be fool-proof, but nothing is ever that easy, is it? This guy could still be an Eklyptor.

  I consider jumping on the bike and driving away, but I don’t have time to start the engine and tear off. That would just make me vulnerable: a prime candidate for being tipped like a cow before I have the chance to get too far. So instead, I open my visor and give Mr. Smirk the most acidic look I’ve got.

  His hurried stride and stupid grin don’t falter as he asks. “Hey, babe, what faction are you with?”

  My heart slams against my chest all at once, then goes into a wild tempo. I wish I’d thought of putting the bike between us. “Excuse me?” I say, facing him, flexing tingling fingers at my sides.

  He stops
a few feet away. “Don’t be a dumbass. I know what you are.” He rubs his knuckles. There’s a huge ring on one finger and small tattoos—in all ten of them. His flat-top haircut looks as if it was made with a precision laser.

  I know what you are.

  I know what you are.

  I know what you are.

  Such a familiar message.

  “I know you ain’t with Hailstone, so who you with?”

  Hailstone? There’s a faction called Hailstone?

  After the question, his smile switches, changing from friendly to knowing to something sinister. His eyes flick surreptitiously. He glances behind me, over my shoulder, into the depths of the alley at my back. In the next instant, my head begins to drone, first faintly then all at once, like hail after light rain. My eyes spring wide-open as adrenaline of the purest kind infuses my veins.

  Noticing my reaction, Mr. Smirk tries to grab me by the shoulders, but I roll to the side and land on all fours, facing the alley. I glance into its shadowy confines and see nothing, except I know something is approaching. And fast.

  To my right, Mr. Smirk puts his hands up. His large ring reflects the light from the nearest lamppost. “Hey, chill, bitch. We just wanna have a little chat. That’s all.”

  The buzzing in my head is reaching its climax. I straighten, weighing my options. I could turn tail and run, but judging by the speed at which the buzzing is increasing, I have a feeling I wouldn’t get very far. I narrow my eyes at the darkness of the alley and, this time, I see a shape moving close to the ground, rushing toward me in a bizarre sideways gallop of hands and feet. Haunted by that horrible night at the fertility clinic, visions of misshapen half-crocodiles fill my mind.