53. Drova

53

DROVA

L yall set up the parabolic microphone, carefully aligning the dish toward the basement window of the target house.

Drova leaned forward in her seat as Lyall adjusted the sound, bringing the basement conversation into sharp focus. Two male voices came through clearly, speaking in a harsh, guttural language she didn't recognize. It reminded her a little of Kra-ell, and she caught a word here and there, but it still didn't make any sense to her.

She looked at Lyall, who was turning red as a beet. "What language are they speaking?"

Lyall's fingers tightened on the controls. "Filthy Doomers," he muttered. "That's their dialect—a bastardized form of the gods' old language. Not many still speak it, but I learned it a long time ago, and I know enough to understand the gist of what’s being said. "

"What are they saying?" Drova asked, noting the angry shade of his skin and the hard line of his jaw.

"Nothing I care to repeat." His jaw clenched. "They're discussing their 'entertainment' for the evening."

The cruel laughter that filtered through needed no translation, and neither did the whimper that followed it. Drova's fangs lengthened at the sound. Prey. These creatures were prey, and they were right there, so close that she could tear them apart with her fangs, suck out their blood until there was nothing left in their rotting carcasses and spit it on the ground because it was too vile to consume.

Lyall tapped his earpiece once. "Peter, we have confirmed Doomers in the basement. At least two of them."

"Location?" Peter's voice came through their comms, although his question was directed at Alfie's team.

"My bet is that they are the two near the eastern basement window," Alfie said. "There are more monsters in there, though. I guess those are the guests ."

"We could take them out with an RPG," Drova suggested. "Clean shot through the basement window."

Lyall regarded her with a raised brow. "There are innocents in there. We can't just throw a grenade inside."

"That's right." Peter's voice came through the comm. "We can't storm the place either because the Doomers will use the children as human shields."

Drova's fangs itched as more laughter came through the audio. She could almost taste their blood and could imagine the satisfying crunch of bone beneath her hands as she twisted their heads off, but she had better tools at her disposal.

"Use me," she said. "Get me a loudspeaker, and I'll compel everyone in that house to walk out with their hands up."

"No loudspeaker equipment in the van," Lyall said. "Why didn't I think of bringing a damn loudspeaker?"

"Don't you have something in the van you can use?" Peter asked. "But it has to be very loud."

"I don't. I can probably rig up something, but it will take too long."

"What about the guards' radio network?" Alfie's voice came through. "If we grab one of their transmitters, Drova could command them all at once."

"The Doomers might not be on the network," Peter said after a moment. "We need to get her inside somehow."

Drova's pulse quickened at those words.

Finally.

She could already imagine tearing into her prey. "I can compel them to stop breathing," she offered, running her tongue over her extended fangs.

Lyall shot her a sharp look. "Did you forget? There are innocents in there who could hear you and also stop breathing. Leave the killing to the Guardians."

She managed a terse nod, though it cost her. He was right about the risk to the children, but there were other ways to kill that wouldn't rely on verbal commands. She could snap the Doomers' necks and tear their heads off with her fangs. They were just ordinary immortals, and she was stronger and faster.

The Doomers were still speaking in the background, their harsh language intercepted with bouts of cruel laughter. Drova's nails dug deeper into the arms of her seat, leaving deep gouges in the material.

"Control," Lyall said, noting her reaction. "Don't let rage cloud your mind. Angry people make mistakes."

"I am in control." Her voice came out as more of a growl than she'd intended. "I can follow orders. But when the time comes?—"

"When the time comes, you'll do exactly as instructed." His tone left no room for argument. "This isn't about satisfying bloodlust. It's about saving souls."

Drova forced her fingers to loosen on the handles, but her fangs remained extended. The Guardian was right, but that didn't make it any easier to suppress her instincts. The Doomers triggered something primal in her, an urge to hunt and kill that grew stronger with each word they uttered in their ugly language.

Through the earpieces, Peter continued coordinating with the teams, and she tried to focus on the tactical details instead of her fantasies of violence, but the audio feed kept pulling her attention back to her prey.

"They're discussing prices now," Lyall translated grimly. "Setting up the bidding for—" He cut himself off, jaw tight.

Drova didn't need to hear the rest. Her fingernails pierced through the fabric of the seat arms, the pain of them digging into the wood underneath helping her maintain focus.

"We'll need a distraction," Peter's voice came through. "Something to draw their attention while we get Drova into position."

She could give them one hell of a distraction. Just let her loose for thirty seconds...

But no. She had to prove she could follow orders. Had to show them she wasn't just a predator acting on instinct, no matter how much those instincts screamed at her to hunt.

As more cruel laughter filtered through the audio, Drova closed her eyes, imagining in vivid detail exactly how she would silence those laughs.

But she would wait.

She would follow orders.