He wanted answers, but he didn’t want them at the expense of taking a chance with the one person who mattered the most in his world.
20
Jonas crouched beside Shaker, looking down at Oliver’s oldest brother. This was the man Oliver had most looked up to. He wasn’t dead yet, but he soon would be. Jonas had killed all three of the Borders brothers. Wiped out the entire family. For what? Once again, that volcanic rage in him welled up from all that testosterone he couldn’t keep under control.
The aggression and hostility rose so fast, a brutal insanity that left him wanting to eviscerate Shaker for putting him in such a position. He wanted to hunt down Whitney, make it his life’s work to find the doctor and tear him limb from limb, just as Jeff had dreamt he had done to Oliver.
And then Camellia was there. A warm, tranquil Middlemist pink presence inside him, spreading calm throughout him, body and soul, nerve by nerve, cell by cell. How did she manage to soothe the many beasts in him so easily, when he’d been unsuccessful at it even after years of meditation and practice? He didn’t understand how she did it but, now especially, he was grateful. He only had a very short window to get any information from Shaker, if the man would talk to him at all.
“You know me, you know I would never murder Oliver like that, no matter the circumstances. I would have turned on an army before I would have turned on him. He was a mess. He was the one killing innocent people. He couldn’t stop himself. Our team members were wounded. Some in bad shape. I pulled him off of them and yes, beat the holy shit out of him, but I stopped, Shaker. He was Oliver. He was my best friend. He begged me to kill him. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t, no matter how much he pleaded with me. In the end, he went after the others and fought me, giving me no choice. You don’t have to believe me, but that’s how it happened.”
Jonas pressed hard at his pounding temples. The more the aggressive traits raged, the more his skull hammered afterward, until his brain felt swollen and too large for his head. He detested thinking about how Oliver died, and yet he rarely slept because if he did, he had nightmares of killing Oliver, reliving that day over and over. Then Jeff had come to him with nightmares, and sometimes the two had morphed together, making it impossible for him to close his eyes for any length of time.
“Hell, Jonas, does it matter?” Shaker whispered. “He’s dead. Whitney killed all of us.”
What did that mean? Jonas wanted to smash his fist in Shaker’s face. Hell yes, it mattered how Oliver died. He wanted Shaker to admit he understood Oliver hadn’t been murdered. Looking down at Shaker, he realized his face was distorted, his chest too thick. He hadn’t rushed up the mountain to get to Camellia or charged in to save Tusker or Lewis.
He wasn’t wearing shoes on his feet. They looked like claws, the toes curled, the nails thick and sharp. They weren’t talons like a raptor or the claws of a cat. Shaker had been caught somewhere in between, his body fighting to be all things and succeeding at none of them. There was definitely something off about the shape of his head.
Camellia? Can you see him? He’s lying flat on his back on the ground. Can you feel him? Tell me what’s wrong with him, other than what I’ve done to him?
There was a small, telling silence. Yeah, she knew. He felt her sorrow. Her compassion. His woman. Too good for his world of violence and twisted, fucked-up creatures Whitney created.
I’m one of those creatures, Jonas, Camellia reminded. You persist in thinking of me as some kind of angel.
That’s because to me, you are. What did Whitney do to him?
What he asked for. He wanted to be stronger than you. Than Oliver. He wanted to be the best of the best. His internal organs are a mess. Everything is all mismatched. His heart, his lungs. Nothing fits right in his body, Jonas. It must have hurt just to breathe. His brain is too big for his skull.
“Shaker, why would you do this?” Jonas wanted to weep for him. For all of them. They’d all volunteered. Jonas thought he’d be useful. He’d be able to protect other soldiers. He’d do something good with his life. “Why would you send your men on a virtual suicide mission? None of this makes any sense to me. You’re one of the most intelligent men I know. How did it come to this?” He spoke low in a soft, compelling voice.