Sacrificed Soul

Chapter Eight

Someone kicks my boots, and I snap to attention. Captain Thompson doesn't have a large enough range of emotion to sneer at me, but he manages it well enough. He doesn't need to waste time using his words, either. Scrambling, I heave my aching body to standing and wrench the strap of my bag over my shoulder.

Following the other fifty-odd soldiers flying home, we deplane into the busy infrastructure of LAX. So loud as to be blinding, I almost cover my ears as I follow a random person's back until we reach another area I don't recognize. At first, the signs only read gibberish, but after I stand there for an indecent amount of time they eventually make sense.

So far, I don't like the taste of freedom. Without Dodger, Thompson with his human paranoia had been left unchecked. Designated as my babysitter, he'd let me know in no uncertain terms that he did not trust me outside of the military.

"You're going to fuck up, Orion," His voice was low, raspy breath smelling of stale cigarettes. Threatening me by looking me straight in the eyes after pulling me aside with a rough jerk of my collar, more than likely testing my restraint, he continued, "And when you do, I'll be waiting."

In the pockets of my army issued fatigues sat the letter he'd thrust into my hands, burning against my skin the longer I think about it. I haven't opened it yet, and I'm not certain that I will. It'll probably contain the same kind of threat, only in more professional, politically correct terms.

There are no second chances for my kind.

I don't need the reminder.

Following signs I can barely read and people who look like they know where they're going, I eventually make it to the pick up zone. The chaos is unrepentant and consistent. All around me there are people bumping shoulders in their hurry in or out of the building. Cars are honking, children scream, and I think that I might just blow my brains out because of it. At least it's not one hundred and twenty degrees with the sand reflecting the heat onto my face, I guess.

As I watch a clan of shifters— there are too many scents for me to identify their species— tearfully grope one of their own, it strikes me in that very moment that the pack may have left me stranded. Nothing in the emails from my clan had mentioned someone driving down to get me, and honestly, I wouldn't put it past them to just leave me here to rot. They couldn't even find the balls to let me come home before now, and it's not like the army taught me how to drive. Dodger is the one who taught me my letters, after all.

Briefly, I eye one of the many taxi-cabs that form lines of orange consistency in a mess of different brands of cars that mock me, but I shove the thought aside. No way in hell would I pay what could be four hundred dollars or whatever they would want to take me two hours past Bakersfield.

With a grunt, I remove my bag and drop it to the ground next to a pole with no bodies currently resting against it, settling myself down slowly on top of the worn canvas. Leaning against cold concrete that is so refreshing after years in the bleak desert, I pull my phone from my pocket and switch it back on. It takes a while to wake up, the cracked black screen revealing my shattered face back to me. That's what it feels like, at least.

Contemplating what I'm going to do if no one shows in the next few hours, I tap my fingers on my thigh.

"Thank you for your service," some yuppy of an old man says to me as he walks past.

The corner of my lip turns down, but I nod anyway. Service my ass.

My phone buzzes. Swiping the screen to open the home page and earning a sliver of glass stuck in my finger, I tap through my email. Nothing new. No texts or missed calls. Not even a single Gods damned voice-mail.